#I tried to get that kind of... faded Polaroid feel

[ughthisisntright]

Dirty Little Secret | Silco x Reader

Summary: You didn't mean to fall in love with your best friend's father.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, female masturbation, visions and descriptions of sex, stalking

Word Count: 2,582

It was an accident. 

It was an honest accident.

That didn’t mean it didn’t feel good.

The way his gaze would fall on you, the caring little glances he’d shoot you, and the kind way in which he caressed your shoulder when speaking to you. Butterflies took up residence in your belly whenever he spoke to you. And they threatened to fall out of your mouth if you tried speaking to him. His cool, casual demeanor mixed with that feigned Topside-esque kind of air about him was swoon-worthy.

But still. It was an accident.

Jinx was one of your closest friends. She had been for a while. Things like that happen in the Lanes. You’d known her and her sister a long time ago. You’d played games in the alleyways, went on looting missions Topside, and even had sleepovers now and again. The Polaroids you kept were evidence of this. As time wore on, though, the girls would get distant. No more fun alleyway games or sleepovers. Just a genuine worry for their wellbeing. But then, out of the blue, there she was. Jinx was her name now. Powder was gone. Vander was gone. Vi was gone.

Now it was different. There was a new father-figure in her life. Silco. The Eye of Zaun became her caretaker. How that happened, you aren’t sure you’ll ever know for sure. That part of her life was pretty blurry for her. And Silco certainly had been tight-lipped about it whenever you’d mention their differences. And when the two of you came back together, it was like no time had passed at all. She was the same goofy, outlandish, and wacky girl you’d come to love back when you were kids. You fit right back into her life just as well as you had before. And you loved her.

All in all Jinx was still your best friend. And it didn’t take long for the begging and pleading to start. “Come have dinner with us,” “Come sleep over tonight,” “Please, please, please!” Her persistence alone was enough to get you to agree, but you didn’t need the persuasion. At least not anymore.

The day had drug on like usual, grey and white blobs passing by as faceless beings in the Lanes. Jinx promised she’d meet you here with her father. You were going to go do… Something. She hadn’t specified. Just told you to dress comfortably and that it would be the three of you.

The three of you…

You laid on Jinx’s bed reading some book you found under her bed. Your legs up in the air, ankles crossed, you chewed on your thumb as you scanned the pages. It got a little… steamier as you went on. But you certainly didn’t mind. It was all the more reason to enjoy the book.

You were just getting into the good stuff when you felt a hand around your ankle. You flinched and just about kicked the person touching you before a deep chuckle was heard behind you. 

“Calm down,” Silco started. “It’s just me. Jinx said you were up here.”

You flipped the book upside down to hide the words inside. Not that you weren’t old enough to be reading these things, but you weren’t sure you were able to hear Silco talking about them. Or even asking you about them.

“Was there something you needed? Oh,” you sat up. “It’s getting late? I need to leave?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” He chuckled again and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I just wanted to tell you dinner is shortly. I’ll let you alone to clean yourself up. We have company this evening.”

You nodded and smiled. You’d just borrow something of Jinx’s.

“Thanks for the heads up,” you said softly. You could have sworn he was looking at you the way you look at him. You could have sworn he was leaning in.

You shook your head to clear it of those thoughts and saw the blue-haired girl approaching you, Silco in tow, glowering at the passersby. What were once faded, depressing shades of the Lanes were suddenly more vibrant as the pair walked toward you.

“Okay great! You’re here now, we can go!” Jinx smiled brightly at you. “Oh! I didn’t even tell you where we’re going,” You shook your head with a laugh.

“No, you specifically left that part out,” you then looked up at Silco, whose expression changed from one of irritation to a look of softer irritation. You watched the way his right eye twitched whenever someone would get too close to the three of you. You notice the way his jaw tightened whenever he heard someone shouting. And mostly, you noticed the way his gaze softened when he looked at you. 

Jinx had been babbling away, too excited to even notice the way you ignored her so blissfully. This was the first time you’d ever missed something she said. But you went along like you’d heard everything. You were happy to be there with her. Happier to be there with him.

You had cleaned up just a touch, put on one of the dresses Jinx simply never wears. A powdery-blue tea-length tulle dress. You sported a low, strappy pair of heels that clicked mercilessly on the floor. Your camera in-hand, you decided to make your way down the stairs to their dining room. You passed several doors, each one identical to the other, until you were just about to reach the stairs and noticed the one closest to the railing was propped open just a bit.

As you passed, you caught a glimpse of Silco inside. You almost froze in your spot, but you knew your heels gave you away. So, a quickly drawn-up plan in mind, you made your way down the stairs. When you were sure you were out of earshot of the man upstairs, you took the heels off and made your way back up the steps. You carefully positioned yourself at the crack in the door. And there he was.

Silco was dressing for dinner. Having showered, a towel was wrapped around his waist and his hair was a bit ruffled. Quickly drawing up your camera, you positioned it just so, where he was the center of the photo. You quickly snapped a picture while he was clearing his throat, disguising the noise. The camera spit the photo out and you plucked it out of the slot with two slender fingers. You then waited behind the camera lens for another picture-worthy shot of Silco getting dressed.

Two more delectable photos later and you decided you needed to get the hell out of there before someone saw you. You slipped the developed photos into your bra and made a mental note to store them properly later.

The markets? She just wanted to go to the markets? Why did that have to be a massive secret?

Jinx and her secrets. You’ll never understand. You stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her as you maneuvered through the marketplace. Silco wasn’t too far behind, but this was certainly the last place he wanted to be. But, his darling daughter wanted it, so here he was. You admired the way he cared so deeply for your friend. It made you feel good about leaving her at night. Much to your dismay, you’d rather be in her father’s bed - writhing in pleasure beneath his experienced hands. Crying out his name softly into the still evening air as he showed you mounts of pleasure you had only read about in those trashy books.

Her loud cry of excitement broke you from your daydreaming, a rush of heat on your cheeks as she sprinted away from you. You swore she knew and was doing this on purpose. You looked around. This place had always had somewhat of an appeal, but not one fit for your tastes. Too many bodies.

“That girl,” Silco started, dangerously close to you. “She’s going to be the death of me.” You swallowed hard before turning to look at him. He looked out at wherever Jinx had run. He could probably see her over the tops of all these heads. But all you saw was him.

“She was trouble before you, too,” you mused with a small smile. Those butterflies… those colors… they were back.

“I don’t even need you to say that, there’s no way she was ever calm as a child,” he chuckled and looked down at you. That softening of his gaze.

“Well, she and I used to be a lot alike,” you turned your whole body to face him now. “Not so much anymore. But you know I love her.” You offered a slightly bigger smile. It was getting harder to contain yourself.

“Ah, that I do. Something we have in common, hm?” He smiled gently down at you. Actually smiled. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that before. You pulled your camera from the bag you kept it in at your side.

“Hold that for me,” you ordered. He happily obliged as you snapped the photo. You watched it come out of the slot and you took it as soon as it was ready. You waited patiently as it developed. Right there in the center of more faceless beings was the most vibrant of them all. His crooked little smile, the perfectly coiffed hair, all of it was jumping out at you.

“Would you look at that?” He placed his hand on the small of your back and it took everything in you not to jump. You also did everything you could not to lean into it.

“I’m keeping this for the personal collection,” you smirked up at him and put the photo in your bag.

“Fine by me, love,” he said kindly. “Now, let’s go find our girl. She’s bound to need one of us soon.” He led you through the crowds with that hand on your lower back. And all you wanted was to scream.

At dinner, it was almost impossible to breathe. He was right there. Right across from you. And Jinx was right next to you. Talk about being fed to the wolves. The three of you still managed to have just the loveliest of times, as usual. You shared stories, pushed for more information, passed sides around the table, and laughed till your hearts’ content. It was perfect.

You were talking to Jinx about something from your past together and turned to Silco with a laugh. You noticed he’d been looking at you for quite some time. When you’d finally faced him completely, and while Jinx was otherwise occupied laughing or eating, Silco tapped his chin then subtly nodded to you.

You quickly grabbed your napkin and wiped your face. He was being so kind. It was so hard to resist.

That night, you laid in your bed, the evening sun shining through the window of your apartment. On your bed was your camera, that trashy little book you’d been reading, and about a dozen polaroid photos. Some blurrier than others, but they were undoubtedly of Silco. You held the one you’d taken that afternoon in one hand and two from the night of that dinner. The ones with him shirtless, blissfully unaware of your presence, and simply existing.

You rolled onto your back and bent one knee, simply staring at those pictures. Your gaze shifted between the photo you took today and the ones you took just a few weeks ago. The dichotomy of those images was not lost on you. And you realized you loved every version of him you’d seen so far. You sighed wistfully and tossed the photos down to your sides. You closed your eyes and let your mind wander.

Silco. His hands glided over your thighs with precision only a man of his age could possess. You felt the tingle of his calluses and the tickle of his breath against your neck. His movements were slow, unhurried. You could feel his heart beating in those fingertips. And you were sure he could feel yours through your skin.

Your legs were relaxed open, a hand had slipped beneath your underwear, and pleasurable waves and shocks shot through your body. You circled your clit with one expert finger, biting your lip. Your other hand caressed and played with your breast. Every so often your pinch and pull on your nipple to get a better feel of yourself. You continued your broken fantasy, gasping his name as you touched yourself.

His arms enveloping you protectively, but lovingly. He surrounded you and your senses. You wrap your legs around his waist and draw him in further. He thrusts against you in slow, painful drags. Arching your back against his chest, his lips dragged across your chest as he filled you completely. His cologne you so desperately wished you’d stolen from his dresser assaulted your nose, catapulting you to new highs.

He caressed your head and kissed your lips passionately. Your head spun, pleasure wracking your body, and his hands simply all over you. It was like he was studying you. Memorizing you. In that caring way he treated you, so was the love he made to you. 

You panted heavily as your fingers dipped into your weeping core. You wasted no time curling the pads of your fingers into your g-spot, choking out a cry of pleasure as you threw yourself suddenly closer to the edge. You turned your head and saw that the photo of Silco you’d taken earlier was propped up just enough for you to see the beautiful smile on his face.

Gasping for air, the two of you clung to each other for a reminder to keep living. Your soft cries of his name ringing out into his ears, and his low grunts muffled by the sweet skin of your neck. His hips never snapped to yours, pace never quickening, slow and meticulous. He wanted to remember this. Burn it into his memory and yours. And you wouldn’t soon forget.

His grunting became deeper as he approached his end, but you’d forgotten what sounds were at this point. The sensation of him filling you tugged at every neuron in your brain. Your mind screamed for release.

You stared at that picture of Silco until you felt yourself coming undone under your own hands. Arching your back off the bed sheets you kept eye contact with the man in the photo as you cried out his name in complete unabashed pleasure.

His hands gripped you tighter as he spilled his seed inside you, a guttural groan leaving his lips as you came down from your orgasm. Panting, breaths ragged, and hair sticking to your forehead, you stared at him through half-lidded eyes. He picked his head up and looked at you, that same small smile from the photo crossing his lips. He leaned forward and pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You panted in the afterglow. Laying there for a moment to soak up the fantasy in your head and the feeling that would only come so close to the real thing.

You eventually stood, gathering the photos up and stuffing them into various pages of that book. You put your camera away in the bag you carried it in. You sighed heavily and closed the book, placing it on your bedside table. You threw yourself back down onto the bed and played with your fingers on your stomach.

She can never know.

#silco fluff #silco fanfic #silco imagine #silco arcane #silco x reader #lol silco #silco simp #silco smut #silco x reader smut #silco x fem reader #silco x you #silco x oc #silco #arcane #netflix arcane #leage of legends #league of legends silco

[scoopertrouper]

ahoy, maties. i return not with a prompt fill, but with a Steve POV companion piece to this post-S2/pre-S3 post-stancy breakup prompt fill because i'm sick in the head. read at your own risk.

3,400ish words (somehow) of nonsense under the cut.

~*~*~*

i'll be alright [it's just a thousand cuts]

He sees her sometimes.

It’s not like he’s, like, looking for her. He’s not, because no matter what Robin says, Steve’s not a maso…a macho…a mecha…okay, like, one of those weirdos who gets his rocks off by getting smacked around or whatever.

He’s not.

It’s just that it’s kinda hard to totally avoid her. According to her brother, Hawkins is, like, smaller than Thor’s thumbnail – and Christ, he really needs to stop hanging around those little dweebs if that’s the kind of shit he’s absorbing – so it’s hard not to see her. Anywhere. Everywhere. 

But it’s usually only just out of the corner of his eye. A flutter of flowery skirt disappearing between the aisles at Melvald’s, or the bounce of perfectly set brown curls right as she’s crossing Main Street, walking with quick little steps that are so purposeful.

(Steve used to spend most of free period making a mess of those curls, tangling them between his fingers, testing how far he could go before she’d swat his hands away. They were soft as one of his mom’s silk scarves, but somehow still not as soft as her lips when they’d curve against his, her little body arching between his hips and the creaky leather of his backseat.)

He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that whenever their paths cross, she’s always just out of focus, blurred at the edges like a messed up Polaroid. 

It’s no secret that Steve’s no great lover of the language arts (no matter how many long lectures Henderson’s given him – from the front seat of Steve’s car, that Steve drives him around in – about why that’s hurting him with the chicks). 

But he thinks maybe if he did give a shit about similes, or metaphors, or any of that crap that he’d mostly slept through in second period English, that it’d be a pretty decent way to sum up their relationship. A couple pictures that might’ve been pretty if they hadn’t gotten all smudged up.

Oh, and her new boyfriend’s a photographer. How’s that for poetic?

Anyway, Steve would have to be an idiot – more of an idiot – to actually go looking for her. So he doesn’t. Because he remembers how much it had hurt, forcing himself through the last seven months of his own goddamn senior year, seeing her every day and feeling tender as a walking, talking bruise, long after the worst of the damage to his face had faded. It’d been almost fucking unbearable, catching her eye only to see exactly how far he’d fallen reflected in them. 

Back then (a whole two months ago) he hadn’t even tried to play it cool, had figured it was still common enough knowledge that she could step on his neck, no questions asked, and he’d probably thank her for it. Ask her to do it again, if only to keep her undivided attention for just one more second.

But that was then. Now, he’s moving on. 

Mostly. 

Trying to. 

It’d help if the universe would cooperate – if, at the same time he’d lost Nancy, he hadn’t also somehow lost every bit of mojo that made Steve Harrington that guy, especially when it came to the ladies. 

Because it’s definitely gone, and he didn’t need Tracey Wiltshire – who’d rocked full headgear until, like, the end of sophomore year – to stammer out some lame blow-off to confirm it.

It’s painfully evident every time he looks in the mirror, because he doesn’t see Steve Harrington – basketball star, swim captain, somebody who’s somebody – anymore. He just sees some loser in a shitty Popeye costume (which itches, Jesus). A loser who got laughed out of goddamn Tech. 

Whose dad barely throws him more than a dismayed glance over the morning paper – when he’s around to read the morning paper, that is. 

Who constantly finds new and creative ways to get splotches of Rocky Mountain Fudge where Rocky Mountain Fudge should never be, and takes home maybe ten bucks in tips on a good night. 

Of course Na - Tracey wouldn’t want to waste her time on a dipshit like that. Who would?

But he’s not gonna give up, because he knows the only sure way out of a slump is to shoot through it. Besides, it’s not, like, not fun, letting Robin bust his balls nonstop on the days that they’re teamed up. She’s pretty ingenious, like, he wouldn’t be surprised if she goes home after every shift and shuts herself away in her little dork hidey hole until she’s got at least ten new zingers locked and loaded.

(Most of the time it's fun. More fun when she’s not leveling him with big SAT prep words, because then he has no choice but to try to return fire without revealing that he still has no goddamn clue what a charlatan is, no matter how many times Nancy’d drilled him on it last summer. And – surprise surprise – that usually doesn’t end well for him. 

But come to think of it, she has kinda backed off from that lately. So maybe it’s more fun for her the other way, too.)

Anyway, he keeps trying, and ultimately racks up more “You Suck” ticks per shift than Robin has room for on her whiteboard (she’s been talking about starting a ledger, and yeah, that’s exactly what he needs, his failures all neatly leather-bound and cataloged in permanent marker). 

You know what, though? It’s fine. It can’t last forever, right? Steve’s a pretty positive guy. Eventually, some girl’s gonna want to buy what he’s selling, even if what he’s selling isn’t a whole bunch more than a final fling with the homecoming king. One last stop on the Hawkins Express before it’s all frat boys and keg stands at Boilermakers tailgates.

(He can only imagine what Robin would have to say about that.)

On one Saturday in late June, he thinks he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. Thinks he’s maybe a free scoop of mint chocolate chip away from talking Lisa Kurtz into the back row of the 7:15 showing of Cocoon – because he’s always kind of wanted to see if her boobs really are bigger than her hair, and he’s running out of time to find out. 

Things are going well, so according to the current logic of Steve’s life, that means something’s gotta step in to ruin it. And boy, is that something a doozy – all five-foot-four of her, freshly permed and pretty in pink kitten heels.

It’s been two months since Steve Harrington fully laid eyes on Nancy Wheeler. Two months since he’s admired – before he can stop himself – the little dimple in her chin and the delicate curve of her neck and shoulders, today draped carefully in a demure sundress. 

Once upon a time, Steve would have taken great pleasure in wrecking that dainty piece of cotton, fisting it in his hands and bunching it all the way up to her waist.

“Hi,” she says softly, biting her lip, and Christ, how Steve wishes she’d stayed in the blurry outer rim of his brain. Because he’s looking right at her, and it’s blinding, the way she just fucking glows for no good reason. It’s worse than that time in fifth grade, when he’d maybe (probably) burned his retinas after Tommy dared him to stare straight into the sun for five whole minutes (he’d made it about fifteen seconds). 

“Hey,” he finds it in himself to reply, and he congratulates himself on the way he stays so chill, right up until Lisa’s cup of mint chocolate chip tumbles out of his nerveless fingers and splatters all over the floor and a little bit all over her shoes. 

(She’s not happy. There goes the 7:15 showing of Cocoon, along with his only shot this week at a mark in the “You rule” column.)

Now his date’s gone, stormed out in a cloud of Windsong so thick he can taste it, and gone too are his chances of escaping this encounter with minimal humiliation. Perfect.

(Thank god Robin’s still on her break. At least someone up there is still doing him a solid or two.)

Nancy’s eyes flick once, twice between Steve and the door.

“Am I…interrupting?” she asks slowly, as if this isn’t a public dining establishment, as if she doesn’t have as much right to be here as any other prospective paying customer. There’s a glint in her eyes that he doesn’t even try to decode. He’s not dumb enough to think he can still read Nancy Wheeler. 

(That he’d ever been able to read her.)

