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#i might still turn this into a proper fic
aziraphales-library · 11 hours
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Any fics added to the 'mods favourites' tag after season 2? 😉
I'm going to tell on myself here, but I haven't actually read loads of post-series two fics! The ones I have read and loved can probably already be found on our #good omens s2 tag, but I will take this opportunity to add them to the #mod faves tag...
A Proper Apology by cyankelpie (G)
A series of phone calls following the end of season two, in which an angel learns to apologize.
I'll Wait by CopperBeech (T)
After that final, awful kiss, after Aziraphale conquers his last moment of hesitation, the rift between angel and demon seems bottomless. They spent centuries talking past each other and kept it up right to the last minute. They won't find their way back to one another in one glib resolution. But we know it's not over. With Heaven and Earth dividing them, there's time to consider all the unsaid things. And there's still an angel in the bookshop.
Not for All My Little Words by mia_ugly, soft_october (E)
Aziraphale has read every book in his shop at least once. He has reread some of his favored volumes dozens of times, has memorized whole great swaths of them. If his own words are insufficient to convince Crowley of his sincerity, then perhaps the words of others can! (He might have the decency to ask the books what they thought of this plan. The books had been watching the two of them for over a hundred years, and certainly had a great deal to say on the matter. But Aziraphale neglects to consult them, and thus will be very unprepared for what happens next.) Back on earth, Aziraphale tries to apologize.
Where The Furniture Used To Be by Magpie_BKK (T)
The Bentley has mysteriously brought Crowley back to central London, just as an old friend turns up at the bookshop. But not everything is as it appears, and Crowley finds himself on the run with an amnesiac angel, trying to unlock his memories along the way.
Drinking Buddies and Diaries by dove_dove (NR)
“I read the books about you,” Muriel said matter-of-factly. Crowley wasn’t following. “The books about me?” “The letter books to Aziraphale’s friend Diary? You must know them. They must be an angel, but I don’t think I’ve ever met them before.” Crowley coughed heavily. “You’ve read Aziraphale’s diary?”
And of course, the infamous post-series two must-read...
Factory Settings by Anonymous (T)
Crowley gets reinstated as an angel.
- Mod D
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Hi! Please can you write a lando meet-cute where the reader gets a flat tire and is standard somewhere, and lando sees her and helps. She doesn’t know who he is and he loves that and they just hit it off straight away. Maybe he like gives her his jacket bc she’s cold and stuff whilst he fixes the car. Just fluff I guess🥰 this will probably be short haha
"I'm an Independent Woman" "I Can See That" - LN
I know you want cute fluff, and you're going to get it but I have to add in the tiniest little bit of like sass. But LOTS of fluff, promise. Also I might...be willing to do a part 2 if people want. IDK if you will but maybe.
Warnings: hungover/drunk driving (I'm adding this after someone did point out in the replies this might be controversial or upsetting, but I apologise to anyone who read this fic before I've added this warning as it hadn't crossed my mind to add it initially)
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Driving along in her beat up poor little Peugeot 106, it's just her luck that on a day so cold that the weatherman said "it's too cold for snow" that she'd get a puncture on a random road in the middle of nowhere.
She's on her way home from her brother's house warming party yesterday, so she's already feeling pretty rough.
"Fucking puncture...really?" Y/n groans kicking the tyre before trying to call her brother since she can't possibly change a tyre.
But thanks to being in the middle of nowhere, she doesn't have a single bar of signal. Meaning she's going to have to approach this all on her own.
"Ahhh...no." Y/n whines feeling like having a full tantrum because her brother and sister-in-law decided the only way to give them a proper house warming would be to get absolutely bladdered. So she's looking rough and the last thing she needed is to be stranded and attempting to change her tyre.
She does manage to get the spare tyre out and all the tools necessary since her dad has always made sure she's got everything she needs in her boot should such an event happen.
Now admittedly, she starts crying, clouding her vision as she tries to use the wheel jack to get the car up. The hangover and the cold is getting to her and figuring out the wheel jack is just adding to her misery.
It's only when a wave of nausea hits her that she jumps up sprinting to the ditch on the other side of the car, her stomach lurching and a significant amount of semi-digested alcohol reappearing. The taste alone making her gag yet again and more comes up.
"Ehhh...are you ok?" A voice asks suddenly making her jump enough that she nearly ends up in the puddle of her own sick, only narrowly dodging it as she grips her car. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
The amusement in his tone is very evident and y/n turns around glaring, though admittedly even in her hungover, nauseous state she can't deny the man is gorgeous.
"No, it's ok. I'm fine." Y/n murmurs while he nods and a silence falls for a moment.
"Do you need some help?"
Y/n pauses trying to get her brain to clear of fog and figure out how he could help her.
"Oh-with the tyre. Oh well, I think I've got it. I mean I was just getting the jack up." Y/n explains moving around on very wobbly legs.
Should she even be driving? Is she still drunk? Maybe for both is her conclusion. One thing is for certain, she shouldn't be trying to change a tyre right now.
"Do you want some help?" The man asks changing his question from need to want. "I'm pretty good with cars."
Considering her options, there's no lower form that he can possibly see her in. She looks rough, she's in a hoodie and joggers, both borrowed from her brother. He caught her being sick in a ditch and she can feel the stickiness of her tears drying on her face.