“Not a chance,” Steve lies quickly, flipping the ice cream scoop with suddenly numb fingers. “Always room for one more on this flotilla of flavor!”

He’s pretty sure that was the right way to use “flotilla”, the way he’d overheard Robin say it last week. Like, ninety percent sure. Well. Sixty.

Also, what is wrong with him?

But Nancy smiles that little smile she used to give him every time he said something painfully dumb that she found charming in spite of herself, so no permanent damage, he guesses.

Not that it matters anymore. Because it doesn’t.

“A flotilla, huh?” she plays along. “That’s…a lot of flavors.”

“Thirty-two, to be exact,” he replies on autopilot. “They, uh, wanted one more than Baskin Robbins.” Goddamn it. He swears he used to be able to talk to girls. This girl, in particular.

“Oh,” she blinks. “Interesting.” 

Okay, so. The last time Steve and Nancy had spoken for real, they’d just broken up. Billy Hargrove had basically made scrambled eggs of Steve’s brains. And yet somehow, it had still been less of a disaster than the last minute of his life.

Steve has to salvage this somehow.

“It’s…really not,” he admits. “But you’re sweet to pretend.” Without thinking, he moves to drag his hand nervously through his hair and comes away with his cap instead. Oops.

Still, though, they both laugh, and that’s better. Good, even. Getting back on track. He’s not a total lost cause. 

“So, uh, what brings you to Starcourt?” he follows up, and that’s safe enough. Neutral. Boring. “Feels like most of Hawkins has been through here, not that that’s saying much. Haven’t really seen you around, though.”

That’s less safe, but she doesn’t seem offended. In fact, she’s still smiling, and Christ, Steve remembers why he hasn’t gone looking for this. Why he’s pointedly avoiding asking if she’s here alone.

“Well,” she says with a sly little curl of her lips, “I’ve been pretty busy. But – someone told me I was missing out on thirty-two flavors of ice cream.”  It's almost flirtatious, until she steps forward and winces. “Actually, I think one of them’s on the floor.”

The floor…? Crap. Lisa’s ice cream. It’s still splattered all over where he dropped it.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Steve starts, warmth creeping up his collar. “I can - I can get that cleaned up.” 

Ignoring Nancy’s protestations, he scrambles for the mop bucket they have to constantly keep within reach. Of course, it’s nowhere to be found – which means it’s definitely in the back room, which means he definitely can’t get it without drawing Robin’s attention. He pauses, debating.

“No – look, Steve, most of it’s still in the cup, I can just – I can just throw it away.” 

Steve is circling the counter to assess the damage just as Nancy is crossing his path to get to the garbage can, and they’re one perilous step away from unwittingly splitting a hefty splotch of Maritime Mint Choco Chip when his reflexes kick in.

On instinct, his hands wrap around Nancy’s bare shoulders to stop her just before they collide and – oh. Oh.

See, he hasn’t touched Nancy Wheeler in damn near nine months, and now his - his skin is on her skin. She’s soft, and warm, and his palms look so big against the slim curves of her arms. He can feel exactly where goosebumps are prickling against the pads of his fingers.

This angle also gives him a perfect, painful view of the swoop of her neck that he’s never quite been able to put out of his head. There’s a dull flush creeping up her collarbone, and for one unhinged moment he wonders what she’d do if he just buried his face there, pressing his lips heavy against that searing hollow until she’s gasping, like he’s done so many times before.

He catches her gaze. Her eyes are bright under the fluorescents, and he can’t help but picture them glassy with alcohol and resentment, punctuated by a sullen mouth and punch-stained blouse. Staring him down like he’s some kind of Upside Down pond scum. Bullshit.

He has no idea what she sees now, but it probably isn’t much of an improvement.

Steve swallows, and steps back.

“Sorry,” he says roughly, retreating back behind the safety of the counter, heart pounding. Nancy looks relatively composed as she neatly disposes of her trash, but he at least still knows her well enough to notice how her fingers curl tightly around her purse strap, the only sign that she’s a fraction as shaken as he suddenly is. 

Ask her what she wants. Ask her what she wants and give it to her so they can start pretending this conversation never happened as quickly as possible. 

“So, uh, busy? What’s – what’s up in the world of Wheeler?”

For fuck’s sake, it’s like his mouth is completely disconnected from what’s left of his brain.

“Oh, uh.” Nancy looks startled, like that’s not what she’d been expecting him to say. “Yeah. I got an internship at the Hawkins Post with Jonathan.”

So. No tiptoeing around it. Steve gives himself credit for not flinching like he wants to, for nodding his head like that simple statement hasn’t landed like a gunshot.

“Nice. Probably a way cooler gig than dishing out sorbet to all the Jazzercise moms,” he cracks, only half joking.

She doesn’t laugh, though. Her face drops and she kind of hunches in on herself, and he instantly feels like shit even though he doesn’t think he said anything to be sorry for, doesn’t know what could’ve made her react like that. Good one, Steve.

“You might be surprised,” is all she gives him in response. He doesn’t know what to make of that. And honestly, it’s not his job to make something of it anymore, so he lets it go, and they linger in awkward silence for a few seconds. 

For once – this one time only – he wishes that snot-nosed Sinclair brat would barge in, flanked by her entourage of equally snotty, pint-sized little dweeb friends, loudly demanding free samples of every flavor. That would at least give him a way out of this.

“Hey Steve?” Nancy looks at him like she’s steeling herself, and he recognizes that look, used to dread it back when they were dating. Time, he finds, hasn’t really changed the way he feels about it.

“Nancy?” he parrots back, defensive for no particular reason.

“The reason I came here today – that is, I just wanted to see if…” She cringes, trails off uncharacteristically, and he waits her out, with mounting unease. 

Patience isn’t his strong suit, but he’s found that for Nancy Wheeler, he’s usually willing to try to be the things he’s not. For all the good it does. Did.

She sighs, and tries again.

“I just wanted to ask – how, how are you –”

“Hey, honey, if you’re gonna get your ice cream, get a move on. I still need to stop at the dry cleaners.” A bottle blonde perm pops into the shop, and Steve nearly exhales with overwhelming…relief? Disappointment?

Saved by Karen Wheeler. 

She pauses, and Steve sees her notice him in real-time, watches the surprise dawn in her eyes as she identifies who’s behind the counter. “Oh. Hi, Steve.”

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler.” Karen’s always been nice enough to him, but he’s never been too sure how much she actually likes him. Like mother, like daughter, he guesses.

She gives Nancy an indecipherable look, and honestly, these Wheeler women have got to cool it with all the weird mind reading shit.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Nancy replies to the question spoken out loud, a tad clipped, before turning back to Steve. “So,” she says, drawing out the “o” and tapping the case. She seems to have set aside whatever she was gonna ask. “I – I guess that’s my cue, then. Any recommendations?” 

Steve’s already mid-scoop, and he’s absurdly pleased to watch her eyes go wide as he slides the cup of strawberry across the glass to her, with just a tiny flourish.

“Oh,” she stammers, “is that –”

“Strawberry,” he interrupts. “Your favorite. If – if that’s still right.” He doesn’t think that much has changed. 

“It is,” she affirms, and there’s a dusting of pink across her cheeks that Steve refuses to believe is anything more than a reflection from the neon sign.

“On the house,” he says when she goes for her purse, and it’s softer than he means it to be, less cheerful – but thankfully steady. He can’t help but smile at her, and she returns it, a tiny, kind thing. 

“Thanks,” she says after a moment. “I’ll…see you around?”

Not if I can help it, is what he thinks.

“Sure,” is what he says instead. “Anytime you need a scoop, I’ll be here.” 

Nancy raises her spoon in a minute, unbearably cute farewell salute, and the swirl of her dress is the last thing he sees of her as she disappears into the food court.

(On her way out, she takes her $2 and drops it into the tip jar, and he pretends it doesn’t smart a little.)

“Well, well. Do my eyes deceive me, or are we looking at another tally for Team “You Suck”?” 

Shit. Robin. Great. He hadn’t even heard her come out from the back.

Steve recognizes the dangerous note of glee in her voice, but for once he doesn’t have the energy to try to head it off at the pass. 

“You know,” Robin continues, “Between this and the truly spectacular crash and burn I know you were hoping I wouldn’t see with Lisa, I think that makes today some kind of record-breaking –” 

She must pick up something unusual in his face, though, because she cuts off abruptly. “Steve?” 

“Huh?” He knows he’s gaping at the door like a dumbass, but it’s too hard to find the willpower to tear himself away while he’s also blocking out the trace after-scent of Nancy’s baby powder-soft perfume. 

Robin doesn’t seem to know what to do when they’re not actively playing by whatever rules she’s silently set for the Shit on Steve Variety Hour. After a minute, he feels a nudge to the side of his foot, and he knows instinctively that it’s the toe of one of her battered Chucks. 

He doesn’t look, but he’s pretty sure she’s staring at him like he’s the weirdo.

“You…okay, dingus?” She sounds genuinely concerned, and that’s what jolts him out of it. Because no way in hell is he gonna spill his guts about Nancy Wheeler to Robin-whatever-her-last-name-is in front the sample spoons and a few carved up tubs of hard serve.

Even if Robin’s not, like, totally tragic. Maybe she’s even kinda cute. If Steve squints. Hard.

“Dude, not the shoes,” he finally mumbles, though she’d barely touched him. Her silence is heavy and unimpressed, perfectly matching her face (as Steve discovers once he finally gives in and spares her a glance).

Reflexively, he hitches his shoulders up in a stiff shrug. Arranges his face into a smile that he hopes is more cool and carefree than psychotic.

“Course I am,” he says, and it comes easily. He returns her nudge with one of his own and ignores her scowl. “I’m always okay. I’m…I’m Captain Okay.”

Jesus. He’s glad that one never made it into the yearbook.

Robin seems willing to at least pretend to buy it, though, and as she threatens him with the dry erase marker (though he notices she doesn’t make a single tally), he feels the grin he’s pasted on edge into something more genuine. He almost believes it himself, in fact. He is okay. 

Will be okay.

(He has to be.)

#stancy #stancy fic #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #my stuff #i had the worst time with this #but it was already 3/4 finished so i had to power through #and then i had to make you suffer with me #i will never try to enter steve's head again #next time i'm writing them TOGETHER #bc i'm tired of this grandpa

[excavatinglizard]

Me, drawing a kiss? Nearly unheard of.

#mckirk #fanart #star trek #sketch #Polaroid #leonard mccoy #I tried to get that kind of... faded Polaroid feel #gotta love procreate’s chromatic whatsit function #mckirk kiss #lizard makes a queue #took far longer than it should have but worth it #excavatinglizardsart

[well-its-not-human-anymore]

Hi! Could I get HC from the guys? 👀 How they would always react to catching the reader seeing them "badly", in addition to the fact that he usually avoids them, but with his brothers it is incredible and they feel bad because they think they do not like him.  But she actually likes them and she looks at them like that because she "studies" them to draw them and she is too clumsy and shy to talk to them, that's why she ends up avoiding them. Until finally he catches her drawing them with lots of hearts or maybe they'll find her notebook with lots of portraits of them.

It's kind of funny because when I study people to draw them, they think that I look at them with hatred xd maybe I should increase my glasses prescription

God, glasses are such a pain in the ass but I have to wear them. If I don't anyone within my near vicinity doesn't have a face. But why they gotta get dirty so easily???? Makes me wanna explode or something

TMNT Headcanons

The boys w/ a quiet reader who is fine with his brothers but acts cold around him and stares a lot

Michaelangelo

mikey couldn't describe his disappointment upon realizing that you didn't want to be friends with him

well, you never actually said that to him

but he was pretty sure it was the case

you'd never made an effort to be friends with him

stared at him an awful lot though, but there was always something off about your gaze when you looked at him

like you were sizing him up, scrutinizing him, like he was an opponent

it kinda worried him

to add to that, you didn't even attempt to look embarrassed when he caught you staring

you'd just stare harder

on your end it was quite the opposite

you always found the brothers fascinating and you LOVED studying their anatomy, you'd confessed this to Donnie early on and he happily indulged in your questions

and you loved how easily you got along with the boys

well, except for Mikey

but it wasn't for a lack of trying

whenever the orange sporting turtle came around your normally flamboyant personality crept back into its little corner and hid

any words of excitement that had previously been with you died in your throat

for the longest time you didn't understand it

and you hated not understanding things, so you turned to your only outlet

that's how you ended up with an entire sketchbook full of the youngest brother in vastly different styles and poses

you had a separate book for the others, none of them as detailed as this

and when you stared to analyze you'd fallen into a habit of not looking away when caught

by your logic, if you stared back hard enough he'd look away first or just assume you'd zoned out

he didn't

and on one hectic day you'd left your sketchbook open on the kitchen table in your rush to get to work

you hadn't even noticed the slip up until Leo texted you to let you know during your shift

instant panic

in truth, Mikey was the one who discovered the book upon waking up from his nap and he'd spent the next three hours analyzing every drawing

when you finally dropped in after work to grab your book the turtle was waiting for you with it in hand

he'd asked you if you hated him

you told him no and accepted your sketchbook from him

he was relieved and screaming excitedly, just in his head

"Do you maybe wanna hang out sometime?"

You sighed in relief and nodded

"If you're cool with it- you don't think I'm weird do you?"

"I mean- you are talking to a turtle..."

you lightly shoved his chest and smiled, although it faded within a second

"Oh hush, 10 o'clock tomorrow? I'll bring snacks."

he was so stunned he could only shoot you finger guns in approval

Donatello

Donnie genuinely couldn't understand your unease around him

he'd followed all the proper expectations of holding a conversation

he was polite and engaging

so why wouldn't you talk to him?

this boy has read so many social blogs to try and figure out what he was doing wrong and he just couldn't put his finger on it

you were fine with the rest of his brothers, you'd stay up for hours laughing and gaming with them

you'd even sat still long enough to listen to Leo explain some old Japanese myth that he'd read about in a book

but with him it was always a quick, cordial greetings and farewells with bland small talk in between

Donnie had picked up pretty quickly that you weren't interested in any sort of interaction with him

and he convinced himself that that was okay

but that didn't explain the staring

he'd caught you in the act several times, eyes narrowed and locked on him

especially when you were alone with him in a room or just in the lair

the poor turtle just couldn't put his finger on it

then he caught you drawing, he noticed early on that you always carried a small sketchbook on your person but he didn't think much of it

and it wasn't so much that he caught you drawing, in fact, he wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't snapped at him while he was trying to do a sudoku puzzle

"Damn it Donnie! Stop moving! If I fuck this arm up one more time I'm gonna decompose!"

he'd quickly moved back into the position he was in prior

"sorry?"

but you'd gone silent again, occasionally glancing up from your work and running your eyes along his frame before looking down again

nearly twenty minutes later Donnie had finished the puzzle and it seemed as though you had finished your drawing

"Uh- can I ask what are you-"

"I'm drawing you but you kept moving your arm and making me mess up. You always do that when I draw you so every damn picture I have of you stays a sketch because you always come out looking like a fucking octopus."

He just stared

"Sorry, I uh- I didn't mean to explode on you like that. I'm just- I'm really bad at talking to you okay? It's so easy with everyone else but you've just gotta be so damn smart all the time and I worry that you'll think I'm boring so I just... don't talk to you?"

Donnie is stunned™

You refuse to show him the drawing until you can complete the line art and color it

But at least he knows that you don't hate him

Leonardo

To be completely honest Leo didn't mind that you were distant from him

You created an aura of calm when you were around and you always managed to distract his brothers while you were present

And he enjoyed the alone time

But after a few months that calm acceptance turned into jealousy

Not that he would ever admit it

He would just push it off and ignore it, that usually seemed to work

So why wasn't it?

And your obvious staring problem didn't help at all

Leo didn't spend much time considering his appearance but something about your gaze made him self conscious

And he hated that with a passion

Why was it that you could hold entire debates with his siblings? Even his dad for gods sake. You'd have hour long conversations on almost everything but whenever he tried to say hello you'd make up some lame ass excuse and scamper away

He just wanted an explanation

It appeared that the answer resided in your sketchbook

You'd left it open on the couch when Raph had called you away to spar with him

Leo very delicately flipped through the pages, careful not to disturb some of the polaroid pictures of his brothers

He was admittedly surprised to find pictures of himself among the pages

One of him in a handstand, another of him meditating, there was even one of him mid sneeze that you'd recreated with pencil and paper

The image of his eyes was the most startling, but the book held no polaroid of his eyes

You drew them from memory

And he was shocked when you returned to the room and didn't immediately panic

But that might have been because he didn't try to withhold your book from you

"It took me three months to color them, your eyes. I could never get the shade of blue just right."

"I'm gonna be honest with you y/n, I really thought you didn't like me."

You had the nerve to roll your eyes and follow it with a laugh

"I don't. I mean- I do but no, you just remind me a lot of myself and I haven't exactly figured out why yet. I thought that maybe if I drew you it'd be easier to figure you out..."

"Well did it help?"

You grinned

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Raphael

If there was one thing Raph hated it was not understanding something that was right in front of him

which is ironic, as a much younger version of himself probably couldn't care less

and a part of him wishes he didn't care about it so much

he wishes that your blatant avoidance of him didn't upset him

but shit, it got under his skin better than any needle ever could

was it too much to ask for you to just tell him what he said or did wrong?

was he asking too much of you?

but on the same scale you'd never shown obvious dislike towards him, you were never rude and you sure as hell didn't talk shit about him to his brothers

you got along great with them

in fact it was getting more difficult to remember a time before you became a part of his family

he'd become so used to your presence that it no longer put him off when he found you hanging around the lair

but in another sense he was certain that you hadn't spoken more than three sentences to him in your time knowing him or his family

so what was the reason

several months in he finally caught onto the staring, your narrow, glassy gaze locked onto his body and refusing to look away

he stared right back at you

this annoyed you for several reasons

because within five seconds your very peaceful drawing session had turned into a staring contest and your eyes were getting VERY dry

then you exhaled in a half-sigh and looked back down at your paper

"Huh, I guess your head is more of an oblong shape..."

he took offense to this

"What tha' hell is that supposed t'mean?"

now your eyes held more of an amused silent judgement, you begrudgingly held up your sketchbook

"I'm drawing you, you fucking walnut."

"Oh..."

now you rolled you eyes and tossed the book to him, he nearly dropped it and fumbled with the pages

your annoyance was quickly growing

"Careful with that."

He flipped through the pages at a snails pace, assumingly because he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing

you had some real talent

when he looked back up at you he was wearing that crooked smile

"and here I was thinkin' that my eyes were just green."

Hope I was able to get this down pretty well! I really enjoyed writing this one! Thanks for the patience!