"I mean even if you steal my shit heap of a car. I don't think anything can make this day any worse." Y/n states while the stranger smiles a little. "I'm y/n, just so you have a name to tell people when you relay this story. I know I would."
"Lando. Nice to meet you." The brunette nods holding out his hand to shake hers which she does before they move around the car and she catches sight of the very expensive looking sports car that is pulled up in front of her own.
"Oh fuck...if that's your car I have nothing to worry about when it comes to stealing mine." Y/n murmurs earning a small laugh as the man crouches to jack the car up a bit more. "I could do it myself. I am an independent woman."
No question. Her dumbass is still drunk. She definitely should not be trying to drive right now.
"I can see that." Lando nods while y/n looks at him for a moment while he is focused on looking at the tyre.
"Sorry."
Lando looks at her again, clearly very much amused.
"I'm going to change this and I'm going to give you a ride to wherever you need to get to because I don't think you should be behind a wheel." Lando states with a very kind smile while y/n sighs softly feeling like this man is already being too kind to her.
"I think it's better if I just shut up." Y/n murmurs while sitting down, leaning against the door and watching Lando make changing a tyre look significantly easier than she was going to make it look. All while she pulls her knees to her chest and rests the side of her head on top of her knees as she watches him.
"Alright, you're all set." Lando smiles once he's done while she manages a weak smile of gratitude for him. "Are you ok?"
"I think so." She nods softly before swallowing then smiling when he offers her both his hands to help her up to her feet. "Thank you. It probably would've taken me an hour to change that myself."
"It's fine. It was pretty obvious you needed some help." Lando chuckles then sighing. "Do you want to grab anything you need from the car and I'll give you lift?"
"Yeah, I'll get that." She nods moving to open the car to grab her bag and jacket before locking the car. "Thank you-again."
"You can stop thanking me." Lando smiles as he opens his passenger door for her. "I'm happy to help."
Her face flushes far too easily and she climbs into the car trying to use her jacket to hide it as he closes the door and moves around the bonnet to get in the driver's seat.
There's a bit of silence for a while before y/n remembers she needs to give him a place to take her.
"Ummm...if you go to Goldworths Park and I'll direct you from there." Y/n murmurs earning a nod from the brunette. "So...do you worth with cars? Like a mechanic?"
Lando had figured she hadn't recognised him but if he did have any doubts he's not got them now.
"I work with cars, but I'm actually a driver." He explains making her look at him, definitely confused.
"Like a taxi driver."
Now that nearly makes Lando snort from laughter. He doesn't feel any point in hiding his profession. This girl has already somewhat can't him in the feels from just how funny she is. Even if he's sort of laughing at her more than with her. It's just the unfiltered thoughts and comments that are so funny, although he's almost certain they're entirely because of anything other than she's clearly still very much drunk from whatever she was drinking for.
"No. Have you heard for Formula 1?"
"Yes, they race around-oh fuck. Oh fuck...no god, please tell me you are not a formula 1 driver. Please tell me I did not look so pathetic about changing a tyre in front of a formula 1 driver." Y/n groans sinking down into the seat despite her seatbelt trying to keep her in place. "Oh god, and I didn't even recognise you! Christ, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine, honestly it's fine. It's nice to just meet someone on the side of the road, help them and not have them treat me any different than they would any other stranger."
"Well usually I'd say I need to repay someone for their help. But I don't really know how I could possibly try to repay you for literally rescuing me." Y/n sighs making Lando smirk a little as he looks forward but she bites her tongue to stop her curiosity from asking what he's smirking about.
"I'm sure I could think of something. Might have to get your number so when I think of what repayment I want, I can contact you." Lando states unknowingly making y/n's mouth dry out. Is he flirting with her? Or is this the alcohol still working it's magic in making her brain incapable of working properly?
But eventually she manages to find her voice again.
"Yeah, eh yeah I can give you my number." She nods swallowing back the dryness to the best of her ability.
Lando suddenly picks up his phone unlocking it with Face ID before handing it over to the young woman.
"Just add yourself."
Y/n bites her lip for a moment being quite nervous to have such access in someone's phone. Especially someone who is almost certainly told to not be so eager to share something that has to have private information on it.
What really surprises her is Lando doesn't seem to have all that many contacts. He has a lot compared to her but she expected there to be a lot more.
"I'm going to save myself under a name that isn't my name so you have to try to figure out which contact I am to get the repayment."
"You are going to make me work to find you in my contacts?" Lando laughs clearly more than amused by the whole idea of her making it a little hard.
"Only because you arrived at the worst possible moment to see me spewing my stomach up." Y/n murmurs still completely embarrassed about the whole situation. "Trust me to meet some rich man in the worst state I've been in for years...I'm going to kill my brother."
"Oh so this is your brother's fault?" Lando questions in amusement.
"Yes! He is a bad influence. The man buys a house, has a house warming and try to kill me with alcohol poisoning by letting me drink the better part of a bottle of vodka and a third of a bottle of rum."
"You definitely should not have been driving." Lando laughs shaking his head but there's a slight tone in his voice that suggests he really means it.
"No. Probably how I got the bloody puncture." Y/n sighs while typing her number and coming up with a name that will probably make her easier to find than if she had bothered to put her actual name.
They manage to shift the conversation and Lando gets her talking a bit more about her life, they get to the point in the journey where she begins directing him til they get to her apartment.
"Well thanks for the tyre change, the rescue and the lift home. When you find my number and I've hopefully recovered." Y/n smiles before she looks at him for a moment. "Really, thank you. It is very nice of you and you really didn't have to do it."
"No. I didn't have to." Lando smiles then shrugging. "You're welcome. I got your number out of it and a repayment of my choosing-once you've recovered of course."
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jl-micasea-fics · 10 months
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I Really F**king Like You | bc
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↳ Tinder matched and subsequently ghosted by the hot guy that lives across from you, you’re mostly resigned to singleton life, dejected and somewhat fed up. That is, until a screwed up delivery turns things around, in the most unexpected of ways.
↳ Bang Chan x female reader
↳ 10.7k
↳ Strangers to lovers, DILF/single dad Chan, neighbours au, online dating au, romance, angst with a happy ending, eventual smut
! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !
「© August 2022, reposted May 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」
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Flat 2.
As in, the accommodation between flats one and three.
As in, the residence opposite yours.
As in, the living space occupied by him.
You’d had a good day, up until this point. Work had been relatively peaceful, save for that one particularly stubborn customer that simply couldn’t grasp the concept of needing proof of purchase for a refund.
You suppose that in this moment, you know how that customer had felt. Looking down at the neatly strung brown paper parcel in your hands, you’re confused, concerned, and more than a little annoyed.
The label on the box reads, stark and clear, ‘Copper Court, Flat 2’. Yet here you are, having retrieved it from your pigeon hole; and your pigeon hole most certainly isn’t labelled ‘Flat 2’.
Your first thought is to shove the parcel in his pigeon hole, and you would, were it not already stuffed full to the brim with letters and magazines, spam leaflets from the local takeaway offering twenty percent off pizzas on a Tuesday.
A good neighbour would just take it up to Flat 2. A good neighbour would empty the pigeon hole of its current postal nightmare and take that up too, hand delivering it with a smile.
But here’s the thing.
You’ve been making an active point of avoiding the guy from Flat 2. Whether it’s leaving ten minutes earlier for work or opting to take the stairs to the third floor rather than risking inescapable metal confinement via the elevator, the sudden decline in your once frequent run-ins is no accident.
And really, you don’t think you can be blamed for that. If someone had told you three weeks ago that you’d be inexplicably Tinder matched with the guy living opposite you, only to be stood up on the night of your first date and subsequently ghosted, you’d be loath to believe them.
But that’s exactly what happened.
You hadn’t known of his closeness, at first. Indeed, at first, it was as ordinary a back and forth as with any other guy you’d matched with; the routine flirt and tentative banter, testing and exploring one another to see if you did indeed match as the software so claimed. The realisation was a gradual process. You’d catch sight of him in the hall, around the building, when taking the bins out and so on, and his face began to inspire a desperate familiarity in you, until the penny eventually dropped.
Still, ever aware of coming on too keenly, you kept the revelation to yourself, wondering if he too might smile at you long enough one day in passing to put two and two together, to realise you were the girl he’d just texted ‘good morning, sweetheart’.
Bang Christopher Chan grew on you too quickly, if you’re to be truthful about it.
It was easy to talk with him, and you spent many a consecutive hour doing just that, hooked to your phone awaiting the next message. You immediately liked the fact that the conversations could be nothing deeper than pizza topping preferences or most favoured emojis, yet could just as readily divert to politics, issues dear to your heart or his. Indeed, it was a bonus that you never once felt as though your values might be compromised, if you were to pursue something more. His gentle nature was apparent in most everything he said, in the way he put things. The kind of guy to text in full sentences and use proper punctuation, he never chose too harsh a word or made too strong a point, and while normally such a thing would frustrate, Chris’s ability to empathise and adapt quickly became a thing you admired; a sign of maturity often lost on guys his age.
All of this goes without even mentioning the physical aspect of things. You’re fairly dubious when it comes to the physicality of Tinder matches; as is anyone, you suppose. It’s a near unspoken norm that full-body shots are at least a few years old and have been touched by a form of editing software; some more obvious than others. Chris’s profile picture was a candid shot of his dimpled smile, curls of chestnut coloured hair peeking out from under a Supreme snapback. He had a guitar draped across his lap, balanced by lean arms that were conveniently exposed thanks to the loose black tank. He looked relaxed, content, like wherever he was and whoever he was with in that moment were all he could wish for. And it’s real. You know it’s real; you’ve seen it in person, by the passing encounters and silent elevator rides during which you surreptitiously admired the stature of his physique, well-proportioned and temptingly strong.
A self-confessed feminist, pro-choice advocate and generally well-rounded good guy, Chris seemed almost too good to be true.
And if something appears that way, it almost always is.
A table for two at Frankie’s, Saturday, eight pm. An arrangement you’d been looking forward to since his invitation four days prior, even going out of your way to pick up a new outfit and indulge in an extra blown out blow-dry.
It took you until precisely nine-thirty to realise he wasn’t going to show.
There’s a unique sense of embarrassment that comes from being stood up; paying the bill for your three glasses of red under the sympathetic eyes of the waiter who assured you that you looked lovely, leaving alone with a weight of inadequacy in your chest. You’d called—of course you had—to no response. You’d messaged, two or three variations of ‘is everything okay?’, again, to no response. You even debated knocking on his door to seek explanation, but promptly chickened out when faced with the reality that doing so would reveal you knew exactly who he was for the majority of your time talking.