-Mars 🌠

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt headcanons #tmnt x reader #writing blog #writing requests #askbox #ask response #tmnt leonardo #tmnt donatello #tmnt raphael #tmnt michelangelo

[heliads]

How to Move On

Based on this request: “A ghost!Luke Patterson x alive!reader but she is older. Like in the 90s they were but then he died and she got older. An angst story please :)”

masterlist

When he was alive, Luke Patterson lived five houses down from one of the cutest girls he’d ever seen. It still surprises him that he has to tack on that first part to describe anything that happened in his life before, like if he shuts his eyes hard enough he’ll find himself back in the 90s, when he had a pulse and a heartbeat and people could see him if he walked out onto the street.

However, an unseen blade cuts a little too deep whenever he thinks about his current situation, so Luke allows himself to fall deeper into the memory instead of returning back to reality. She’d lived five houses down, right? Or was it four? Luke has hardly been brought back as a ghost for a few weeks before he’s started losing his grasp on the details that bound his life. They’re all slipping through his fingertips, gone now in recollection as well as his ability to return to them in person.

Yes, five houses down- he’s certain of it now. Whenever he wanted to sneak out of his house to go visit her, Luke had to climb out of his window and weave through two backyards before he could risk returning to the sidewalk for another three houses. Five houses down, that’s right. Luke curses himself mentally, not wanting to forget another detail. He’s already lost the girl, he doesn’t want to lose the few figments of her in his memory. A ghost of her for the ghost he already is.

If he managed to sneak out of his house and make it down five houses, as he so often did, Luke could then toss small pebbles at one moonlit window. It usually only took two or three of these interactions before the window would be hurriedly unlatched, a beaming face peering out at him. Luke would allow himself a second of staring, admiring the way the moonlight cast the girl in a bone-white halo, then haul himself up into the room.

From the second his feet touched down on the bedroom floor, Luke would be in safe territory. He still took precautions, of course, keeping his voice down and his movements quiet. However, Y/N L/N always seemed to have a secret oasis in the form of her room, and he was never once caught. They both made sure of it, and if he and Y/N worked together, they could achieve any goal so long as it was worth it.

Y/N L/N. She was the one he’d left behind, one of the aches that hurt the most. He’d been lucky enough to win her love, either through some complete misunderstanding or maybe the fact that he’d finally done something right in his life, but he had her nonetheless. Or, he’d had her until the day he’d died, leaving behind nothing in his wake but grieving parents and the girl he’d sworn to stay with for the rest of his life. Well, his promise had come true in one sense, although Luke can’t help but wish there was another way around it.

To be completely honest, even as Luke dreads forgetting any detail of his past girl, he might fear thinking about her even more. It’s not that he wants to lose the picture of her smile in his head, or the way she’d reach for him when she was cold, it’s just that to think of her in any sense is like a knife stabbing him through the ribs, reminding him that he’ll never get her back. If he tries to push her from his mind, he won’t remember the way she’ll never be with him again. Isn’t that better?

Luke already knows the answer: no, not at all. Even this one slip in his memory, the faltering knowledge of how far apart their houses were, sends a jolt of worry spiking through him. Luke wouldn’t consider himself forgetful, maybe just a little absentminded, but the fact that he’s already starting to forget his past life worries him. However, to keep Y/N’s picture cherished in his mind means reminding himself of everything that he’d lost, of finally confronting all the memories he’s been holding back for so long.

Eventually, Luke finds himself in the studio, searching through the boxes and crates of stuff that had eventually made its way into dusty corners and spiderwebbed cracks of the room. Julie’s mom had been kind enough to keep at least some of Sunset Curve’s possessions, and so Luke ransacks these sparse belongings now. At last, his hand emerges triumphant, carrying with it an old photo album. It’s thin, spine scarcely thicker than a small paperback, but for the way he looks at it its pages could be lined with gold.

Luke pauses a second, steeling himself before flipping open the front cover. Instantly, he’s hit with a wave of memories. These first few photos had been taken a year or so before he died, when he had first started dating Y/N and everything seemed like he was living a dream. There are Polaroids from their first few dates, snapshots of festivals and boardwalks and everything a couple of teenagers could afford when they were young and stupidly in love.

Luke studies these, then the next couple of pages, and then the next. He must have been more distracted than he’d first thought, because he doesn’t notice Julie Molina enter the studio until she’s practically standing on top of him. Julie clears his throat, and he startles, doing his best to quickly close the album. For some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right to so openly share his memories of Y/N to anyone within eyesight.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there. Are we practicing?” Luke asks. Julie laughs, her smile a tad incredulous. “Not yet, but I’m a little worried as to why you were so quick to hide that book. What, are you trying to keep secrets from me?” Her eyes assure him that this question is purely an excuse to tease him, but Luke can’t find it within himself to smile back. Instead, he sits back down on the floor of the studio, gesturing listlessly to the empty space next to him.

“Not entirely. It’s just- well, I found this old photo album, and it’s kind of hard to not regret leaving everything behind. The current day is good, don’t get me wrong, and I love the band, but-” Julie picks up on his train of thought even as Luke’s voice trails off. “It’s not what you’re used to, and you feel bad about everything you could have had. I get it. I’m surprised you’ve adjusted so well, to be honest. It can’t be easy to leave your entire life behind.”

Luke lets out a quiet sigh. “Exactly.” After a moment’s consideration, he picks up the photo album again, opening the cover and passing it to Julie. She accepts it, glancing at him one last time to make sure he’s alright with baring his soul to her. A soft smile traces its way onto her face as she sees the photos of him and Y/N, grins so bright they could practically light up the world. “Who is this?”

Her finger lingers over a photo Luke had taken of Y/N. She had been wearing a Sunset Curve shirt, one of their first attempts at a logo. They’d long since changed the design, but she had said something about how her boys were so official and taken the first draft t-shirt nonetheless. Y/N had worn it to many shows since then, until the design faded into nothingness and she’d been forced to get a new one. Luke’s voice softens. “That’s Y/N. She is- she was my girlfriend. Back in the 90s, at least.”

Luke hates the way he has to say that, like she’s died instead of him. She was his girlfriend, they had known each other, they are each utterly different now and there is no getting back what they’d once had. Julie glances over at him, sympathy radiating from her gaze, but then she turns back to the photo, frowning over it in something that almost looks like recognition. “Wait, you said her name was Y/N? Like Y/N L/N?”

Luke sits bolt upright, melancholy thoughts completely forgotten. “Yes! How did you know that? Do you know her?” Julie’s excitement starts to bleed away from her, as if she knows something that ruins the dream she had been so thrilled to share. “Well, yes, but she’s not Y/N L/N anymore. She has a different last name now.” Luke picks up on what Julie is unwilling to say, and his stomach sinks a little. She has a different last name because she’s married, because she’s moved on.

Even as he thinks this, Luke feels annoyed at himself. Of course she’s moved on- he died 25 years ago. There’s no reason she would never love again, and even if she did, Luke would never want that for her. She was so bright, so happy, that the thought of herself locked away in mournful grief like his parents seems so utterly wrong that if that happened she might as well have died with him. Still, Luke doesn’t like thinking that there’s someone else out there receiving her smiles, hearing her hopes and dreams late at night the way he had once listened to her.

Luke must have gone silent for too long, because Julie is looking over at him again, pity written in every line of her face. She thinks for a second longer, then stands up, holding out her hand to him. “She still lives near here, actually. A few streets down. Do you want to go see her?” Luke stares at her, then rushes to his feet. “You mean it? You know where she is?” Julie nods. “Only if you’re willing to see her.” She’s right to worry- seeing Y/N again will mean finally coming to terms with everything Luke had left behind when he’d died, a final piece of proof that Y/N will never be his again. Still, if he hides away from her again, Luke will spend the rest of his ghosthood wondering what she might have been like and who she may have become. So, he nods, and allows Julie to lead him from the studio and down the blocks to Y/N’s house.

Even without Julie’s directions, Luke would know their destination even before she points out Y/N’s front door. He sees her in every corner of the building, every flower and tree planted in the yard. She’d always wanted a brightly painted front door, tall trees in the backyard so she could have a little shade on the summer days. They’d once planned what their future houses would look like, always choosing one for the two of them. If Luke sees traces of his ideas in her house now, does that mean Y/N still thinks of him? Or that she’s already forgotten that it was his voice suggesting those changes and not her own, that he’s already faded into the last few corners of her memory?

His feet stall in the driveway, but at an encouraging look from Julie, Luke forces himself to walk up the final few feet to stop in front of the front door. He reaches forward and rings the doorbell himself, although he can do no more once the door swings open. This will be Julie’s part- Luke can do no more than watch the woman in front of him with wide eyes.

She still looks like her. Is that a strange thing to say? She’s taller now, her face more lined and weary as if she’s had a lifetime of problems to deal with ever since Luke left her days. It makes sense that she looks older- the last time Luke saw her was 25 years ago, so she’s probably in her forties now. Still, there are traces of the girl he’d known in every movement, every step. When she looks questioningly at Julie, Luke can see the way she’d looked at him to ask when and where Sunset Curve would be performing so she could make sure to arrive on time. The gesture is so truthfully her that it practically hurts to see.

Julie’s eyes dart to Luke, as if trying to gauge his reaction, then she focuses her gaze firmly on Y/N. “I, uh, was cleaning out my mom’s old studio. I found something from the band who used to practice there- they went by the name of Sunset Curve? Your name was on one of the photos.” It’s a duplicate photo strip from a photo booth on a long-since demolished boardwalk, an excuse for the visit. Still, it’s enough to make Y/N’s eyes widen, and she looks at Julie as if she’s punched a hole right through her chest.

She gestures for Julie to follow her inside. Luke drifts in after them, staring at the photos lining the walls, the backpacks flung in a corner of the room. So she has children, a family. How long had it taken her to move on from him? She smiles in every family portrait he sees, but did she ever think about the boy she’d left behind? Would it matter that much to him if she did?

Julie hands Y/N the photo strip now, and tears glisten in the woman’s eyes as she looks at herself and Luke, decades younger and what feels like centuries happier. Julie, thank everything, is unwilling to let Y/N leave without asking her about the boy she’d left behind. “Did you know him well? The boy in the photos?” Y/N glances up sharply at Julie, startling as if she’d forgotten there was a girl in front of her, too drowned in the memories of the past to remember reality. It’s a familiar feeling to Luke, and it stings to see it on this older Y/N too.

“Yes, I did. Very well, in fact. I loved him with all of my heart until he died along with his bandmates.” She laughs quietly, the sound broken through with utter misery. It twists Luke’s heart like a blade. “I almost didn’t make it through the funeral. I was sitting next to his parents, and we were sobbing like we’d never smile again. He was everything to me, and I had no idea what to do when he was gone. I wish you could have met him- he was always so quick to a smile or a laugh. I never told him how much I liked his smile. I wish I had.”

Luke stumbles as if he’s been punched. Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he swipes at them angrily with his shirt sleeve. Why should he have to cry now, mourn everything he’d lost? Hasn’t he been through enough? Y/N swallows harshly. “It’s easy to get lost in the past. I graduated high school without him, went to college without him. I didn’t think I’d ever have to live a day without him, and suddenly I had an entire future completely empty of anyone like him. There are days when I almost think I see him in a crowd, and days when it gets easier. In the end, I think he’d want me to move forward, even as hard as that may be.”

Julie glances over at Luke once more, scarcely a second away from tears herself. “Yeah, I think he’d want you to be happy. That above all else.” Y/N sighs, the sound cutting through Luke and almost sending him to the floor. “Thank you for the photos, Julie. You take care of yourself.” Julie smiles. “I will. Thank you too.” Luke, sensing the imminent goodbye, takes one last furtive glance around the house. What if he had been there, present in every family photo and every line in her journals? He wishes nothing more than to have that option, to be able to go back, but he can’t.

So, he allows himself to follow Julie back out into the sunshine of the afternoon, and when the door closes softly behind him, he doesn’t look back. Julie is silent on the walk back, as is he. Luke heads for the studio, and he stops before the photo album before glancing up at the walls around him. If he tries hard enough, Luke thinks he can see her in every corner of the studio. There she is on the couch, laughing as she pretends to smack him with a pillow. There she is next to him on the piano, listening to his latest song. There are hundreds of her in the studio, hundreds of memories. That’s all he has left of her. Just memories and nothing more.

Julie returns to find him later, and it doesn’t take long for her eyes to cut across the room, landing on the photo newly pinned to the wall. There are two figures in it, a boy and a girl grinning madly as they reach for each other in a dusky night. Both of them are long gone now, dead and aged even as their photo-selves smile on. If Luke looks back at the photo now, keeping that image burned into his mind, he never speaks of it again.

requested by @charliegillespiewife​

jatp tag list: someone who i would not leave behind if i died in the 90s @underc0vercryptid​

#luke patterson #luke patterson imagines #luke patterson x reader #luke patterson oneshot #jatp #jatp imagines #jatp oneshot #julie and the phantoms #julie and the phantoms imagines #julie and the phantoms oneshot #jatp luke #jatp luke imagines #jatp luke x reader #jatp luke oneshot #julie and the phantoms luke #julie and the phantoms luke imagines #julie and the phantoms luke x reader #julie and the phantoms luke oneshot

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part IV

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao. 

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings. 

 The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow. 

 The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway. 

 "Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!" 

 A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough. 

 "Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

 He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy." 

 "My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please." 

 "Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

 "'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice. 

 Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you." 

 You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it. 

 "Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

 "Didn't even notice," he reassures you. 

 Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen. 

 Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

 She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

 "Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later. 

 "You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

 "Uh, yeah. I could eat." 

 Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything. 

 "Sandwiches okay?" 

 Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth. 

 "Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich. 

 You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

 He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask. 

 He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days. 

 Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow. 

 After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

 It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer. 

 "It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free." 

 Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better. 

 You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie. 

 He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow. 

 "I can pick something else," he tells you quietly. 

 You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften. 

 "'S'fine."

 "Are you sure?" 

 "Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

 He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be. 

 He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies. 

 "You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

 "You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

 You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress. 

 Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep. 

 That's good. You could use a nap. 

 He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours. 

 But first. 

 As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf. 

 It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before. 

 The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses. 

 Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward. 

 They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother. 

 Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

 He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book. 

 Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

 He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole? 

 Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible. 

 It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on. 

 Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

 Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left. 

 The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album. 

 He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

 "Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album." 

 Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes. 

 "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

 You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

 But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length. 

 "Why didn't you ever tell me?" 

 "What's there to tell?" 

 Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth. 

 "It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

 Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books. 

 "Is it, though? Is it really?" 

 "I..." 

 Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language. 

 Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you. 

 It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

 At least it makes sense now. 

 "I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it. 

 You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch. 

 Then, you flop back down on your pillows. 

 "So. Any questions, Zacharias?" 

 He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

 A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

 "Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease. 

 "Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

 Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up. 

 "Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous. 

 "He left." 

 "Yeah."

 And then he gets the full story. 

 Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

 "Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

 The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom. 

 "He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick." 

 He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since. 

 "I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

 "Were you ever close with him?"

 You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

 It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

 At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him. 

 He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk. 

 "Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

 Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice. 

 Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him. 

 "I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

 Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies. 

 "Have you seen him since?" 

 You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

 Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction. 

 You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

 "Anyway," he mimics. 

 "I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

 "Is this why?" 

 "Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

 "Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know. 

 Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months. 

 "So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

 "For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

 "Mm. I guess."

 The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better. 

 Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster. 

 Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark. 

 When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest. 

 It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate. 

 You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth. 

 He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

 Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer. 

 He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth. 

 Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

 Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

 He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

 So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you. 

 After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other. 

 He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now. 

 If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back. 

 He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself: 

 I love you. I love you, I love you.  

 You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day. 

 You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

 Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

 Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear. 

 Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it. 

 And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

 You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

 It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

 He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening. 

 The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

 You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail. 

 Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence. 

 Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can. 

 Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

 “Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

 He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

 “You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

 “Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

 “Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

 He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

 Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip. 

 “Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

 It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you. 

 “I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

 After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way. 

 You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done. 

 Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it. 

 Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock. 

 He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

 It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying. 

 Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

 Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger. 

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books. 

 It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice. 

 Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town. 

 It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway. 

 Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder. 

 The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!" 

 Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

 A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles. 

 "It's fine. You can calm down."

 You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused. 

 The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him. 

 "You're Zeke Jaeger."

 He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

 Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players. 

 You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face. 

 "Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

 He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

 You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself. 

 "Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

 Your stomach flips at the mention of him. 

 "We're not dating."

 Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

 "No. Just friends."

 He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain. 

 "Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try. 

 He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

 "I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

 "Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

 You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

 "I'll walk with you," he states more than offers. 

 Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.  

 But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. 

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does. 

 Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

 These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip. 

 Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

 You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

 He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

 You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

 It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

 “You listening, sweetheart?”

 Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

 “No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

 “That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

 “It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

 Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

 You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor. 

 Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

 The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

 “Yeah, okay.”

 He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

 No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said. 

 What a fucking joke. 

*

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside. 

 “You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

 “Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

 “Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

 You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

 “Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

 He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.” 

 He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

 Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day. 

 And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

 Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

 Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece. 

 If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

 But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

 What is happening to you?

 “So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

 But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

 You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

 Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

 His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

 You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car. 

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

 Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

 You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys. 

 “I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

 “Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

 Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

 “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

 “I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

 You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes. 

 “Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

 You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

 Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

 “Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

 “You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

 “I—”

 “It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

 Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him. 

 But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

 He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

 Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

 Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that. 

 “What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

 You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

 “Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

 “Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

 “Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.” 

 God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

 Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

 “Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

 Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

 “What?”

 “Come here.”

 Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

 More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

 “Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem. 

 “I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

 “For some reason I don’t believe that.”

 You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

 That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his. 

 He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth. 

 You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

 “Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

 The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more. 

  And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #mels prima vista

[solarwonux]

An Unforgettable Dinner - Valentine’s Day Drabble #3

soft!dom mingyu x f!reader x soft!dom chan 

w.c: 2.0k

warnings: LOTS of teasing, toys (vibrator), public sex (kind off just squint everyone), humiliation, Mingyu is a little shit, orgasm denial, poly relationshi, daddy kink if you like squint, slight degradation, (very minimal editing)

note: this was a prompt from my drabble game, but I enjoyed it too much that I thought why not add it to this mini series lol. Enjoy and please please let me know your thoughts. 

also i will be answering asks tonight hehehe and everyone else that left me lovely comments on my feedback rant lol

masterlist || drabble game

“You should wear that more often.”

You jumped upon hearing the smoky lip of your boyfriend's voice. Quickly, you placed the glass of champagne onto the kitchen counter before scurrying and wrapping the sheer robe around yourself tightly. Failing to cover the baby pink lingerie set you adorned. 

He wasn’t supposed to be home yet. 

They weren’t supposed to be home yet, because if Mingyu was home that only meant that Chan was home too. 

“W-What are you guys doing here?” You turned around, setting your elbow down onto the counter awkwardly. The loud drone of the old Jazz record you had playing, didn’t do much to cover your embarrassment and the loud beating of your heart as you looked at both Mingyu and Chan’s smug expression. 