Naturally, the spiral that followed was inevitable. You still wonder if opting not to approach him before the date was a mistake or not; perhaps he would have felt more obliged to attend if you had, if only for fear of the awkward living circumstances it’d create if he didn’t. Indeed, nobody wants to live in any kind of close proximity to a date they’ve ghosted.
After that, the texts stopped. Your life went back to how it was before Chris became a small—but consistently wanted—part of it, and while you have no solid reason to feel so glum about it, it’s no mistake that you do.
Either way, this is where you find yourself.
Miserably close to a guy you had relatively high hopes for, fondling his parcel in the foyer of your shared apartment block.
A good neighbour would just take it up to Flat 2.
You’re not a good neighbour.
Balancing the parcel atop the rack of pigeon holes, shucking your bag to your shoulder and making a beeline for the elevator, you internalise the nagging at the back of your mind that condemns you for being so spineless, so unneighbourly. Fuck that voice.
As the elevator drags up to the third floor, the metal doors creak open painfully, and you step out to your corridor. Passing flats one and six on your left and right respectively rewards the usual chatter from behind their doors, the steady thump of a stereo. The walls are explicitly thin in this building; it’s one of the more run-down you’ve lived in, you’ll confess, but the rent is the key sticking point. It’s suspiciously cheap for being so close to the city centre, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It's as you approach your own solitary door, fishing your keys from the side pocket of your bag, that the elevator pings abruptly.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m telling you it never arrived.”
A voice you’ve only ever heard through said thin walls bleeds down the corridor. A quick side glance confirms that it is indeed Christopher that’s just disembarked, that’s currently striding down the hall towards you, phone held to his ear.
“I literally just checked, it’s not here. When are they saying it was delivered?”
Something cold and heavy whirls in your gut, the earlier nagging voice returns amongst droves of obnoxious off-key fanfares.
“Well they didn’t. Are you sure they got the right place?” he huffs.
The keys in your hand seem heavier than they ever have; was it always so difficult to unlock a damn door?
“Okay, well, if you could get them to call me I’ll sort it out directly with them,” he rakes a hand through his curls, brows pulled together. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Sliding the key into your lock, it’s as he approaches his own door that he finally seems to notice you, a faint smile crossing his face.
“Hi,” he offers, as is customary for your interactions. He looks tired; the dark circles under his eyes attest to it, as does the tension rolling off him in waves. He’s sporting his usual loose gym shorts and black tank; despite it being early onset winter. You wonder if he even feels the cold at all.
“Hi.”
Your chest tightens with your feeble greeting, the bitter possibilities of what you could be saying to him right now, had he turned up that night, sitting sadly at the back of your mind. He’s about to unlock his door, a lanyard of keys wound around his hand, when he stops.
“Actually,” he scratches the back of his neck, hops a step towards you, “are you, uh, just coming in?”
You blink at him, confused, peering around the door partway closed.
“I mean, back into the building?”
“Y— Yeah.”
He nods, takes his shot, “You didn’t happen to see a brown parcel in my pigeon hole, did you? Or anywhere in the foyer?”
You’re not a good neighbour.
“It’s just that I was waiting for this package and the couriers are saying they’ve delivered it, but I can’t find it,” he explains hurriedly. “I thought maybe you might have seen something?”
Your words clog up your throat, render you mute. You’re sure you probably look the picture of guilt, but if you do, Chris doesn’t register it.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter,” he waves it off with a sheepish smile, backs away. “It’s not your problem. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“I— It’s fine,” is all you manage to stammer as he affords you a stunted bow of unnecessary apology, disappears into his apartment.
Closing your own door, you suppose you probably didn’t picture you first proper conversation with Chris that way. In truth you didn’t envisage a first conversation with him at all, given the way he so readily ghosted you. Granted, he doesn’t know you’re the same person, but that hardly serves to make you feel better.
Snubbed feelings aside, your immediate course of action is remedial. Shrugging off your bag and coat, you count to a beat of ten before slipping back out of your apartment and legging it down the corridor, opting for the stairs in the name of swiftness. In the bleak entrance foyer, home only to an empty wire magazine rack wobbling in the corner, courtesy of the early winter breeze that floods in through the wide-open double doors, you rush to the pigeon holes.
There’s nothing there, just as Chris reported, but to be extra safe you check each and every compartment, on top of the rack where you initially left it, below, beside. Even the street trashcan gets a once over; people are notorious for throwing their unwanted mail in there.
Deflated, feeling guiltier than ever, you’re certain there’s no sign of it, which points to only one obvious thing.
Making your way sullenly back up to your apartment, the justifications begin: someone could have taken his parcel anyway, whether you left it out or not. The main entrance to Copper Court is accessible by any random person; it’s been a source of constant complaint for the residents. The courier company will just send him a new package, they’ll take responsibility. These things happen all the time. It’s not your fault. It’s not your problem. Indeed, Chris said so himself.
So, why then, do you find yourself standing outside his apartment, hand poised to knock?
By the time Chris answers, it’s too late to turn tail and run.
“Hi,” he blinks. Customary.
“I took your parcel out of my pigeon hole and left it in the open. I think someone took it.”