“This is our house too baby.” Chan spoke before pushing himself off the wall. He walked past you dropping his bag onto one of the kitchen chairs, your eyes following his movements closely as he walked to the record player and turned it off. “Valentine’s Day and our anniversary isn’t for another week, what’s the special occasion?” He put the record needle back onto its respective spot and took off the record carefully, looking around for the sleeve before spotting it haphazardly thrown on the couch. With a tisking sound, a shake of his head and a quick glance at Mingyu then you, he walked towards it.

“I’m willing to overlook the mal-treatment of my records if you answer Chan’s question...and honestly.” Mingyu’s voice grabbed your attention once again, this time obviously annoyed. 

Mingyu’s records were his prized possession, sometimes treating them like they were his second skin or his first offspring. He never forbade you or Chan from using them as long as you abided by his rules and more often than not you would forget, Chan always covering up for you so you wouldn’t have to listen to another version of the same lecture Mingyu always gave. 

“Um...no special occasion I just wanted to try on the set I bought last week for our anniversary night.” You mumbled playing with the feathered sleeves of your sheer robe. It was true, your plan had been fool proof until it wasn’t. You were only going to wear it for a few minutes, take some polaroids to leave hidden around the house for them to find and take it off before they came home. Though, you had gotten ahead of yourself the second you saw how beautiful it looked on your body. How it made your insecurities fade away slowly. In celebration for the new found confidence you didn’t want to stray away from yet. You had opened a bottle of champagne and put on your favorite record as you lingered around the living room with a giddy nature that only a child on Christmas morning would have. 

“It’s a shame we were spoiled, now this is all I’m going to think about for the entirety of next week.” Chan said as he walked back to the shelves that kept your books and Mingyu’s record collection. He held it by the denting corners of the sleeve twirling it mindlessly as he went over the abc’s in his mind, before finding its rightful spot between L and N and slipping it back in. 

You chewed on your bottom lip as you felt the tension grow in between the three points of the living room where the three of you were standing in. Chan was now leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed chewing on his bottom lip, while Mingyu still hadn’t moved from his spot by the front door with you trapped in between them now, holding onto one of the kitchen chairs, keeping your balance. Their looks were almost predatory and it made the skin of your arms rise as well as the desire between your legs. 

There was no way you would survive this night untouched. 

“Why don’t we get a preview, it would be waste to at least not see something you’ve planned for us.” Mingyu nodded, Chan making a sound that can only be categorized as one of approval. Though, you felt weak in the knees ready to drop for them. The confidence you found yourself ensuing when wearing this particular innocent looking set, overcame your senses. 

“Buy me dinner and I’ll think about it.” 

“What’s wrong baby, you wanted dinner didn’t you?” 

You gripped Chan’s forearm like a vice, and bit your lip hard trying to subside the moans that were threatening to spill out. 

Your confidence had depleted to nothing when they both agreed and told you that they would wait in the car for you as you finished getting dressed. On the way towards the hole in the wall restaurant the three of you often visited. One of Mingyu’s hands was gripping the steering wheel hard, while the other found its way inside of your leggings, teasing your slit over your panties. 

“She’s wet enough love.” Mingyu spoke, sending Chan a knowing look through the rearview mirror in which you caught. It only made you wonder if they had had this entire night planned out and your suspicions only grew when Chan had fished out a tiny hot pink vibrator before handing it over to you. 

“Put it inside of you baby.” Chan smirked at you through the rearview mirror before planting a sloppy wet kiss against your cheek. At first you declined, called the two of them insane for suggesting such a thing, let alone in public. But then the thought of them teasing you in public became more appealing and arousing to you, that silently you obliged to their commands. Which is how you found yourself at a loss for words and appetite and on the brink of yet another orgasm, digging your nails into Chan’s bicep as they both ate happily, chatting up a storm. 

“This isn’t fair.” You breathed out, the vibrations dying down to almost nothing, enough for you to breathe. You weren’t sure which of them was controlling the vibrator as they never faltered in giving themselves away. 

“Babe if you don’t eat, your food will get cold.” Chan pointed out, placing his hand over yours and kissing your nose lightly. Your garlic noodles had become an afterthought even before you had ordered them, your mind was focused on the pusing vibrator against your clit and how desperately you needed to orgasm. 

“F-Fuck the food Chan, please let me cum.” You whisper yelled, looking between both of your boyfriends and silently begging them. Whether it was a mistake or not you didn’t care, at least not until the vibrations started up again, this time faster than before. You let out a squeak hiding your pleasure stricken face in Chan’s arm, earning a chuckle from both men. 

“Not until you eat all of your dinner, it’s what you wanted baby.” Mingyu said before reaching over and grabbing your head gently in his palms making you look at him. “You act like a brat, you get treated like one.” He whispered before placing a soft kiss against your swollen lips. Before you could respond he pulled back and sat back down, crossing his arms in front of him a smirk adorning his perfect features. “Now eat baby, eat and we’ll fuck you until you start seeing stars.” The vibrations died down again and finally you realized that one that was in control of your torture was the man sitting next to you. 

“C-Chan, fuck, please just let me cum. I’ll be good, I’ll let the two of you fuck my mouth and my pussy but please I-I need to cum.” You begged and left peppering kisses against his neck. It was a good thing that the waiter had sat the three of you down in a booth, otherwise you wouldn’t have been openly expressing how desperate you were. 

He shuddered and pushed you away before taking a bite out of his steak, ignoring you completely. You could tell that by the way his body had tensed up and how the vibrator moved inside of you at an overwhelming speed, he was close to giving in. If it wasn’t for Mingyu’s warning glare he would’ve given you all the orgasms you wanted, regardless of being in public or not. 

“If you let her, you’ll be joining her.” Mingyu warned. It wasn’t often that Mingyu took over the dominant role in your relationship. Despite him being the one that looked more intimidating he was often underneath you or Chan when it came to the bedroom. Though, there were some days, like today in which his own mouth betrayed him as he spewed the dirtiest things for only you and Chan to hear. 

You pushed your plate of food away and leaned your forehead against the table. The tears had started to pool up in the corner of your eyes as you tried to hold yourself back from your release. And when the vibrations stopped once again you let some of them go along with a sigh of relief. You sat back, whipping your eyes with the back of your hand and crossed your arms in front of you. Mingyu chewed happily on the piece of chicken he had in his mouth, as he looked at your fucked out state. He would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t itching to risk getting fined if it meant that he could bend you over the table and fuck you. But his self control was far greater than anything on this planet. He had proved it to both you and Chan whenever the two of you would edge him on for hours. 

“C-Chan, baby, just let cum please.” You looked over at him, your eyes blotchy, looking so fucked out, wishing that he was home instead of the stupid restaurant. He wasn’t even enjoying his food anymore. 

You leaned over and placed a soft kiss against the back of his ear, where his sweet spot was and you saw him grip the handle of his knife hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. “I-I feel so good, don’t you want to feel good with me.” You kissed down his neck and ran your hand over his clothed cock. He was so hard that you let yourself moan loud enough for your two boyfriends to hear, but low enough for it to be drowned out by the loud music that was playing. 

“Fuck, you just want everyone to see how cock hungry you are, isn’t that right baby?” Mingyu tilted his head, his hands holding onto the table to keep himself from touching himself. In truth you and Chan were his weaknesses and more often than not the two of you used that knowledge to your advantage. 

“Yes, I want them to know how much I love being full of cock and cum.” You moaned, your grip on Chan’s cock faltering when the vibrator started up again. It overwhelmed your senses, as you felt your orgasm approach even faster than before. 

“Then cum for us.” Chan whispered in your ear. He had kept his hands away from you the entire time he was controlling the device inside of you, but now he had placed a hand on the inside of your thigh, massaging it gently as he whispered dirty praises in your ear. All while eyeing your boyfriend from across the table. 

Before you knew it, you felt yourself release, falling forward, your forehead hitting the table gently as it traveled through you faster than the speed of light. Mingyu let out a very telling low groan, while Chan’s hand rubbed your back gently. The vibrations against the walls of your pussy came to a complete stop as they fluttered around the hot pink device. 

“Good job baby, you did so good for us and look no one even noticed.” Chan said teasingly before sitting the two of you back, your head against his shoulder as he caressed your arm gently, calming you down. 

“That was so fucking sexy, f-fuck. We need to leave now.” Mingyu rushed out raising his hand up to call over the waiter. 

“No, like you said we need to finish your food first, so be a good boy for me love and put your hand down. We have a long night ahead of us and the two of you need all the energy you can get.” Chan said, before shoving another piece of his steak into his mouth. You knew him being quiet and letting Mingyu take control was just for show. You watched as Mingyu’s overly dominant confidence left his body slowly as he obeyed and lowered his hand, swallowing slowly. 

“Daddy can we punish him?” You smirked and looked up at Chan, resting your chin against his shoulder. You saw a menacing smile appear on his face, indicating that he was more than a fan of the idea of having Mingyu at both of your mercy’s. 

“Of course baby girl.”

#kdiarynet #kpopscape #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfic #seventeen mingyu #seventeen chan #seventeen dino #mingyu x reader #mingyu imagines #mingyu fanfic #mingyu smut #dino imagines #dino fanfiction #dino x reader #dino smut

[magniloquent-raven]

31 and 42 for any character(s) you want

eyyy ty for the ask 🥰

31. most prized possession

billy has one picture of his mother.

he managed to keep some of her stuff hidden from neil. a few small things. a filigree dolphin ring she’d left by the bathroom sink, a rinsed out jam jar full of her favourite bits of sea glass, and a paperback novel with curling edges and a broken spine. he used to pester her while she was reading, ask her endless questions until she relented and read out loud for him. didn’t matter what she was reading, he barely paid attention to the stories anyways, he just liked to hear her do the voices.

and all of those things are important to him. (he keeps them in separate hiding places, in case neil ever goes looking through his things, he doesn’t want them all thrown out at once, if it comes to that.) he’s read the book dozens of times. he used to wear the ring when he was alone in his room, but he outgrew it years ago. when he has the house to himself he sorts through the sea glass, lays it all out on his bed and tries to remember the stories she told about each piece.

and he treasures all these little keepsakes, but none more than the single, faded photograph he has of the women herself. a polaroid he took when he was too young to hold the camera properly. it’s crooked, and at a weird, unflattering angle, the sun blotting out a whole corner of the photo, but her smile is still clear and visible, and that’s all that matters.

because she left when he was so young. and he worries that one day he’ll forget what she looks like.

so he looks at the picture every day. sometimes just a glance, to remind himself, and sometimes, when he’s snuck in through his window after a party, drunk and woozy and in his feelings, he’ll sit on his floor and look at it til his eyes get tired and he can’t blink away the tears anymore.

and i think that steve would have a weird relationship with possessions. like. as a teenager, stuff feels like a burden sometimes. all the things his parents bought. he isn’t allowed to complain about his parents not spending time with him because they’ve given him things instead. that they’re at least somewhat invested in keeping him alive. his dad would definitely be one of those “you’re so ungrateful, and after we fed and clothed you all these years” kind of parents.

so he has all these things that are supposed to mean something to him, but they just. don’t.

then when him and billy become tentative friends, billy decides he’s deeply and personally offended by steve’s taste in music. and he makes him a mixtape. it’s just. songs billy likes. music that doesn’t suck scribbled on the label, with a dumb little winky face drawn on the corner. it is in no way a romantic gesture, except. excep steve’s already got a massive crush on billy so, really, he couldve handed over a fucking math textbook and steve still would’ve gotten butterflies over the fact that billy thought of him at all.

and then billy listens to it with him. talks to him about it. it’s not just that billy thought of him, made something for him, but it’s an excuse to spend time with him too.

and when they start dating billy starts to give him other stuff. little things. a wonky little stuffed turtle he snagged from a claw machine while steve paid for their pizza. a piece of sea glass he found when they took a trip to the beach (he looked real serious when he handed it over, his eyes a little distant, and steve didn’t quite understand why, but the frown was easily kissed away). and a couple more mixtapes over the years. that steve would keep even when they couldn’t be played anymore.

he keeps these things in a fancy little wooden box on his dresser, all polished and shiny with gold plated hinges. full of all the things billy’s ever given him. and maybe it’s a little fucked up that sometimes he thinks he keeps these things because he needs the tangible proof that he’s loved, and that without all the little tokens of affections he’d just float untethered and unsure, but. they aren’t just things anymore, they’re memories, and love

42. hobbies

i absolutely adore the idea of post s3 billy just. doing a bunch of grandma activities lmao. his lungs and his heart are all busted up and there’s residual chest pain and he just can’t be as active as he used to be. plus he’s not as social anymore. being possessed and traumatized will do that to you. and then people start to notice that he’s stuck at home, bored and depressed. max notices. steve notices. word gets around.

and somehow their campaign to help him leads to him learning how to bake (max starts taking out cookbooks from the library and giving them to him) and taking care of plants (steve buys him cacti and herbs and anything that blooms blue) and eventually mrs henderson teaches him how to knit. (doc owens says it’ll be good for his hands, keep his fine motor skills sharp. and he doesn’t laugh. which helps)

and all of it helps keep him occupied. keep him from wallowing too much. and it’s nice to make things. keep things alive. feels like a step forward

and idk about in canon, but whether it’s an au thing or not, i love steve as an artist. he’s not great with words, and he just feels. dumb a lot of the time. he’s not intellectual. not good at school, things that his dad and his teachers tell him he’s supposed to be good at if he wants to amount to anything. but when he gets bored in class, when he just doesn’t understand the book he’s supposed to be reading, or he can’t follow along with the complicated formulas up on the board, he doodles. his notebooks are full of little drawings. caricatures of his classmates. landscape snapshots of what he can see through the window. he gets restless and his mind wanders but when he’s drawing he focuses.

and he doesn’t really show people. doesn’t tell anyone. he doesn’t think of himself as an artist, he just can’t concentrate in class so he doodles. it’s a shameful thing.

but maybe a teacher notices. takes an interest. encourages him a little. and its not much but it’s a start. lets him think about it a little more positively. he still hides it from his parents, he knows it’d just end with a lecture from his dad, but he feels less shitty about himself when he flips through his notebooks that are full of more pictures than words.

headcanon asks

#steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #a raven's writing desk #i guess lol #i went on a bit of a ramble #u just know that artist steve would have like #pages and pages of sketches of billy after he moves to hawkins #like he wants to hate this guy but he's just so damn pretty and he can't stop drawing him

[cal-kestis]

If I Could Never Give You Peace

(Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Gif by @pedropcl​ [original gifset]

Summary: Two years after resigning from the DEA, Javi finds himself in Los Angeles, haunted by glares of gunshots and blood-stained hands. He’d succumbed to the idea that he’d never have peace — doesn’t deserve it after everything he did in Colombia. Then, she moves in next door and maybe, he thinks, things could be different. “I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.” Word Count: 4,357 A/N: A Reader-insert one-shot with a nameless female reader. No “Y/N” or "you," but the reader can be anyone. Inspired heavily by Taylor Swift’s “Peace.” How many TS references can you find? Lol. Tags: Fluff, Angst (with a happy ending), Mentions of death (but no one dies, I promise), Alcohol, Cigarettes

[Read on AO3]

The rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me... All these people think love’s for show, but I would die for you in secret... Would it be enough, if I could never give you peace? — Taylor Swift, Peace —

When Javier Peña handed in his DEA badge and gun two years ago, he knew he couldn’t stay in Texas. Not forever.

Texas held too many familiar faces, old friends calling him a hero when he felt like a villain. It held too many ties to an old version of himself he’d rather not remember… muddied images of him with a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise. No, he couldn’t stay. Not even for his father.

So, Javier Peña and the unwelcomed overcast of his nightmares found a one-bedroom apartment in sunny Los Angeles.

In time, he realized he needed the city: constant motion, endless traffic, and hoards of busy people who would never remember his face. He could blend in. He could be alone.

He could have a clean slate.

But each night, glares of gunshots flashed behind his eyelids and invisible bloodstains marred his calloused palms as if to remind him:

He could never have peace.

Then, she moved in next door.

The first time he saw her, he only caught a glimpse. She and her boyfriend, he assumed, held towering stacks of brown boxes in front of their faces — sweating as they lugged the dusty weight into the empty space.

For a moment, he considered offering some neighborly help but decided against it — When have you ever cared about being a good neighbor, Javi? — closing himself in his quiet apartment with a glass of whiskey.

The second time he saw her, she came knocking on his door the next night.

“Hi, neighbor,” she smiled brilliantly. And for a split second, he swore he felt something foreign flutter in his stomach, but dismissed it as the after-effects of spoiled dinner. “I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself.”

He could not take his eyes off her. His gaze stayed glued to a small bead of sweat trailing a slow path down from her hairline, where she’d pulled it back with a makeshift scarf-headband. The droplet slipped down her cheekbone, over a smudge of dust that had settled in from her moving boxes. It drifted down the curve of her jaw, dipping into the slope of her neck until finally hiding away below her tank top. And by some miracle, she only needed to repeat her name for him once before he came out of the trance.

“Sorry.” He gulped, removing the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Javier.”

He extended his hand and she met him halfway. Soft. So soft.

“Good to meet you, Javier.” She smiled again. Flutter. “I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, she swiftly turned on her heel to walk the few steps back to her door, bare feet strutting off, flaunting her daisy dukes, and — God help him, he’s a man and she’s beautiful — he stared.

The nail in the coffin?

When she opened her door and gave him one last smile over her shoulder, she winked.

No, he could never have peace.

—

After that, he hardly ever sees her.

Part of him feels relieved, unduly wary of the strange flutter he’d feel just thinking of her name. The other part, the traitorously curious part, dreams of catching another glimpse of her glistening skin or a quarter note of her honeyed voice. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he finds himself often wondering if her boyfriend gets to enjoy her sun rays and melodies. Lucky bastard.

He blames his roaming thoughts on the fact that it’s… been a while.

This is what you wanted, he’d remind himself when he’d wake to an empty bed — a stark contrast to his time in Colombia. This is the way things should be.

Just when he starts to believe those words, he finds her crumpled on the floor in front of her apartment — the contents of her purse strewn across the hardwood beside her, palms pressed firmly against her eyes. One tiny sniffle and a tremble of her shoulders, and he melts into a puddle beneath her muddy sneakers.

“Hey,” he whispers tentatively, voice raspy with cigarette smoke.

She jolts at the sound, immediately wiping her face with her sleeves and plastering on a saccharine smile.

“Javier,” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on the vowels. “Sorry, I was just— rough day. And to top it off, I think I left my keys inside. I tried Jerry but no luck.”

“Jerry’s a shit landlord,” he sighs, earning a nod from her. He takes out an old, faded receipt from his pocket and kneels in front of her, finding a pen amongst her spilled belongings. “Try this number. He’s usually fast. Can get you back in your apartment tonight.”