The confession tumbles from your mouth in a horrendous spew of word vomit, relieving the gut-wrenching guilt that inspired it to replace with tepid mortification.
Chris’s brows pull together, lips drawn in a thin line.
“What?”
“Someone—your couriers, I guess—put your parcel in my pigeon hole. I took it out,” you elaborate, prickly heat crawling up the nape of your neck.
“And you couldn’t have, like, put it in mine?” he asks, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s unimpressed. (Arguably, you can’t; the grim hallway carpet is just too interesting).
“I… No. Yours was crammed too full. That’s probably why they put it in mine.”
There’s a beat of silence, Chris hums under his breath, sighs, “You didn’t think to just bring it up to me?”
You’re not sure why you feel like a child in the midst of a telling off, but there’s no mistaking that you definitely do. His tone of condescension, whether deliberate or not, is doing something inexplicably coarse to your mood.
“You could try keeping your pigeon hole tidy in the first place?” you glare up at him, finally finding the will to meet his gaze head on. “Just an idea.”
“Really?” he scoffs. “You’re getting hostile with me?”
“I’m not getting hostile. I’m just saying, if you ever picked up your mail, the couriers wouldn’t have to deliver your shit to the wrong place.”
“It was hardly the wrong place; we live next door to each other.”
“I’m not your delivery girl.”
“Oh, so you have to be a delivery girl to act like a decent human being?”
Thoroughly riled up, you snap, “Right, because you would know all about being a decent human being.”
Chris’s jaw locks, his eyes narrowing, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
And in your state of adolescent tantrum, in full recognition that what you’re doing is akin to throwing your toys—and everything else—out of the pram, you dive straight off the proverbial cliff edge to say what this is really all about for you, welcoming the rocks below.
“You ghosted me, Chris.”
The moments that follow are suspended in tension; Chris’s mouth hangs a little slack as the realisation sinks in, you hope he doesn’t hear the way your heart hammers against your ribcage. Lean fingers rake brown curls off his forehead, his shoulders sag as he mumbles, “I knew I recognised you from somewhere. Shit.”
That’s a surprise, in itself. He’s never shown any sign that he knows you at all, not in your passing greetings or any other of your frankly lacklustre encounters. You suppose you could stand firm and demand an explanation, answers, any reason that might make you feel better about the whole thing, but really, you don’t know if it would make any difference.
What you had with Chris was too early to be labelled anything—a relationship in the very infancy of its development—and while it hurts to be discarded the way you were, you’ve no right to hold him to any guilt.
You just wanted him to know, is all.
That you were the one that waited for him for hours. That you were the face to the name he so readily abandoned. That you could have been more to him, if only he’d taken the chance.
You shrug, forcing a smile that doesn’t really come.
“Call it karma. You stood me up, your parcel goes missing. Now we’re even.”
Chris grimaces, but doesn’t argue.
Neither does he try to stop you as you shove back into your apartment, slamming the door with a finality that, you think, puts an end to that short chapter—footnote—of your romantic life.
That night, you sleep better than you have in a while.
In the morning, you open Tinder for the first time since your failed date, swiping right and left like nothing’s changed at all.
In the afternoon, you start chatting with two new guys you’ve matched with; one is a personal trainer, intimidatingly handsome, built like a softly swelling plushie. The other is a dancer, keen cat lover, with a penchant for overusing emojis.
In the evening, you’re alone again, a microwave dinner for one and glass of cheap Rioja in accompaniment. You almost don’t hear the shallow knock on the door over the sound of your own pity party, muting your tenth comfort screening of The Social Network and craning like a meerkat to be sure it isn’t just your loneliness manifesting as auditory fuckery.
There’s another knock.
No fuckery here.
Untangling yourself from the fleece blanket you’re wrapped in, you shove yourself up and pad the short distance to your front door, remote in hand. Common sense dictates you should probably peep through the peep hole, (arguably its sole purpose), to assess who’s calling on you at this hour. Rioja dictates you enjoy the surprise.
Sliding the latch down and unhooking it, you pull the door open a measure, enough so that your glare can be adequately conveyed.
Or, at least, you’d meant to glare. But when the caller presents themselves as an (almost) six-foot hunk of damn such as is stood in front of you, it’s difficult to glare. Extremely difficult.
“C— Chris?”
“Hi…”
Customary.
He looks like he’s stepped straight from the pages of a Vogue rag; minus the pretentious. Dark slacks tighten across his thighs and crotch in a way far too becoming, a loose black button-up shirt hangs open at the chest line; hang being the key word. There are more buttons left undone then there are closed, the chasm of his broad, pale chest shown off. Finished with a snug leather jacket that adds an air of casual to the smart, his chestnut hair left to its usual tempting curls, he’s a sight for sore, sore eyes.
“What are you…?” you clutch at the remote, gesturing vaguely.
He brings his hands around from behind his back, producing a bottle of white wine.
“I thought maybe we could share this.”
“We?”
“Right. We. You and I. Us.”
The smile he’s offering you is temptingly boyish, the white of his teeth sharp behind plush lips. He lifts his brows expectantly, presenting the bottle enticingly.
“Please?” he pleads.
Bewildered, you don’t know how you’re supposed to deny him when he shows up at your door looking like that. You shuffle aside, swing the door open properly, “Come in.”