He hands her the scribbled receipt and she takes it with a real smile, albeit small. “Thank you, Javier.”

He nods, a tiny dimple forming in one tanned cheek, before getting up to unlock his apartment. The door clicks but he stands there for a moment longer, listening to her waning sniffles as she throws her things back into her bag. His eyes screw shut tightly, a silent war waging behind his forehead, his fingertips feebly trying to rub it away.

He sighs long and heavy when he realizes which part of him has won.

“Would you... like to come inside my place while you wait?” He mutters, mainly to the floorboards. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Okay.” Her smile is warm like the sun, despite the cloud of tears still glazed over her eyes. “But you don’t strike me as a cream and sugar kind of guy.”

“No,” he admits with an amused smirk. “But I’ve got some old whiskey, older milk, and a phone you can use, toll-free.”

“Thanks, Javier,” she sniffles. “Coffee sounds nice. But hold the booze and tainted milk.”

And that’s how she ends up in his apartment, sitting at his small dining table, slowly sipping from his coffee mug, using his landline to call the locksmith.

Maybe it’s the caffeine or the three (stolen) pink packets of sugar she found in her purse (“It’s not stealing. Diners offer dozens of them in cute little boxes, I mean practically gift-wrapped, and I modestly accepted three.”), but coffee gets her talking the way alcohol coaxes even the darkest secrets from iron-barred lips. She just broke up with her boyfriend. Or he broke up with her — found some younger, hotter-than-her aspiring actress in Hollywood and left her in the dust of the boxes she’d just unpacked.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “You’ve been so nice. Really, Neighbor of the Year,” she laughs, but he thinks it sounds off. He wants to hear the real thing. “And here I am, taking up your space, drinking your coffee, and dumping all my problems on the table. Tell me if I’m talking too much, Javier. I tend to—”

“Javi,” he says, furrowing his brows as if mildly stunned by the two syllables he just spoke. She looks confused. “You can... call me Javi, for short. And I don’t mind listening.”

“Javi,” she tests the name on her tongue, smiles. His stomach flutters. “A good name for a good guy.”

The argument dies on his tongue the minute he thinks it, even though she’s horribly, terribly wrong.

Sometimes you gotta do bad things to catch bad people.

If she knew...

“I should be out of your hair in 20 minutes anyway,” she says, breaking him out of his dark reverie. “Locksmith’s on his way.”

When she finally gets back into her own apartment, Javi jostles her doorknob, double-checks the lock, and knocks on wood for good measure.

“Find your keys?”

“Got ‘em!” She chirps, jingling her lost keys. “I’m gonna have to memorize that number.”

“I’m next door, too, if you ever need anything.”

“Me too. I can lend you some sugar for your sad-man, bitter coffee,” she jokes. “Thanks again, Javi.”

He sends her a tight-lipped smile and a short nod, a familiar weight settling in his chest as he turns back to his lonely apartment.

“Would you like to come in for dinner?” She asks, quiet and suddenly timid. “I’m no chef, but I’ve never made a spaghetti I couldn’t tolerate.”

He opens his mouth to refuse but she beats him to the punch. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me out. Please?”

And it’s the way she asks that gets him. The way “please” seems to fall from her lips like an unanswered prayer. He wonders, maybe she’s just as lonely as him.

So, he walks into her apartment, she smiles, and his stomach flips.

—

Months pass by with this new routine. He joins her for dinner at least once a week, if their schedules allow. If not at the local diner where she infamously loots sugar, it’s usually at her place. For one thing, although it’s usually pasta, she tends to have more appetizing (read: edible) groceries stocked up than him. But if he’s being honest, something about her apartment just feels more like… a home.

Framed smiles of her and her loved ones line the walls. With each visit, he finds himself studying a new one, imagining the story behind each snapshot. (He noticed after their first dinner, she’d thrown out the photos of her ex, replacing them with Polaroids of the city.) Piles of pillows stack up neatly on her couch, vibrant hues and patterns decorating the space. He adores the soft waves of music always floating around her space. She plays a different record each time, but somehow, each one compliments the sweet tones of her voice perfectly.

Her place feels brighter than his too, and he’s not sure if it’s the east-facing windows or if it’s just her.

Soon, he doesn’t need to decode the photos on the walls anymore. She tells him more than she’s told anyone before — about her hometown, her family, what she studied in college, her travels, her favorite books, her irrational fears, her dreams.

He tells her considerably less, especially when it comes to his time in Colombia.

For now, she doesn’t mind. She likes the way he watches her when she talks — brown eyes soft and warm, brows pinched together as he takes in each word, the ghost of a grin tugging at one corner of his lips when she gestures dramatically.

He realizes, one night after dinner, he comes home smiling now. And he thinks the nightmares have started dwindling, ever since that first dinner.

Maybe, he lets himself imagine. Things could be different.

—

He calls for you over and over, shouting until his throat burns and the echo of his frantic voice pounds in his ears.  

“Where are you?” He screams.  

The narrow hallway is dark, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He crushes his body into the hard wall, arms sliding roughly against cold brick as he tries to keep himself concealed. The gun in his hand feels icy and impossibly heavy, and his arms tremble as they lift the weapon higher, rounding the corner.

“Llegas tarde, Peña,” a deep, gravelly voice sneers. “You’re too late.”

“Tómame!” Javier yells. “Tómame en su lugar.”

“You would die for her?” The voice chuckles. “Llegas tarde.”

The voice’s shadow moves, revealing a smaller shadow crumpled on the floor — lifeless.

“Javier! Javier!” A distant voice chants, accusing him. Boom! Blaming him. Boom!

“Javier!” Boom!

The pounding sound wakes him up with a jolt, and his sweat-slicked chest rapidly rises and falls as he reaches for the gun inside his bedside table.

Slowly, Javier creeps to the front door where the loud pounding started. But when he peers into the peephole, he only finds her — looking as tired and distressed as he feels. A wave of relief floods through his overheated body.

She’s wrapped up in a blanket, a worried look wrinkling her forehead.

He puts his gun down in a drawer and lets her in.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Almost 4 in the morning.”

“What’s wrong?” He demands, suddenly worried about why she’d be waking him this early.

“You tell me,” she says, frown lines still etched by her eyes — mirroring his own tired marks. “I heard you yelling. I was worried, Javi.”

“It was...” he starts, squinting as the images flash in his mind again. “Just a dream.”

It only takes one glance into his eyes for her to reach out to him, pulling him in by his neck until he nuzzles into hers.

He breathes her in, holds her like he’s not sure she’s real, like she might be gone tomorrow. “It was just a dream,” he echoes, but he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

“It was just a dream,” she repeats after him.

She pulls him by his hand toward his couch, sitting down before patting the space beside her. And just this once, he allows himself to let his head rest in her lap, lets her drape her fuzzy blanket over him, lets her soft fingers draw slow circles in his hair, lets her lull him to sleep with mumbled whispers he can’t quite make out, and lets her ward off the lurking darkness like a nightlight.

He’s asleep before he can hear the quiet secret that spills from her lips.

“I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.”

She comes over to his apartment more frequently after that. Whether to bring him dinner or just sit on his couch in comfortable silence, she doesn’t like to leave him alone.

And maybe, she’d rather not be alone either.

—

He doesn’t remember how she convinced him, but here he is... sitting at a crowded bar drinking water, watching his tipsy neighbor bouncing alone on the small dance floor.

Every so often, some cocky drunk comes up to put his hands on her waist and tries to dance with her, but she plasters on a faux smile and shakes her head at them, muttering something while nodding in Javier’s direction. Each time, they sulk away and he chuckles.

Finally, she bounces over to him, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Dance with me, Javi. Please,” she draws out the word, an octave higher than normal.

And despite himself, he follows her voice like a sailor enthralled by a siren’s song.

She puts her arms around his neck, swaying her body against his. And then she shouts over the music, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

And the heart on his sleeve falls straight to the floor, clanging loudly in his ears like metal.

‘Friends’ is more than you deserve, he reminds himself.

But then she continues, resting her head against his chest, her index finger coming up to tap a tantalizingly slow beat over his collarbone. “Good friends,” she sighs, lifting her gaze until her chin digs into his heart, her lips just inches from his. “Really… good… friends.”

She’s kissing him before he can even process the feeling. And despite his better judgment, he lets her. She’s everything warm and soft and good, with just a hint of alcohol — and he’s what you get when you turn those words upside down, jumble the letters, and crumple the paper into a jagged ball. But he craves the way her curves somehow fit perfectly against his cold, shattered edges. And he knows he shouldn’t.

So, when he feels her tongue trace along the seam of his mouth, he gently pulls away, hands rubbing soothing circles on her shoulders.

“You’ve had too much to drink, cariño,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” she whispers, smiling with half-lidded eyes, drawing her finger across his mustache then below his ever-pouting lip.

She’s passed out in his car by the time they’re back home. When he unlocks her apartment door for her, she stays latched onto his arm as he turns to leave.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“I—”

“Please?” She asks, in that way he knows he can’t fight. “I don’t want to be alone.”

And just like that, the door closes behind him and he stays.

He finds her an oversized shirt to change into, helps her wipe the smudged mascara off her face, and holds her until the sun rises.

When she wakes, the space beside her is empty but warm and indented, the shape of his body lingering in the sheets. A full glass of water, ibuprofen, and the phantom taste of Javi’s lips are the only other traces of her really… good... friend.

—

He’s not avoiding her… per se. But it’s a long, lonely week later when he sees her again, on an uncharacteristically rainy Sunday outside their apartment building.

“I just got home,” she blurts after standing there dumbfounded for a good minute. She nods to the soaked brown paper bags in her arms. “Groceries. Uh, obviously. Were you...?”

“Forgot my umbrella,” he answers.

“Same,” she chuckles awkwardly, droplets hanging on her lashes and the ends of her hair, only partially covered by her hood. “Obviously.”

“Here, let me help you.” He takes the bags from her, keeping the door open with his foot as he waits for her to head inside.

“Thanks, Javi-er.”

He follows her upstairs silently, his wet, squeaking shoes punctuating each slow and heavy step.

“I can—”

“Let me just—”

They fumble and dance around each other in her doorway as he sets her bags in her apartment. And, as if to torture herself, she decides to stand under her door frame when he leaves to grab his umbrella, waiting the longest minute of her life for him with a forced smile.

He waves his umbrella at her after locking his door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.”

He nods and walks back down the stairs.

“Javier, wait.”

He pauses, his back still facing her, drenched shoes balanced on two different steps.

“Can we talk?” She hates the way her voice sounds when she asks, tinny and trembling. Clearing her throat, she clarifies, “About what happened... at the bar?”

He sighs, screwing his eyes shut tight and rubbing his forehead.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, low and barely audible as the rain starts picking up outside. And he walks away.

She’s stunned still, watching as his figure shrinks with each step he takes away from her. He’s already out of the building by the time frustration fuels her feet to follow him into the rain.

“Like hell there’s nothing to talk about,” she yells over the downpour, hair quickly sticking flat to her face. “Javi, we kissed!”

“You were drunk,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear, still walking.

“I wasn’t drunk,” she argues to his back, remembering with perfect clarity exactly how his lips felt on hers. “Just a bit braver. Javi, stop! Look at me. Please.”

And like clockwork, he turns slowly but doesn’t move any closer.

So, she closes the distance to stand beside him under his umbrella, taking in his features without the obscurity of rain.

“What are you running from?” She wonders, reaching for his fidgeting hand. “I would never hurt you. I—”

The line between his brows looks deeper than usual, as if they’d been stuck in that pinched position for weeks. Shadows lay in rings beneath his eyes, accompanied by smaller lines that carry untold stories she hopes he’ll entrust her with someday. His mouth is parted just slightly, as if to say something he knows could change everything.

And it does.

“I have to go.”

Her hands are empty and wet when he leaves. And the rain buries his parting words into the pavement.

I don’t want to hurt you.

—

She doesn’t hear from him for two weeks. Doesn’t even catch a glimpse of him.

The rain sticks around longer than usual for Los Angeles, making her apartment feel cold and gloomy. But maybe, it’s just missing him as much as she is.

Then, while she’s folding her laundry one night, she hears his door rattle and practically bolts to her own. He’s there. Keys in hand, rolling luggage in the other, hair tousled like he’s been pulling at it with his fingers. He looks at her when she opens her door, just for a beat too long, before hiding away in his apartment.

She sighs, closing her door in defeat.

But just as she starts getting ready for bed, she hears two knocks at her door, heart beating rapidly as she slowly makes her way to open it.

“Hi, neighbor,” he greets her softly, and the sound of his voice after so long without it nearly brings her to tears.

“Where did you go?” She asks. But she really means, Why did you leave?

“Texas,” he says. “I... needed to see my dad.” But he really means, I was scared.

“Oh.”

“Can I...” he mutters. “Can I come in please?”

She hesitates for only a second before stepping aside and he looks around like he hasn’t seen the inside of her apartment hundreds of times already.

He stops near her bedroom, where a new picture hangs proudly: a goofy, blurry photo of him stashing three pink packets of sugar in his shirt pocket.

“It’s the only photo you’ve let me take of you,” she says quietly, standing next to him with a wistful smile on her face. “I miss our diner dates.” But she really means, I miss you.

He doesn’t respond, just silently walks to her couch and sits, fingers rubbing circles into his forehead.

Minutes roll by slowly as she watches him from the other side of the room, battling with some invisible hand covering his mouth, holding on until the end to keep the words locked up.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispers, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of... back in Colombia. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell you. I think a part of me is still there, fighting some unwinnable war. Hell, even before Colombia, I—”

Muddied images of a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise flash in his mind.

“Fuck. I can’t shake it,” he says, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes, waving the invisible iron shackles on his wrists to show her. “Any of it. The nightmares...” He recalls her shadowy body and a dark, menacing voice. “They’ve followed me for years. I—” he looks at her, eyes darting across her face. “I could never give you peace.”

His head hangs low and a wayward curl brushes against his forehead. Despite how much space he takes up on her couch, he looks so small, defeated —  the weight of his past crushing him into this tiny, torn, crumpled-up piece of paper covered in red-inked, scratched-out sentences.

“Javi,” she whispers, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. So, she crosses the room and kneels in front of him, her palms reaching for his cheeks and lifting his gaze to hers. “Javi, who said anything about peace?”

The wrinkles deepen between his brows as he studies her, tries to understand what she means in the cloudy orbs of her eyes.

“The past is the past. We’ve all done things we can’t speak of. And sometimes at night, we live it all again. God knows I’m far from perfect. But I know you’re a good man, Javi. I see you,” she tells him, stroking the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs.

“I’m not—”

“Do you trust me?” She interrupts his argument. He stares at her, blinks, before nodding once.

“Then trust what I’m saying. You’re not perfect. But you’re good.”

His eyes close as soon as she sees water beginning to pool behind his lashes.

“I’m not asking for peace. As long as I get to be with you, it would be enough.”

And then his lips are crashing into hers, pulling her into his lap until he’s covered in her. The sound he makes when they touch is devastatingly beautiful, like she’s a balm soothing his freshest wounds and healing his oldest scars. It feels like his entire body has exhaled — lungs deflated, bones liquified, mind released from a decades-old straitjacket. If not for gravity, he could float from the way his stomach is fluttering. His shoulders lower and he sighs as if he’d been holding his breath for his entire life until this moment.

He’s drowning in her, submerged to the top of his head. But he can finally breathe.

“I’m sorry I ran,” he whispers into her skin. “I’m sorry I left, cariño,” he kisses just below her ear. “My dad said I was the biggest asshole on the planet for leaving. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry,” he licks the seam of her lips.

“Mi alma, you have no idea,” he sighs when she parts her lips for him. “How much I love you.”

And she captures the words on her tongue, kissing him with a ferocity that says, Yes, I do.

“Want to know a secret?” She gasps when his lips trail down her neck. Her voice is barely a whisper, as feather-light as her fingertip skating across his shoulder.

He hums, a soft, lazy smile stretching his lips wide, so wide.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” she says, staring into his deep brown eyes. “That I’ll ever love anyone more than I love you, Javi.”

Her finger stops, retracted to shield herself after such a heavy confession. His eyes blink slowly, head lifting off the couch cushion.

He doesn’t say a word. He only stares at her, the softest smile on his face — his edges blurring into gentle curves in front of her very eyes.

“You’re it for me,” she finalizes.

And then they’re crashing into each other again and again and again.

End Notes: Look, it’s been almost 10 years since I sat in a Spanish class and watching Narcos only restored 3% of my limited vocabulary. Here’s what I got from Google Translate: “Llegas tarde.” = You’re too late. “Tómame!/ Tómame en su lugar.” = Take me!/ Take me instead. “Cariño” = Darling, honey “Mi alma” = My soul P.S. Please let me know if I missed any tags/triggers!

#javier peña #narcos #pedro pascal #javier pena #javier peña x reader #you know i've fallen deep when i start writing #your honor she's simping #mine*

[aquaticstyles]

unchained

A while ago I was asked for a “Have You Ever Been In Love” sequel, and while this is probably not the direction you guys were expecting, this is what I came up with. Also, this one’s (loosely) inspired by the song “Scott Street” by the lovely Phoebe Bridgers (highly recommend listening to the spotify sessions version while listening). Fun fact, for forever I misheard the lyrics, thinking she was saying “unchained” instead of “ashamed.” After noticing that I have, in fact, been wrong this entire time, I realized I kinda liked my version better (sorry Phoebe). And, me being me, I ran with it and it spun into this quick, 1.4k part two. Reblogs + feedback help so much! Enjoy!! xx, Jane 

“Have you ever been in love?”

Harry’s heart stops.

The question catches him off guard, and not just because he’s not used to interviewers asking such personal ones (he guesses this is what he signed up for when he agreed to be the first male flying solo on the cover of Vogue). It makes his heart stop because of his answer, because of the woman that had once asked him the same exact question.

Harry has never been one to linger in his sadness; he finds it unproductive, and quite honestly, completely depressing. After a break up, one can find the caramel-colored curls belonging to the world’s latest phenomenon sweating out his sorrow, or frustration, at the gym, pounding the boxing bag again and again and again. “Nothing another set can’t fix,” his trainer, Mike, would often tease the man in denial, knowing good and well by his posture upon entering the ring, slumped shoulders and an ever-present crease between his eyebrows, that another one had bit the dust the night prior. Mike had learned fairly quickly to never ask questions, to simply let Harry work out his emotions as he pleases, even if that means letting him walk out with wrapped fists masking throbbing, crimson knuckles.

Harry has never been one to talk about his sadness either; he finds it prolongs the pain rather than diminishing it, an annoying gnat swarming around an abnormally large bite from a crisp apple, halting his progression in enjoying his afternoon snack because he just can’t catch the bloody thing. His sister has tried to break him from his stubborn ways, even resulting to getting the lanky man drunk off tequila in hopes of him finally opening up about his incessant missed targets; however, that only ever ends up with Gemma’s arms holding up the giggling teddy bear and folding his bulky body into a taxi, mimicking cramming a cotton ball into a straw. Therapy was suggested and waved off with an inked palm, because if he doesn’t want to talk to his sister about it, how on earth is he supposed to talk to a stranger?

Never-ending claims of “I’m fine,” and “It just didn’t work out,” and “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” and “It wasn’t even that serious.” Sure, each breakup took a little something out of the man that insisted he was “fine,” but eventually, a couple dozen inked journal pages later, Harry would be back to his normal, happy-go-lucky, perfectly-kind self.

All of these rang true for most of Harry’s young adulthood.

All of these were common occurrences, that is, until Harry met you.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. Selfless, but not in an over-bearing, walk-all-over-me kind of way. Funny, but not in an underlying-hatred, fake-laugh kind of way. Genuine, but not in a look-at-me, fake kind of way. Honest, in a I-want-to-know-everything-that-makes-you-you, ask-you-questions-until-the-sun-rises kind of way. Drop-dead-gorgeous in the most unbelievable, glowing, ethereal, kind of way that he constantly reminded you of. You were the perfect balance, the missing diamond to even out the coal on the other end of the scale.

Loving you felt like the ocean.

In the morning when there’s a hazy screen covering your lenses, clouding the soft sunlight in a muted, white-washed filter. It’s more gray, yet still golden as the shining mass of fire lazily rises from its slumber. It’s calm, clouds stretched apart like cobwebs in the faded blue sky above, waves leisurely, almost too relaxed, crashing along the bleached shore then disappearing back into the horizon. Still sleepy, still new, an entire day ahead of you.

In the afternoon when the sun is at its highest and hottest, radiating down ultraviolet rays that burn your skin, causing alarmingly red shoulders in need of aloe that soon progressively heal and turn into a bronzed exterior. Speckles of light dancing upon excited waves, similar to a neighborhood of children dressed in pink polka dots and orange overalls running towards the ice cream truck filled to the brim with dreams of sugary stomachaches. It’s saturated, every color its brightest and loudest, pops of cerulean and coral. It’s a blanket of comfort, a suffocating scarf. It’s sweet. It’s sour. A cool glass of lemonade sinking into a bed of quicksand. Annoying and astonishing.

In the night, when the yellowing presence is long gone in the awakening of the moon, the deepest indigo swirling in between pockets of stars dotted and flecked into the atmosphere like freckles. It’s black and blue. You don’t know where the earth stopss and the water begins, familiarity lost as the waves erase each new footprint in the sand. The tide is an abuser, sweet as it sings you in, terrifying as it pulls you under. Skinny dipping, vulnerable, exciting, adrenaline, heart thumping, diving, sinking, drowning.

The morning, the afternoon, the night. The happening, the honeymoon, the heartbreak.

Ever since it ended, everything Harry had ever known was cast aside, thrown out like a Gucci jumper from last season. For the first time in his twenty-six years of living, fourteen of those juggling the obstacles that relationships can and will bring, Harry was irreversibly numb, a pair of frozen, gloveless fingertips blue from the icy wind. Not only did he linger in the gut-wrenching grief, he was absorbed by it. Instead of waking up each morning tucked into the bare side of your body diffusing innocent warmth, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee received by hands much smaller than his own, he woke up with a stranger laying on his chest, cold, with a pounding headache the bottle of whiskey had gladly supplied from the night before. The days felt as if they lasted an eternity, time stuck in slow-motion, tick, tick, ticking, one second, one and a half, one and three quarters, two. He watched the seasons pass, the grass dying and regenerating into its natural emerald shade from his bedroom, dust pocketing in the corners of a picture frame containing two pairs of sparkling eyes and genuine, toothy grins sitting on the windowsill. Nights consisted of him lying sleepless on his back, eyes wide awake, thumbs twiddling as the echoes of helicopters overhead drone in and out. Dozens of missed calls remained unanswered: Mum, Gem, Mitch, Mike, Adam, Sarah, Mum, Mum, Gem, Mum, Mike, Mitch, Gem, Mitch, Mum…

He was stuck, a pancake glued to an ungreased pan, charred. It was when this melancholy had prolonged for nearly its sixth month, and all at home remedies (which included drinking, writing, drinking because he was writing, and writing because he was drinking) failed to provide any peace that he decided to give in to the recommendations from almost every single one of his friends: therapy. After the first session, he was ready to book it and sprint off to a deserted island with nothing but a coconut filled with rum to accompany his solitude. Turns out that one session was the mento to his coca cola of bottled-up emotions, exploding months’ worth of buried feelings and memories in an hour. It took the will of God (and Gemma purposefully lying and telling him they were going to get lunch) to get Harry back in the baby-pink-painted interior of his therapist’s office. After months of talking, sorting, compartmentalizing, yelling, crying, healing, unpacking, and reflecting, Harry tackled down the closure he had been chasing. A year and an album later, when he heard your name, he no longer felt trapped, heart beating rapidly, trying desperately to break apart his ribcage, he felt unchained—a prisoner uncaged, pounds and pounds of metal unlocked from his wrists, free.

Before, your name was paired with a colorless photo album, snapshots of vibrancy draining into black and white, frozen, lifeless, still.

Now, your name resembled a film reel of the best moments, your sweater hanging in his closet, your arm thrown around his mother’s shoulder in a polaroid candid, your laugh echoing in the acoustics of his shower after you nearly slipped on the lavender bubbles coating sudsy toes, your hands massaging his scalp, twisting curls into detailed plaits, your foamy lips smushing against a stubbled cheek, leaving remnants of peppermint mocha in the winter air, your satin skirt contrasting from his purple flares in his backyard, playing thumb war and whispering confessions in the moonlight. The good memories built a brick wall to block out the bad, dimming the light of your downfall.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question echoes again in Harry’s ears, causing a grin and a dimple to pop into his cheek. The fuzzies. Once, twice, three times. Click, shake, tape.

“Yeah, I have.”

#My writing #Harry Styles #solo harry #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry fluff #harry one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #writing #imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles angst #bf!harry #boyfriend!harry #unchained #unchained type beat #have you ever been in love type beat

[ave-aria]

Rewind

Ectober Week 2020 Day 3: Rewind Summary: Maddie can't believe what she's seeing on the security tape. In shock, she hits rewind. Tags: Reveal fic, Blood, Angst, Implications of character death, Tragedy, Trauma, Oneshot

-

Rewind.

Maddie keeps her eyes on the tv screen as the figures wind their way backwards to the start of the video. She won't look away. Can't. Doesn't dare.

If she looks away, she'll have to focus on something else. The quiet, dusty lab around her. The uncleaned ecto-weapons by the door. The green blood smattered on the blade.

The hollow, empty house looming over her head…

The video hiccups a bit as she hits the start of the feed. Old VHS tapes are odd like that, buzzing out with static where the film wore thin from too many pauses and restarts. It's a sign she's hit the beginning. Maddie presses play.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

It was an old security tape, filched from the lab. Onscreen, three teenagers, her son at the lead, slip into the camera's field of view. Maddie leans closer, enraptured by the movement, even though she's seen this moment enough times to have it seared into her brain.

Maybe, if she focuses hard enough, she can learn the secret - how to rewind her own mistakes, go back to a time when none of it has happened, just like in the video.

"Whoa, check it out! This thing's huge! I can't believe your parents built this!" A pause, while the kid adjusts his glasses. "Bummer that it doesn't work though, dude."

"Damn. Was it really supposed to open a portal to the underworld?"

"It's 'The Ghost Zone,' Sam. And yeah. My parents were pretty heartbroken when it didn't work. It kinda just… fizzled out. I hope they're not too upset."

The detached, clinical angle of the shot doesn't do the moment justice. Danny'd always been such a kind boy, thoughtful and empathetic to a fault. Maddie's throat closes up a little, leaving her struggling to breathe. They had been upset. Unbearably so. Their life's work - as Danny put it - fizzled out before their very eyes. It'd been a hard loss to take, one that she and Jack might never have recovered from, had the Portal not miraculously started working on its own, days later.

God. Now she almost wishes it hadn't.

A bright flash draws her from her reverie. Maddie blinks at the screen. A camera flash. In her distraction, she's missed part of the video; Tucker's casual "Lighten up, dude,", Sam's request for a photo op, Danny grabbing a hazmat suit to pose with while she dug the device from her backpack.

"—Got it," Sam waves the printed Polaroid to air out the negative.

"Okay. I showed you the portal. Can we get out of here now? My parents could be back here any minute."

Where had they been that day, anyway? Maddie wonders. Grocery shopping? Visiting the park? Moping, as they tried anything to get their minds off of their most recent failure? If they'd been there —

If they'd been there—

"Come on, Danny," comes Sam's voice, treacherous in its fascination. "A Ghost Zone? Aren't you curious?"

Danny looks into the Portal, clutching the custom white suit made specially for him. Sam smirks, knowing. "You gotta check it out."

Maddie hits pause.

Rewind.

"You gotta check it out."

Pause. Rewind.

"You gotta check it out."

Rewind.

"—gotta check it out."

The remote feels cold and heavy, like ice in her hand. In that moment, a selfishness grips her. She could blame Sam. For all if it. Everything that happened, it all started here, and it started because—

—But she can't blame Sam, because the next moment, Danny turns back, his eyes sparkling with an adventurous spirit. It's a spark of curiosity, brimming at the thought of the unknown; a look she's all too familiar with, one she's seen often on her daughter's face, her husband's - even her own, in the mirror.

"You know what? You're right. Who knows what kind of awesome, super cool things exist on the other side of that Portal?"

That curiosity, it's a Fenton trait, not one that needs to be stoked like a fire. That spark's been burning within him, since the cradle.

"Don't go in," she whispers, as if her advice could change the course of history. Even if he could hear her, though, it would be no use. He can no more resist the call than he can resist breathing.

He pulls on the hazmat suit. Skintight, white with black edging. It's like staring at a photo-negative. Watching her son, Maddie's stomach twists.

How couldn't she see it before?

"Alright. I'm going in." He says. His first footsteps echo, loud, in the hollow of the blacked out Portal…

Maddie's breath shudders in. She grips the remote and, before she can stop herself, hits the button.

Rewind.

She watches as her son walks backwards, double-time, out of the entrance to the Portal. The panic that gripped her fades.

"Mads?" From somewhere up above, echoing down the staircase, comes her husband's voice. Maddie is glued to the video screen, and almost doesn't hear him. Regardless, she definitely can't answer. What would she even say?

"Maddie?" His heavy footsteps echo in the stairwell, trudging closer. "Are you down there?"

A hitch in the tape. Maddie presses play.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

Drawn by the sound, Jack trudges the rest of the way down the narrow staircase. She feels a slight reverberation in the floor when he reaches the landing behind her. She doesn't turn around.

"The police called back. Officer McNally said he'd file a missing persons report, and they promised to keep their eyes open. But—" she hears the way uncertainty causes his voice to die in his throat when she doesn't turn to greet him. After a long moment of silence, he draws up to her side. "What are you watching?" he asks at last.

"It kinda just… fizzled out. I hope they're not too upset."

Question. He'd asked a question. Maddie swallows and struggles to answer. "Security tapes," she chokes out.

Understanding, an incomplete kind, dawns on Jack, and vigor jumps back into his bones. "Mads, that's brilliant!" he booms. "Why didn't I think of it? He comes into the lab all the time! We can use the security tapes to see when he last—"

"I found this tape in Danny's room," she interrupts.

Again, his voice falters in confusion.

"Under the bed," she elaborates, as if that will help. And continues watching, detached.

"Can we get out of here now? My parents could be back any minute."

The flickering light of the tv fills the lab, ominous in its glow. Jack hesitates. Maybe he's picked up on the subtext by now. Maddie can picture his eyes drifting from the staticy screen to the items in front of it, scattered across the table. He reaches out fro the shoebox sitting beside the tv. Taped to its front, written in the cursive, unmistakable scrawl of their son's handwriting, is a note that reads:

'If I Never Come Home'

"Maddie, what is this." Jack's voice is uncharacteristically heavy. Looking to her for guidance. For answers.

For once, she has none to give.

"Watch," Maddie whispers, still trapped by the screen. Automatic, her fingers hit the button.

Rewind.

With no other options to grasp at, he does.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

Watches as the kids approach the Portal.

"Aren't you curious?"

Watches as their son zips up the hazmat suit.

"Alright, I'm going in."

Watches as he disappears into the empty cavity of their greatest invention.

Click.

Watches as it thrums to life, with a scream.

"Da—Danny no!" Jack yells in tandem with the two remaining teens. He lurches forward, hand outstretched, to stop the agony onscreen. "He's not - when did he -"

"It's old, Jack," Maddie whispers. "From when the Portal started working."

Jack spins to stare at her. "You mean - Danny's the one who—" he's visibly struggling with the information, the same way she did, on her first viewing. "But—he never said—"

Right, Madie thinks. He never said anything. Jack's confusion is laughable, though. Why Danny never told them—that much is painfully clear.

"Guys?" Over the yelling and the panicking and the electric cackle from the Portal, their son's terrified voice cuts through the din. "G-guys help, what's happening?!"

Tucker and Sam are black silhouettes stumbling backwards from a swirling green glow, but they freeze and scramble to right themselves, lurching forward to catch someone as he stumbles through the gate.

Phantom - Danny - emerges from the portal, falling to his knees.

"…No," Jack says. Disbelief is thick in his voice. "That can't be… no."

Maddie lifts the remote.

Rewind.

A flash of light. A curdling scream. A shock of confusion, panic, scramble.

Danny Phantom stumbles from the portal.

Jack stares for a long time. Then he reaches out, snatching the lid of the shoebox for a second look at the evidence. The note, accusatory, stares back at them.

"This is how he tells us." Jack doesn't often whisper, but it seems like he can't do anything else. Her husband looks at the empty shoebox, the screen, the VCR. "Our son is Danny Phantom, and this is how he tells us. I…" he trails off.

Maddie almost can't believe it, how easily Jack arrives at the conclusion. It took her twelve viewings for her to wrap her mind around it, and it still hasn't really sunk in. But then, that's always been Jack's strong poing - those intuitive leaps of logic. Ones every scientist both loathed and envied.

"Did it kill him?" he moves seamlessly onto the next question that tripped her. Somehow, Jack's voice is even quieter this time.

Maddie shakes her head no. If they watch the video long enough, about ten minutes in, Danny manages to change his way back to human. If their invention did kill him, it wasn't permanent. Not that time, at least.

She's too close to thinking about it.

Rewind.

"But—" she can't stop Jack from thinking, though. He barrels on, heedless of breaking the fragile grasp Maddie has on her sanity. "But if all this time — Phantom—"

A hitch in the tape.

"We've been—"

Press play.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

"—Don't tell me we've been trying to waste our own kid—"

If Maddie weren't so detached, she might laugh. Waste. God, he can't even say it.

"Trying?" she asks instead. Bitter, the word sticks to her tongue.

She's not looking at the tape now. She's looking at him. And Jack, oh, Jack, he just stares down at her, a dark horror growing in his eyes.

He whips around to look at the bloodied weapons sitting at the base of the stairs.

Exactly where they left them two days ago, after that nasty ghost fight. When they came home to find a broken house, their daughter crying at the kitchen table, and their son just - gone.

"No." Jack backs up a step. "No no no no no no no—"

A flash of light. A curdling scream—

In an instant, Jack is moving. He snatches up weapons, whatever he can find, and bolts for the staircase, vaulting his way up to ground floor. Distantly, Maddie hears the doors slam. The RV thrumming to life. The screech of tires as Jack peels out of the driveway.

In the cold wake of his departure, Maddie turns back to the tv. She should go after him, she knows. But she's not quite done watching. Jack's always been a man of action, after all, but she's the analytical one, who studies, who marvels, who gathers the facts she sees.

Phantom, onscreen, slumps against his friends while he drips ectoplasm to the floor. He stares down at his white-gloved hands, his glowing green eyes wide in shock. Maddie wonders if he knew, then, what would become of him. What his parents, who raised him, who swore to protect him, would do.

She can't face those questions. Not yet. Not yet. Instead, she lifts the remote.

And rewinds.

A good scientist, a rational scientist, never draws conclusions while she's still gathering evidence. So as long as she's still watching—

A hitch in the tape. She's at the beginning. Maddie presses play.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

As long as she keeps watching, she doesn't have to do anything with this information. All she has to do is watch.

So she watches. She rewinds. And she plays. She can't look away—

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here—"

She doesn't dare.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down h—"

All she can do is rewind—

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let y—"

And rewind—and rewind—

"Mom and Dad would kill me if—"

Until she finds evidence contrary to her theory…

"Mom and Dad would kill me—"

Or she finds Its inevitable End.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you down here."

Rewind.

"Mom and Dad would kill me if they—"

Rewind.

"Mom—"

Rewind.

"Mom—"

Rewind.

"Mom—"

-

[AO3] [FFN]

#Danny Phantom #Ectober #EctoberWeek2020 #Rewind #Reveal Fic #Identity Reveal #Maddie Fenton #Jack Fenton #Character Death #sorry for the length #oneshot

[myelocin]

maybe we could have been it | akaashi keiji

synopsis: akaashi thinks of you, the faded photograph next to the ring with the bigger stone he didn’t need to spend a couple paychecks on, and the chocolate cake that reminded him of home. of you. (sidepiece to on the faded side of the photograph)

characters: akaashi keiji, you, mentions of miya osamu

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, post breakup

wc: 1500+

a/n: fam why did i write this i am in pain ;;;;;; all the same (plz i beg listen to it it’s the whole soundtrack to this whole story KJSDFSK)

sometimes, akaashi thinks, he kind of wants to do something stupid. 

he knows that if he really looks at things, it’s only just a matter of closing a notebook, ripping off a few pages, booking a ticket, and betting on adrenaline to give him the five second boost he needs to call up bokuto and ask for your address to fix things. 

but that isn’t the case, and the adrenaline is only waist level at best. akaashi knows he isn’t overwhelmed enough to pick up the phone and dial a familiar set of numbers. even when he does get to that point, adrenaline rises only towards chest level. he can still breathe, and with that breath akaashi knows his actions at this point will still be guided by reason.

so even if bokuto’s asking him if he’s heard from you lately, and the question of “how is she?” is at the tip of his tongue, when akaashi shifts he feels the water sway around his chest while the horizon before him is as clear as day. 

in the moment, he’s aware that if he stays and lets the waves rise, he’ll drown if he goes under. neither the rush nor adrenaline holds him under, and akaashi, in a way both dreads and praises the fact that his head is still above the water.

his fingers pause in place, and he thinks of the polaroid of you, the ring, and nara in his wallet. 

then he breathes, and it kind of aches, but he can still breathe. 

he can still reason. 

his heart clenches and he tries to tell himself it’s because of the nerves and the almost slip up of his crafted composure, and not because his heart is screaming for you.

bokuto stays silent on the line, so akaashi knows his clock is ticking. 

so “no,” akaashi would be the words he always hears himself reply, and he’d swallow the question he’s tried asking time and time again for months now back down just like that. “i haven’t heard from her.”