Visibly relieved, Chris enters on your invitation, wine nestled in the crook of his left arm. The glances he casts around your place make you immediately nervous, his trying and failing to conceal the nosy urge that admittedly overcomes everyone when invited into someone’s personal space.
He follows you over to the living space, seeming at relative ease with it all. You suppose the flats themselves don’t radically differ in size or layout from one to the other, when it comes down to it.
“Ah,” he exclaims, pointing to the red-stained empty wine glass on your coffee table, “you beat me to it, huh?”
You shrug, tapping the remote incessantly against your thigh, “I’ll get some clean ones.”
“Let me,” he bounds forward, free hand raised to stop you enroute to the kitchenette.
You acquiesce, watching as he roams your kitchen space, opening cupboards and peering into each one in turn until he happens upon the only two clean wine glasses you have left.
Settling against the arm of the chair, you wonder when he’ll address the elephant in the room. Several days ago, he couldn’t be bothered to show up for a date you’d planned. Now, he’s invading your space after an argument, with no rhyme or reason to support it. You were entirely prepared for the cold war to settle over the tatters of your relationship, ready to live in stoic civility until one of you inevitably moved on to other things.
This, you weren’t quite expecting.
When Chris returns with two glasses of white wine, hands you one and keeps the other for himself, he lifts it in quiet cheers of your drinking together, pursing his lips to take a sip.
And the word vomit makes a second debut.
“What are you doing?”
Your question comes out like an accusation, though you don’t mean it to. Chris blinks, stops mid-sip, sighs heavily.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t really know?” he scratches the nape of his neck, wildly endearing.
“No. You stood me up. We fell out yesterday. Now we’re having casual drinks?” you state.
He grimaces, almond eyes narrowing, “I know. I know it’s weird.”
“A little.”
“I think I just…” he hesitates, searches for the words. “I wanted to apologise.”
The trepidation on his face is clear, inspiring warmth in your chest that you will away immediately.
“I don’t really do this kind of thing.”
“Apologise?” you quip, perhaps overcompensating with the blasé.
“No,” he heaves a gentle laugh. “Date.”
Oh.
“It’s not an excuse, I know. There’s no accounting for being an asshole.”
Something heavy shifts in your gut, the gentle sincerity in his eyes seems to belittle your irritation without even meaning to.
“Something came up that night,” he continues, swallows, “I won’t bore you with details but it was… yeah. Difficult.”
“You could have just texted me,” you offer gently. “I’d have understood.”
“I should have. I’m sorry I didn’t. To be totally honest, my feet kind of didn’t touch the ground until a few days later, and by then, I was too embarrassed to reach out to you.”
His honesty is abundantly clear, sets you to unease. You’d almost prefer he straight up tell you didn’t want to meet with you, in the end. At least that would make this less bittersweet.
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, “I’m sorry. Really. I’d like us to at least get along, if we can. Living so close and all, it only seems right that we try.”
A lump of insidious sadness hardens in your throat, even in the face of his soft smile, the dimples in his cheeks that melt your frosty exterior. Whatever his reasons, the apology is so clearly genuine you suppose you’d have to be a special kind of bull-headed fool to maintain anger with him now.
Clearing your throat, you lift your glass to his, poised to clink.
“To getting along?” you pose.
The dimples deepen as he nods in agreement, gently tips the lip of his glass to yours.
“To getting along.”
 ***
Three weeks since the establishment of friendship with your inexplicably attractive neighbour, and indeed, the attraction has only grown.
It’s a hilariously ironic thing, to covet that which you’d given up on only a short while prior, suffering in silent yearning while your ‘new friend’ indulges you in the latest jingle he’s written for the detergent commercial he’s been contracted for.
“It’s good,” you nod along to the upbeat ditty, perched cross legged on your sofa as he occupies the floor, laptop on coffee table.
It’s become something of a minor routine, the late-night weekday camping at your place. Chris shows up with dinner and snacks, a new movie to watch or new track to show you. The company is nice, as is the time that flies by when you’re together. Indeed, you lament the weekends, when he seems to disappear off the face of the earth until Monday comes back around again. Your working days are spent mostly looking forward to these darkened hours, which you recognise is a wholly unhealthy vice to cling to when your hopes of something more are barely extinguished.
But a vice is a vice, and you’re far from prepared to let go just yet.
“Really?” he grimaces.
“Sure. As far as jingles go, it’s top notch.”
Chris groans, throws his head back, exposes the thick column of his throat. Adam’s apple stark and veins prominent, the low, rumbling pitch of his voice plants nasty little thoughts in the very pit of your subconscious, ones that you can’t bear to entertain if you hope to remain coherent. His trademark black tank gapes appallingly at the extra-wide sleeves as he drags his hands through his freshly washed curls, lean muscle flexing in the motion.
You tear your eyes away before the usual arousal can settle in too heavily. Even so, it’s always there. Quietly humming under the surface of your platonic interactions, chronically unrequited.
No more has been said of the prior Tinder match. No more has been said of his reasons for standing you up. No more has been said of anything, really, that holds any weight past the carefully friendly rapport you’ve constructed.
And that’s fine, you suppose. Rather a friend to occupy your time than another lonely night spent swiping left and right.
Although, speaking of…
Stretching out on your sofa, craning back to the arm where your phone rests, you grab it and start scrolling, pulling up Tinder while Chris busies himself on the laptop. You’ve a few messages to respond to. One from the personal trainer that reads:
>> cool. we should kick it sum time
And one from the dancing cat lover:
>> i’d love to meet up if you’re down
Side eyeing an oblivious Chris from around your phone, you neglect the messages, just as you’ve done every day since you got them. For right under their chat threads, sits your and Chris’s. It’s ancient history now, and by rights you probably should have deleted it, just as you’re sure he has.
If only self-destruction didn’t feel so good.
Tapping the thread, you read over the past messages, scrolling slowly over them:
>> Good morning, sweetheart.
>> I hope you have a good day today.
>> Make sure you eat!
Chris is still working on his laptop, headphones drawn up.
>> So, The Social Network was a hit. Loved it. Thanks for the recommendation.
>> Sweet dreams.
The same heavy sadness that reminds you of wasted potential curls around your body, pulling you into its icy embrace. It’s a profoundly bitter sensation, to be so close to someone yet feel so far from them. At least, in the ways you wish to be close.
“Tinder?”
Chris’s sudden question—as if even a question at all—pulls you from your lonely reverie with enough aplomb for you to drop your phone, sending it tumbling to the carpet face-up.
Chris sees the screen; you know he does. The sudden stiffness to his frame, the immediate aversion of your gaze simply screams awkward. You scramble for the device, shoving it into your jeans pocket and—for his sake and yours—depart to the kitchenette for something.
Amidst the silence that follows, Chris eventually asks, “You’re still on Tinder?”
“Yeah,” you admit, because why wouldn’t you, now that you’ve been caught?
“Are you, uh, talking to anyone?”
You shrug, erring once more on the side of honesty, “A few people.”
“A few, huh?” he scratches the nape of his neck, as is habit, you’ve learned. “That’s cool.”
“What about you?” you grasp the opportunity with both hands, throttling it for all its worth. “Do you still use it?”
“Me? Nah.”
You flash a glance back at him, surprised.
“Really?”
He shakes his head, meets your gaze across the space. You’ve no reason not to believe him, of course, but he certainly has no reason not to be using it as far as you’re aware.
“Why not?” you do your best to sound conversational, rummaging around in the fridge for... fuck it, a bottle of water.
“Don’t know. Just don’t feel the need,” he answers.
You hum in realisation, recalling his statement from so long ago.
“Right. You don’t do the dating thing.”
“What?”
“You said you don’t date,” you repeat, swinging the fridge closed, clutching the cool plastic. “Remember?”
Chris furrows his brow, “Yeah. I guess I did say that.”
You’re not sure what to make of that, whatever meaning the weight behind his words conveys is lost on you.
“You didn’t delete our chat.”
Shit.
“What?”
“Our chat,” Chris repeats, “you didn’t delete it.”
“Oh, that?” you laugh, unscrewing the water bottle cap, as though you don’t know exactly what he’s talking about. “I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
Chris observes you stoically, silently, a flush of heat creeps up your neck.
“I mean, does it even matter?” you’re rambling. “Not everyone deletes their chats consistently, you know? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
His question lights a fire under the quietly simmering embers of your hope, your sensibility rushes all at once to stamp it out. He’s playing devil’s advocate.
“Of course not. Honestly, it’s kind of weird to think about now. We were matched on Tinder. Us.”
You laugh a streak of desperation veiled as hilarity at the unthinkable idea of your matching; like it’s not something you think about every day. You’re trying too hard to play it off, and you know it. You just hope he doesn’t.
“I don’t think it’s weird.”
You almost drop the water bottle.
“Y— You don’t?”
Chris shakes his head, settles back on his hands.
“No. We get along, don’t we?”
You swallow, nod mechanically.
“We have similar tastes and interests. There’s nothing weird about that.”
“Yeah, but, Tinder matched us romantically, Chris. We’re just friends,” you reel off.
The way Chris drops his gaze and hums makes your gut churn inexplicably. He lets his head fall to the side; the sharp profile of his jawline captured by the glow of his laptop.
“I really wish I could have come that night. I wish things had been different.”
This time, you do drop the bottle.
Through clammy palm and trembling hand it slips, meeting the floor with a dense thud that spurts icy liquid across the laminate, over your bare feet. You gasp and hop backwards, knocking against the fridge in the process, and by the time you register that Chris is standing in front of you, you’re more than mortified.
“Shit, are you alright?” he laughs, grabbing the roll of paper towels from atop the nearby counter. Immediately, he draws off a few pieces, draping them on the puddles haphazardly. As the towels darken and swell with liquid, you snatch the roll from his hand, wielding it not unlike a sword as you point it at him.
“What the hell does that mean?” you croak.
Chris holds his hands up in defence, draws his bottom lip between his teeth, “What do you think it means?”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t make me guess and feel even more insane than I already do.”
“I drive you insane?” he cocks his head.
Tension tight in your shoulders, you clutch the paper towels like your life might depend on it, exacting the frustration you only wish you could take out on him in ways entirely unbecoming of a friendship.
“I— That’s not what I said—”
Chris says nothing; simply drops his arms to his sides, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. It only serves to wind you up further.
“You’re fucking infuriating,” you hiss, about fit to pop.
Rounding the mess on the floor—paper towel sword shoved into his arms—you march back to the sofa, about to fling yourself on it in despair when a hand around your wrist stops you dead.