“that’s okay,” is the reply he gets, and from the tone of bokuto’s voice, akaashi knows there wouldn’t be an extension offered for the conversation. sometimes he thinks that if the world were to throw a lifeline at him, he would ignore rationality and ask for you. 

because for a while, he looked and listened for one. he looked at your profile, and counted the days where you were last active. listened for bokuto’s voice just with a bit more attention whenever he’d mention your name, and what you’ve been doing. 

just that lifeline, akaashi thinks to himself every time. if the world, or in this case, you, were to give him just that, he’d be on the next flight back to tokyo. 

then the world gave you happiness, he realizes. 

happiness that was manifested in the form of miya osamu, a few kind words that sent a tidal wave of everything good your way, and a bakery with your recipes right across the onigiri shop you found home in. 

the silence that follows, akaashi notes, is the kind that stretches like from the night that started your end.

because perhaps it was just borrowed time. 

the love between the both of you was as real as life, but a forever wasn’t guaranteed with just love and hope as armor. the reality of the fall out, had been there all along, akaashi realizes. initially it was a little hard to face, but he supposes that it’s difficult because it truly was love at its purest  form. 

love, in accordance to your story, had always been just an emotion that’s raw and so, so unapologetically beautiful to the point that it tore you open when reality came and announced how love alone wasn’t enough to satiate the way of the world.

so akaashi cries that night he finds miya osamu’s name, because like the heartbreak he felt when he parted with you, the emotion that announced its arrival in the moment, he realizes, is killing him all the same.

his finger hovers over the send button on the right side of his phone screen, right next to the congratulations that took a couple shots of the strong kind of liquor to type out. the faded photograph with the two people smiling in nara sits on the table next to the ring he finally bought without having to blow a couple of paychecks.

he knows that there’s no one to blame, so he downs another shot—squeezing his eyes at the burn that he tells himself he welcomes on the back of his throat.

the chocolate cake in spain doesn’t taste anything like yours, he smiles to himself. when akaashi closes his eyes, more tears prick at his eyes when he hears your voice muffled by the walls that separated the kitchen in the apartment from his office.

and perhaps that was already a way the universe foreshadowed the inevitable end of love, for the both of you. another shot downed, but despite the burn still present in his throat, he grabs the bottle and pours himself another. a couple smiles still stare at him, faded, from the photograph akaashi keeps his eyes trained at.

you probably smiled in the kitchen that day, akaashi thinks to himself. eyes sparkling, tongue poking out in concentration, and a radiance that hung around you because he knows that during the last few months of the relationship, that was really the only time he saw you blooming.

he hears your voice again, but he doesn’t make out what you say; he finds himself wincing at the realization that recalls the words written in his contract vividly instead.

that night akaashi keiji downs almost seven shots because it finally dawns on him that all this time he’s only been hearing you, and never took the time to listen.

so, congratulations, the screen on his phone reads, but even with the liquid confidence setting fire to his veins in the moment, he takes his phone in his hands and deletes the message instead. smiling at the chocolate cake in front of him, he foregoes the eighth shot in his glass, and takes a bite from the slice instead.

if he were a little more sober, akaashi knows he’d have wiped his face from the tears by now, but all he registers is the thought that he thinks he’s crying, because somewhere between the second and the third bite, he suddenly sees you; apron around your waist, oven mitts that looked a little too silly on your hands, and a bit of frosting that he remembers always found its way on your cheek no matter how careful you were in the process.

it doesn’t taste the same, he cries, but then cries harder because he doesn’t remember how your recipe even tasted in the first place.

but the smell of chocolate lingers in the fucking air, and if he closes his eyes he knows he’s going to think of home, and of you.

you, an apartment that was home for so many years, and a love that was kept alive because of borrowed time.

this it it, akaashi thinks, the smell of chocolate right under his nose.

this was home, he heaves, dropping the fork and hiding his face in his hands when the weight of the ending finally settles on his shoulders.

you were home, and you were love.

he cries harder, sounding a little more broken. the photograph remains still in its time; the people with the smiles changed, and the memory of nara remembered with a different kind of sentiment now.

so that night, akaashi turns off his phone, caps the bottle, pockets the photo and the ring, and gives the rest of the cake to his neighbor’s son who he remembered has a bit of a sweet tooth. he lays in bed with the image of you, a ring that didn’t look like the one hidden in his drawer, and the radiance he feels is now connected to the name miya osamu.

then he books a ticket.

a one way ticket headed to tokyo, because akaashi keiji supposes he doesn’t regret the time he spent with you.

so, when he finally settles on asking you how you’re doing—he smiles because you reply that you’re doing just fine. and the ring on your finger doesn’t fly past his line of vision, because he suddenly feels the lump in his throat again.

“four years in spain, huh?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“yeah. extended a year, i might be permanently transferring there in the future,” he replies, a statement he knows is only a lie, and this time he looks straight towards you and not at the wall behind you.

you smile. 

and you look happy, akaashi thinks.

“you went out of schedule,” he hears you laugh softly.

“i guess i did,” akaashi replies, laughing along to the irony of your words, before he finally says, “i’m sorry.”

 -

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #hq x reader #hq!! #hq x reader angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader angst #akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi keiji scenarios #akaashi keiji angst #akaashi keiji imagines #akaashi #akaashi x reader #akaashi scenarios #akaashi imagines #akaashi angst #akaashi x reader angst #haikyuu!! #haikyuu!! angst

[xjoonchildx]

guarded | jhs x reader | epilogue

summary: you’ve tried to separate yourself from your infamous crime family, but a new case has your carefully-constructed world crashing down around you.  now you have to figure out how to heal old wounds and handle the new man who enters your orbit.

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: mafia AU, E2L, slow burn, tsundere, smut

rating: 18+

word count: 934

A/N: thank you all so much for reading this story. please let me know how you feel about the ending!

as always -- i can’t go a single chapter without thanking @ladyartemesia​ @ppersonna​ @taetaewonderland​ and @hobi-gif​ for being amazing humans and just really good friends.  you guys are the best for real, for real.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

***********************

Someone really should have reminded Kim Taehyung he was posing for a mugshot, not a glamour shot.  His coy smirk practically jumps off the printed booking sheet in your hand.  

You roll your eyes as you tuck the paper back into the folder, weaving through the foot traffic until you find the courtroom you’re looking for.

The panic that flashes over Lee Hyejin’s features when you walk into the bond hearing is nothing short of gratifying.  

You take in her wide eyes and the sudden grey cast of her skin with complete satisfaction.  You make sure to shoot her a saccharine smile before taking a seat next to your handcuffed client.

“I’m going to need you to wipe that look off your face,” you say under your breath. The armed guard at Taehyung’s side looks away, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“What look?”

“That flirtatious look.  The judge won’t like it.”

He shoots you a look of genuine confusion.

“This is… just my face?”

“Fine,” you exhale with annoyance. “Just try not to look the judge directly in the eye, keep quiet and let me handle everything from here.”

“Well, I can definitely do that,” he answers with a lazy smile.

You scowl and he wipes his expression clean, looking down at his hands.

Hyejin, the poor dear -- is flustered.

Once the hearing gets rolling, she stammers her way through a ridiculous argument for holding Kim Taehyung without bond.  You very nearly do the polite thing and wait your turn, but then she has the nerve to suggest your client could have ties to organized crime in this city.

Honestly.

“Objection, your honor,” you announce, standing up from your seat.  “Are we going to deal in facts today or entertain rumors?  My client’s never even had a parking ticket and Ms. Lee wants to paint him as some kind of gangster?  That’s laughable.”

You narrow your eyes at Hyejin and she swallows so hard you can see the constriction of her throat from clear across the room.  

“Mr. Kim stands accused of wiretapping.  It’s not like he killed someone,” you huff.  

Well he probably has, but still.  

You’re making a point here, dammit.

“This is overreach,” you continue. “Though admittedly, I’m intrigued by this talk of organized crime.  I’d certainly be interested to know more about why Ms. Lee and her bosses seem so keen on keeping one accused hacker locked up when there are so many criminals running rampant on the streets.”

If Hyejin looked grey before, she looks positively casket-ready now.  She opens and shuts her mouth before taking a seat.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Ms. Kim,” the judge announces.  “Bond is typical in cases like these, and I do find it a bit curious that Ms. Lee’s office would seek to keep your client jailed.  I’m setting bond.”

You pack up your bag and brush past Hyejin’s table as you walk out of the courtroom.

“It was so good to see you,” you breathe, mustering the most insincere smile you can manage. “It’s been too long.  We should do drinks some time.”

She stares up at you with such wide-eyed horror you’re forced to smother a laugh.

You don’t wait for the pitiful bitch to choke out a response, turning on your heels and leaving her in the dust.

*******************************

“What’s the damage?” your brother asks when you breeze into his office a short while later.  

He’s in his usual stance at the window, looking out into the harsh sunlight that pours in at this hour of the morning.

“12 million won,” you reply, tossing your coat over a chair.  “Not too bad, if you ask me.”

Your brother could probably shake more than that out of his couch right now.

“Not bad at all,” Namjoon agrees. “Almost offsets the cost of the expensive new attorney I hired.”

You smirk at his jab, joining him at the window to bask in the warmth of the sunlight.

“Taehyung is downstairs with Yoongi and not in lockup, right?  You get what you pay for.”

Namjoon’s smile fades away to a more earnest expression when he turns to face you.

“You’re worth a hundred times that amount.”

His warm eyes travel down your face to your neck as light glints off the metal tucked into your blouse.  You flush, pulling your collar to try and conceal it.

Too late for that.

Namjoon reaches out to draw your collar back, fingers coaxing the metal chain out from underneath your silk shirt.  He holds the dog tags in his hand, face inscrutable as he reads the lettering.  

You straighten your spine and await whatever comes next.

“Are you happy?” he murmurs, eyes moving from the embossed lettering back to your face.

You meet his gaze head-on.  

“Happier than I’ve ever been.”

Namjoon nods as he tucks the tags back into your shirt and turns to look back at the skyline.

“When did you know?”

Your brother is silent for a moment, carefully considering his answer.

“Let me just say this Amsaja,” Namjoon starts,  “I put a lot of thought into assigning someone to protect you.  I was right to trust Hoseok with your safety.  I suspect I’m making the right call in trusting him with your happiness, as well.”

What about your happiness?

You bite back the words on the tip of your tongue.  That’s a different conversation for a different time.

“Thank you, Jaegyueo,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to your brother’s cheek.

You catch the smile that ghosts his lips in the reflection of the glass.

****************************

@saintjeonofbusan @lemonjoonah @illnevertrustmyselfagain @sunkissed725 @taetaewonderland @shadowhale @sugaminyoonjiji @jinhitwhore @trust-me-im-joly @daydreambrliever @jjeonjoon @ultraanonymousey @yoon-bug @multistantrash17 @poohsaidhi @alyboo-jpeg @sahmfanficbts @yoongissugarmommy @ppersonna @p-polaroid @vi-hoshi @stressedinmedschool247 @jgissle12 @ctvrty @btsnatalena @strawbewymiwk @stephleee @jalexa83 @livanthi @fantasybangtan @trviahope​ @mono-kookie@hauntedlilies @sugasaidbultaoreune @yeojaa @secret-alphabets @hodginss@parkjimin-persona​

#hoseok x reader #hoseok smut #bts mafia au #bts tsundere #ficswithluv #btswriterscollective #thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet

[instasiswetrust]

July Prompts, Day 5 - Camera

"You still kept this one?"

When Jonathan turns to look at him, Steve's holding a broken camera in his hands. It's the one he had broken after seeing the pictures Jonathan took of Nancy, cracked and missing a part of the casing.

"I figured I could get it fixed but then you guys got me a new one. Kind of forgot to get rid of it afterwards." He shrugs, going back to rifling through his cassette collection, trying to find the Motley Cure one.

"You mind if I take it?"

This time, when Jonathan turns to look at him he appears to be confused, maybe even curious. Steve just shrugs, trying for nonchalance. He's not sure how to explain why he wants to keep the camera, just knows that he feels like he needs to.

So he's relieved when, after a moment, Jonathan nods. He gives him instructions on where he can get it fixed, a few tips about taking pictures, and that's that.

Guess Steve owns a camera now. Fun times.

-*-

Bitterness.

That's what the first picture he takes makes him feel.

He had stared in the mirror, brown eyes taking in the aftermath of Billy Hargrove's anger, of two nights of restless sleep and nightmares that left the phantom taste of rot and ash on his tongue. Had stared, looking at the canvas of bruises, black and blue and purple.

Nebulae on ashen skin at 3 AM.

His fingers had been shaking, a hint of desperation in his movements, when he reached for the camera. The flash had reflected on the cracked bathroom mirror, the outcome of a previous panic attack, blinding him for a moment. The end effect had made his stomach churn when he saw it.

With his eyes scrunched closed and the bruises lit up by the light of the flash, he had looked so fragile. Vulnerable and in pain. The bags under his eyes so dark that they blended in with the bruises already there.

He hated the picture.

It was still tucked safely in between the yellowed pages of an old empty journal.

-*-

The second picture taken comes courtesy of Dustin.

He had spent a whole week locked up in his room, bitter and scared, too afraid to be alone but too tired to face the whispers that would undoubtedly follow him. Each time he closed his eyes he could see Billy's face. Twisted in anger, golden curls flying with the force of his punches, but there had been something in the depth of those blue eyes. Something like fear, like regret.

Something Steve had wanted to forget if only because he didn't think he could stand it if there was something more to Billy Hargrove than just all the fury.

On Saturday the doorbell had rung. Insistent and unrelenting, the shrill sound hadn't stopped until he had wrenched open the door, scathing words dying in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

"Mom made extra chicken pot pie because she knows it's your favorite." Dustin had said as soon as the door had opened, shouldering his way past Steve on his way to the kitchen. "And everyone's been worried about you so I figured it was about time to force you out of your self-enforced pity party."

"It's not a pity party..." He remembers himself murmuring, lips pursing into a pout as he followed the boy into the kitchen.

By the look Dustin threw him, it was obvious he saw right through his bullshit.

It had been later, stomach full for the first time in days, that the younger boy had spotted the camera he must've left on the coffee table at some point. Steve had been lazying on the couch, eyes closed and mind blessedly empty when the sudden flash of a camera had gone off, startling him.

"What the hell dingus?"

When he had opened his eyes, Dustin had been grinning wide, all boyish smugness. He had only given Steve a moment before the shutter had gone off again. And again. And again.

He had taken pictures until the camera had run out of film avoiding all attempts Steve had made to wrench the camera out of his hands. Despite the annoyance he had felt though, a smile had curled Steve's lips for the first time since they had made it out of the tunnels.

Looking back on the stack of Polaroids, most of them had ended up blurry and unfocused from the chase. Only that very first one he had kept. He had looked content faded bruises, and eyebags the only hints that not everything was okay but that maybe it was getting better.

Bitterness and Hope. Maybe he should start a collection.

-*-

The third picture doesn't even come from his camera at all.

"Wha-?"

Once the brightness of the flash cleared, Steve was turning to look at Nancy perched on the hood of Jonathan's car, his camera in her hands. She was smiling at him the same way she used to back when they had started dating, all dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes. She was even more beautiful now but she no longer his.

His chest ached with the knowledge. A quick jolt of pain.

It still didn't explain why she had just taken a picture of him.

"You should talk to them. If you miss them, that is." He didn't understand what she meant until the photo finished developing and she handed it to him.

She'd captured his right side in the frame, his gaze seemingly lost in a random point in the distance. At least, that's what he thought at first before he spotted the outline of a couple on the opposite edge of the frame. They looked a little blurry because of the distance but it was clear Steve's gaze was fixed on them. Longing was etched deep and clear on his features.

Maybe he should have stopped assuming that nobody was paying attention to him these days.

"Why would I talk to Tommy and Carol? They are assholes." It had come out a little too quickly, a little too guarded. An obvious lie.

"So were you but you changed." She gave him a soft but knowing look. Like she could see right through him. Maybe she could, he wouldn't put it past her. "Plus, you guys were friends since childhood weren't you? Those types of bonds aren't that easy to forget."

And he knew there was truth in her words but he felt scared.

Because although Steve was fine these days with no longer being considered King Steve, it was one thing to just passively lose popularity and another one to have Tommy and Carol spouting his secrets for everybody to hear.

Thing was, they hadn't done that yet. Even with Billy in the picture, they still hadn't.

"Maybe." And for a while that had been that.

Later that week he had dropped by Tommy's house. Tommy had begrudgingly accepted to talk after Carol needled him a little. They had talked and apologized, although it would take some time and effort before things between them resembled that of old.

Bitterness. Hope. Longing. Wonder what would join his collection next.

-*-

By the time the fourth polaroid joined the others in the old journal, his room was filled with dozens of pictures of his friends --his family-- hanging on strings over his head.

"I didn't peg you for a photographer, princess."

Billy had been standing in the middle of the room, looking at the motley array of pictures that littered the room. He had one in his hand, tugging surprisingly gently on the string so he could get a better look at it.

"Well I didn't peg you for an idiot but somehow you're in my room instead of the bathroom." But the heat that normally would accompany his words hadn't been there, the corner of his lips curling into a replica of a smile.

He remembers walking further into the room until he had stood next to the blonde, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat of his body. At the time he hadn't thought much of the heat on his cheeks, attributing it to his embarrassment when he spotted the picture in Billy's hand.

It depicted Steve and Jonathan, both of them either high or drunk. He had been draped over Jonathan's side, pressing a lipstick-covered kiss to his cheek. Dark red lipstick and black eyeshadow to match, to be exact. Probably high, that's the only way he would've allowed Nancy to put any of her makeup on him.

"Black really doesn't fit you, pretty boy." Billy had teased him, all wide smirks and tongue between his teeth.

"Oh shut the fuck up, Billy." He had scoffed, punching his arm. "I looked damn fine."

And the way Billy had laughed, loud and honest and surprisingly bright. Steve couldn't help himself. He wasn't sure why he had found it so important at the moment but it had been, so he had grabbed his camera and snapped a photo.

Billy had stopped laughing at once, but at least he hadn't tried to take the photo.

It would be two weeks later when Steve realized what it was that he had seen at that moment. Another week before he had scrawled Love at the bottom of the polaroid and tucked it safely with the others in the journal.

-*-

The fifth photo just cements Steve's resolve to never show anybody the polaroids tucked inside the old journal.

"B...B-Billy fuck... baby please. I can't- I can't. Please."

Steve bit down on his bottom lip so hard that he had tasted blood. It had been impossible to quieten his sounds and focus on rolling his hips at the same time, especially when Billy seemed intent on covering his neck with as many lovebites as he could.

"Gonna come for me, baby? Come on my cock all pretty?"

And, oh god, Steve had whined.

High, and breathy, and so fucking lewd. Billy hadn't even touched him and he had been so close already, desperately chasing an orgasm that had been denied twice already. His eyes had been closed, head thrown back as pleasure mounted, dragging him even closer.

If he had opened them, maybe he would've seen what Billy was doing.

"Come for me, baby."

He vaguely registered the flash of a camera going off at the same time tremors overtook his body, thighs shaking with the force of his orgasm.

Later, when they were curled up on the couch going through the remains of a pizza, Billy had handed him the polaroid. Lust had been scrawled at the bottom of the photo.

"For your collection." Was what he had said.

-*-

If somebody were to ask what his favorite polaroid was, Steve thinks he would have to choose number 6.

He had caught Billy looking at his chest in the mirror, where the pale white scars twisted across the expanse of his chest. After the Mind Flayer, he had taken to wearing his shirts buttoned all the way. Even in bed with Steve, it was rare that he ever took off his shirt.

The look on his boyfriend's face then had been so miserable. All the iron defenses stripped away until only the fragile vulnerability underneath remained. It had pushed him to step into the room, wrapping his arms loosely around Billy's waist.

For a second Billy had tensed up, muscles going taut, eyes widening a fraction before he relaxed into Steve's arms with a sigh. The fragility had still been there but his roughened edges had softened some.

"What's on your mind, baby?" He had whispered, pressing a kiss to a bare shoulder.

He hadn't gotten an outright answer at the time but each kiss Billy pressed against his lips had been stained with a restless kind of desperation. Like he had wanted to etch each kiss on his skin and remember them forever, just in case he were to lose it all again.

And yeah, Steve knew exactly how that felt.

"Billy, I'm not going anywhere, okay?" The words had been muttered between slow kisses, reassuring and gentle. Silently begging Billy to believe in his words. "This? Us? I want this to be forever. Even if it's hard, or we have bumps along the way, I want to stay by your side."

Steve had gotten an idea then. With a quick *I'll be back* he slipped back to his room and grabbed his camera, giving it to Billy once he was back. His boyfriend had been understandably confused.

"Um, so I know this probably sounds lame and you can say no but just- Hear me out okay." He had taken a deep breath to try and battle the blush coloring his cheeks. "I was thinking that, as a... promise or something, we could take a photo each year. Just as a reminder. Of us. If you want, I mean, it's kind of a dumb id-"

Warm lips pressed against his, effectively shutting him up.

"You're a dork, Stevie." But Billy had still pointed the camera at the cracked mirror and taken the photo before dragging Steve back to bed.

#july prompts #stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #billy hargrove #harringrove #drabbles #yes i know this is late but i couldn't stop writing okay

[storyofmychoices]

First Impressions

[Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley Masterlist]

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley (OC) Other Characters (mentioned): Jackie Varma, Unnamed MC Book: Open Heart (Book 1, Chapter 1) Word Count: <1,400

Prompts: polaroid @choicesaprilchallenge2021; for anon who asked “First impression of each other? Was it love at first sight?” For Bryce x Olivia [Short answer: yes!]

Synopsis: Bryce and Olivia meet for the first time in the Edenbrook locker room on the first day of their intern year. Neither of them expected to feel what they felt about someone they didn’t even know yet.

Her smiling face stared back up at her from her new hospital ID badge. “Doctor Olivia Hadley”, she traced the first word with her finger, still in disbelief. It didn’t feel real. She was a doctor. All of her hard work and dedication had finally gotten her where she wanted to be: helping people. She had dreamed of being a doctor her entire life. Edenbrook was a big step up from diagnosing and treating her bears and dolls as a child. 

She was a doctor. She had made it! A little squeal slipped from her lips; her hand quickly clapped over her mouth, hoping no one had heard it. 

Her embarrassing slip seemed to go unnoticed. Two doctors in their underwear bickered while talking to another doctor who had just arrived; her scrubs were already soiled from triaging a patient on the way in. 

Olivia's gaze settled on the male doctor who stood almost proudly in his boxers, no modesty or shame. His confidence was overwhelming. Her heart fluttered as her she took him in.

His laughter was infectious. It melted through her nerves and worries. Something about it was calming. Behind the boisterous cock-sure tone, there was a genuine joy in its melody. His brown eyes glowed with a beautiful fire. It was a rare sight to see. 

The muscular doctor argued cheekily with a gorgeous female doctor. A pang of disappointment filled her as she listened to their spirited teasing Olivia wondered if they were a couple already or if they were on their way to it. She wasn't sure why she cared. She wasn’t there to engage in a fling; she was there because her life’s purpose had always been to help and to heal. She reminded herself that she didn’t even know his name, so how could she already feel for someone she hadn’t met. She thought herself better than falling for a party boy. Sure, he looked like his stomach and chest had been carved from caramel-colored marble and every inch of it was real and not photoshopped. She knew that meant nothing; although, her whole body warmed at the thought.   

Olivia took a deep, focused breath, turning back to her locker. He was so out of her league; there wasn’t even any use fantasizing about it (even though she could already tell it would be a fantastic fantasy).

She took a polaroid photo of herself as a child wearing a lab coat, dressed as a doctor for Halloween, and tacked it up to remind her how far she had come. If that little girl could see her now; a soft smile grew on her face at the memory and all those memories she had made on her journey to get here.

The playful bantering of the three doctors seemed to die down. She could hear the two female doctors' conversations fading as they left the locker room. She tossed her hair behind her shoulders and readjusted her lab coat. Taking one last look in her little mirror, she shut her locker quietly, hoping to slip out unnoticed. 

“Hi.” His cool voice greeted her, as the still shirtless doctor leaned casually against the lockers. He gave her his most charming grin. If this were a cheesy romantic comedy, his teeth would have been sure to sparkle.

Olivia shook her head, trying to remember what words were as his gaze drew her deeper. “Uh, hi.” 

“I'm Bryce.” He smirked, stepping closer and offering her his hand. 

She swallowed hard, reluctantly accepting his gesture.  “Liv. Olivia. I’m a pediatric intern. Pleased to meet you.”

He turned her hand in his own, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. Her skin was soft and inviting. He didn’t want to let go. His voice was smooth and sultry, “the pleasure is all mine.” 

She pulled her hand back, trying to hold in her slight scoff. She had heard him use that same line on one of the other doctors just a few minutes earlier. She cleared her throat. Weakly, she asked, “do you mind putting a shirt on?”

He raised his brow questioningly but threw his surgical scrubs on. “Better?”

“Immensely,” she rolled her eyes, unamused. 

“I aim to please,” he winked, moving closer once more. His gaze settled on hers as if he had something more to say, but no words came.  

The fire in his eyes drew her in like a moth to a flame. She had thought seeing him clothed would break the illusion and free her from his pull; but, she was caught in his gaze like she assumed so many others had probably been, completely enraptured by his beauty. For a moment, she forgot why she was there and the promise she had made to herself and her parents: no first-day flings. A blissful warmth washed over her as his smile widened. She wondered what he was thinking and if he felt the same odd stillness and warmth that she did standing there with him. It was peaceful, a quiet hope-filled moment with a whispered promise of something she couldn’t quite understand. Her eyes closed as her smile grew too wide, breaking the spell. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Olivia took a step back. "I should—" Her fingers pointed over her shoulder to leave, but her feet stood still. 

As if coming out of a trance himself, he shook his head letting the locker room shift back into focus. He noticed for the first time that all of the other interns had since left. "Me too." 

"We don't want to be late," Olivia lied; everything in her wanted nothing more than to stay in his warm glow. 

"Right." He agreed, turning back to his own locker and shoving his stuff in swiftly. He had planned to be the first surgical intern at the meeting to make a good first impression, but here he was still there with her. He wasn't sure how much time had passed or how he so easily let it slip away from him. "See you later, Liv?"

"I hope so," Olivia admitted softly, attempting to temper her smile. She was certain she looked like a bushing schoolgirl with a new crush.

"Until then."

Something about the quiet doctor pulled him into her. He first noticed her when her little squeal drew his focus momentarily. She was so happy to be there; it was endearing. He had seen her sneak a peek of his features earlier when he and Jackie were talking to the hopeful diagnostic intern. Her blushing cheeks were adorable. He had to know her name and why he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when there were two stunning female doctors shirtless in front of him. 

As she moved to organize her locker, he snuck behind it. His heart beat a little faster as she tossed her hair back behind her shoulders, readjusting her lab coat. He waited patiently for her to notice him; but she didn’t. Not until she shut the locker. 

He cringed at himself at his cheesy hello and the awkward start to their conversation. She didn't seem to care for his state of undress. He was taken aback when she had asked him to put a shirt on, but he complied not wanting to let her go yet.

He drifted closer to her without thinking. He hadn't intended to stay like this, trapped in her gaze; however, there was something about the tenderness of her eyes that kept him there. It was comforting, like the warm breeze off the cool ocean on a hot summer day. Home wasn't a concept he had much faith in lately, but if he had to label it with one word, that's what this moment felt like, what she felt like—home. He laughed at himself for even thinking such a thought. 

She was just a beautiful woman with kind eyes. What made her so different? He tried to ignore the feeling, but it only grew the longer they stayed there. He didn't want the moment to end, but he knew it had to. He was grateful when she pulled away first, reminding them both they had somewhere they needed to be. 

Bryce watched her walk away, hoping for a reason he didn't yet understand, that he would see the pediatric intern again, and sooner rather than later. There was something about her that he needed more of.

Perma tags: @lilyoffandoms ; @raleighcarrera ; @mfackenthal ; @the-soot-sprite ; @virtuallytakenby ; @zeniamiii ; @whimsicallywayward15; ; @xjustin-ethansgirliex ; @caseyvalentineramsey; @trappedinfanfiction; @anotherbeingsworld​ ;  @tyrils-star ; @arnikki-2406 ; @princess-geek ;  @katrinegrey​ ; @lucy-268​ ; @schnitzelbutterfingers​ ; @gardeningourmet​

Bryce //  Open Heart Tags:  @thearianam​  ; @burnsoslow​ ; @mvalentine​  ; @rookie-ramsey​ ; @missmiimiie​;; @jamespotterthefirst​ ; @adrianadmirer​ ; @bitchloveskcbaseball​ ; @nyastarlight​ ; @doriansapprentice​ ; @brycesgirl​; @bratzlahela​; @ofpixelsandscribbles​;  @superharriet​ ; @loveellamae

#bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #open heart #fan fiction #bryce x mc #olivia hadley #bryce x olivia

[staycult]

highschool!jisung as your boyfriend

pairing — gender neutral reader x jisung

genre — fluff / bullet scenario / friends to lovers

word count — 1.6k

enjoy!

so

u and jisung had been friends for quite some time now

ever since highschool started probably

u guys were in the same friend group

you were always with him during lunch

and u guys go home together bcs ure practically neighbors

“[y/n]! smile!” he said as he pulled out his favored polaroid camera

as you were about to turn your head around you heard a loud click, coming from the camera

a flash of light blinded your eyes

so you tried to cover it

“hey! i wasnt ready!” you pouted, giving jisung a light slap in the arm

he stuck his tongue out to mock your reaction and pulled out the film from his camera

“you look ugly” jisung snorted, fanning the film

“shut up and start moving!” you rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand to make him walk faster

bcs guys were about to go home

“do you want to stop by at the park first?” jisung offered

ofc u cant resist him

his presence always make u feel at ease

“buy me ice cream then let’s go” you bargained, earning an eye roll from him

“Two ice cream cones please!” you requested, giving the money to the cashier. you tapped your finger on the cold surface while your other armed propped your chin. jisung on the other hand was shuffling through his notebook filled with polaroid pictures that he took with your friends.

“stop staring at my pictures, ji” you laughed while grabbing your cone from the man in front of you and giving the other cone to jisung. “keep staring and you’ll fall for me” you added as you licked your ice cream. he clicked his teeth, “ew, you wish”

both you and jisung walked around the park, still in your school uniforms. the park is the place where you and your friends hang around when you guys have time. the slide and the swing are your most favorite part.

you sat down in the swing and tapped the other seat to motion jisung to sit down as well. “look, the sun is setting!” you pointed as you finished your cone. you looked over to jisung who was his camera pointed at you for the nth time. but this time, you managed to strike a pose in front of his polaroid camera. his cheeks can be seen from behind, obviously smiling at the sight.

days went by

you and jisung had been hanging out in the park swing almost every day

just the both of you

watching the sunsets and taking pictures

you noticed that he only takes random pictures of you but when youre with friends, they need to ask first before jisung would take a picture

he claims that your face is funnier with stolen shots

ofc u believed him

he is your best friend after all

the school year is about to end

and your music and arts teacher is talking about your final project

which was to write a song or poem, draw a portrait or make a poster

with a special meaning behind it

you almost ripped your hair out of frustration when you tried to compose a song or draw

so u went for a simple poster

you and your friends were comparing your final outputs in the cafeteria

“come on, show us yours!” your friends encouraged you

“ahh, it’s really ugly im not even good at these kinds of shit!” you cursed, showing it to them anyway

“seriously? it’s good! youre like jisung. god, both of you say you did bad but it’s not!” you friend said while eyeing your poster

“really? jisung i want to see yours!” you said while grabbing some of your friend’s food

“no” he said, sticking a tongue out to mock you

“why not?” you replied while pouting

both of you bickered for atleast 3 minutes

saying lots of ‘no’s’ and ‘why not’s’

he had enough of your shit

and pulled you out of the cafeteria

holding his notebook, backpack and a ukelele

jisung was grabbing you by your wrist until you arrived at the school’s rooftop. you didn't have the time to respond at his sudden action.

“ouch! what was that about?” you said once he lets go of your wrist. “you want me to show you my output right? well here it is. listen.”

you were taken aback by his words, did he really get annoyed by your previous bickering? and why are we on a roof top anyway????

jisung grabbed his ukelele and opened his notebook, which was filled with polaroid pictures of you that was taken over the school year and years before that.

“it’s called hello stranger,” he spoke and started strumming on his ukelele

“The moment I felt like our eyes met

my body moved all on its own

Movin’, movin’, movin’, movin’, movin’

The closer we get the more I think

about what it is I’m feeling

My mind is filled with question marks

I can’t see anyone

around us anymore, you’re just growing more clear

Everything on this road

is blurred and faded out except for you

I’m filled with nothing but curiosity about who you may be

It’s like I’m approaching you drawn by something I can’t even know

I won’t beat around the bush, my subconscious is pushing straight forward

having me walk as it pleases without a single thought

Ah, a new wind is blowing

Where could it have come from?

It’s strange, but it’s not cold

Before I know it my feet are moving, following the wind

I take my hands out of my pockets

Hello Stranger, I keep being drawn to you

Growing closer

to you without a single thought

I’m curious, more and more and more as time passes,

why am I like this? Who are you to do this to me?

Stranger

Nana nanana nana

Nana nanana nana

Closer

Hello Stranger, who are you to do this to me?

I can see in you the things that I myself am lacking

I try yelling out to you the things I had just yelled into empty space

The things I didn’t have, that I was missing before I met you,

all of these feelings, every moment

my mind is filled with exclamation points

I can’t see anyone

around us anymore, you’re just growing more clear

Everything on this road

is blurred and faded out except for you

Something’s different about you, but I’m not sure what

I think the light approaching me now must be you

Even if I look away I can still see your afterimage,

you never leave my sight, who are you to do this to me?

Ah, my feet are moving, following this new wind

I take my hands out of my pockets

Hello Stranger, I keep being drawn to you

Growing closer

to you without a single thought

I’m curious, more and more and more as time passes,

why am I like this? Who are you to do this to me?

i love you”

it’s been weeks since you and jisung last spoke and since his sudden confession

you were about to tell him how you felt, too

how he makes you happy these past few days

to the point where you were falling for him too

but he ignored you

was it because he felt awkward?

or scared?

confusion was taking over you

and you know damn well youre gonna have to take measures into your own hands

so you came up with a plan to atleast get him to talk to you

“come on! just say i wont be there” you begged your friend. “fine. so roof top it is?” you squealed and gave your friend a hug. plan was to make your friends invite jisung at the same place he confessed on only to see youre the only one there

you grabbed your backpack since you had a vacant class and went to the rooftop to prepare. you knew jisung had a vacant class too, so you were hopeful he’s going to drop by.

“hi, i like you too” you practiced “no, too awkward” you ran your hands through your hair in frustration. “hey jisung! will you vincent van gogh out with me?” you repeated with hand motions this time. “god no” you mentally slapped yourself because of the cringe

“jisung, i like yo-” you repeated. you felt someone hug you from behind, “you do?” his husky voice sent shivers down to your spine as he hugged you even tighter.

“i-i do” you admitted, removing his arms so you can face him properly. “i really really do, i cant stand you not talking to me.” you burried your head to the crook of his neck.

“im sorry, baby. i didnt know how to handle rejection yet” he let out a low laugh, earning a laugh from you too. he snaked his arms around you and swayed you back and forth. humming the tune of the song he composed.

“youre mine now, are you?” he spoke, kissing your forehead as you gave him a nod.

bf jisung would mean

A VERY PLAYFUL RELATIONSHIP

SERIOUSLY

the confession may be soft and cuddly

but after like 2 days

yall are like best friends again

but with a mixture of sweetness

things never really changed

but you were still glad

love letters and songs !!!!!

lots and lots of kisses

cheek, forehead, chin, shoulder kisses

you name it

he would gently cup your face while doing so

he likes teasing you

but u tease him back

ends up with him being all pouty

will help u out with homework

ice cream and park swing dates

would literally take polaroid pictures of both of you

the ones he took before yall got together is displayed in his room

on the back of his phone

and the rest, he keeps it in his notebook

which was filled with songs about you

will sing you to sleep

will hold your hand literally every where

“baby, im the luckiest to have you”

author's note —

just imagine it's the slow version of hello stranger ok ALSO i want jisung to be my bf like ??

#stray kids oneshot #stray kids angst #stray kids au #stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids imagines #skz oneshots #skz au #skz scenarios #skz jisung #stray kids jisung #jisung imagines #jisung smut #jisung #jisung scenarios #jisung oneshots #stray kids han #han jisung #han smut #han fluff #han angst #han imagines #han jisung soft icons #han jisung smut #han jisung imagines #han jisung scenarios #han jisung angst #highschool au #jisung fluff #jisung angst