The motion is cool, controlled as Chris drags you back to him, maintaining just enough distance to brush it off, should the need arise. Held still, suspended in the gaze he pins you with, your skin prickles with his touch.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
His instruction is stern, serious. Like nothing you’ve ever heard from him. You wonder what it says about you that your insides positively melt with the authoritative tone.
“You didn’t delete our chat,” he repeats, quiet, “tell me why.”
You swallow hard, doing your best to sound chill amidst the misplaced excitement vibrating through your bones, “I’m lazy.”
“Right,” he huffs gently, “and you keep reading it, because…?”
You’ve no answer for that. None that would be appropriate, anyway.
“You know what I want to know?” you throw back at him, spinning your own web to tangle him in. “Why does a guy who famously doesn’t date even have Tinder in the first place?”
Chris blinks, his jaw ticks subtly.
“Was it fun for you? To lead me on like that? To get my hopes up and leave me hanging at Frankie’s by myself?”
Something in Chris’s eyes darkens; you’re too deep in it to care.
“How many others did you fuck about like that, hm?”
“Stop it—”
“You wish things had been different that night, do you? Why? So you wouldn’t have to feel so guilty about standing me up every time you look at me? I mean, let’s not kid ourselves; the only reason we’re even playing friends now is because you can’t get away from me, because you feel obligated, because you’re such an incredibly nice guy. Am I wrong?”
“Seriously—”
“Something came up?” you snap, bitter. “Something you couldn’t ignore? Something difficult? Please, if that’s not the biggest damn excuse I’ve ever heard—”
“It was my daughter.”
Your chest caves like a deflated balloon, the proverbial wind in your sails ceases to a screeching, startling halt. Chris lets go of your wrist, steps back, shoulders heavy.
“The reason I couldn’t come was because my little girl got sick. Pneumonia. I was at the hospital all night, and for a few days after,” he mumbles.
Your head spins, the prickle of panic curls around your skin like an itchy blanket.
“You… have a child?”
Chris nods.
Rife with disbelief, you’re not even sure where to start.
“B— But, I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything—”
“How was I supposed to tell you?” he near laughs, exasperated. “We’d barely started talking, and I liked you. Dropping the potential stepmother bomb on people doesn’t strike me as a good way to start up a relationship. I didn’t know you well enough, I thought you’d… I don’t know. Get scared off.”
“Scared off?” you repeat incredulously. “By you being a dad?”
In truth, it only makes him all the more attractive, though you’re committed to keeping that thought under wraps. For now.
“I understand not wanting to tell me back then, but what about now? We’re supposed to be friends, you hid this from me.”
“I didn’t hide it. I just… I meant to tell you, I wanted to so many times, but the moment never came, and then it felt like I’d left it too long, like it was some kind of dirty secret…”
He trails to silence, and you suppose you can understand how the prospect of revealing an unknown side of yourself to someone you’ve not known all too long might be daunting.
Perhaps if you show more interest, he’ll come around. Indeed, it wouldn’t be a forced task. You are interested, if a little bewildered. But it does explain so much about him.
“She… Your daughter—”
“Gracie,” Chris sighs.
“R— Right. Gracie,” you say her name cautiously, “she doesn’t live here? With you, I mean? I’ve just never seen—”
“I take her on weekends. She lives with her mother. Honestly, I try to keep her out of this building as much as I can. We take trips, go places. She loves the outdoors, so…”
And just like that, it all makes sense. His weekend disappearances, his maturity, his ability to adapt. His gentle nature, his chosen neglect of romantic pursuits, the camping at your place as opposed to his, assuredly crammed full of toys and the like. Most everything about him is reflective of someone with responsibilities weightier than you could ever know. Responsibilities like this.
As the sentiment of the conversation settles in, the reality of his circumstances seems to pale your upset and petty countenance to an opaque insignificance.
He has a daughter. He’s a father.
“Do you remember that parcel that went missing?” he asks.
You do.
“It was for Gracie. She collects old CD’s, makes collages out of the album artwork. I’d found a bunch online that she didn’t have. Wanted to surprise her with it.”
Nausea rolls over you in a warm wave, sets your stomach to a gentle churn of regret.
“I’m so sorry,” you pinch the bridge of your temples. “I’m such an idiot. I thought…”
“That I lead you on for fun? That I stood you up deliberately? That leaving my parcel out to get stolen was karma?”
You cringe in place, feeling worse than you ever have. Yet even throughout all this, his fleeting, minuscule admittance isn’t lost on you:
I liked you.
You’re suddenly very, very tired.
“I, uh… I’m going to go.”
You don’t want him to. You want him to stay, to apologise some more, to pick up where your heated exchange left off before you ruined things with your petty grudge.
You’re reaching out for his hand before you can even register it.
“Stay.”
Chris freezes, hangs his head low.
“Please,” you mutter.
As he turns back to you, sweeps the chestnut curls from his heavy eyes, you’re faced with the reality that you might not be able to salvage things with him.
“Why?” he croaks.
Why?
“I read our old chat because I miss you.”
Chris tenses, his lips drawing to a thin line.
“I know you’re right here,” you continue quietly, “and I know I should be grateful for that, but I…”
Anxious, fearful, you’re poised once more at the cliff edge you’ll never return from if you dive off it.
“I want more. I wanted more then; I want more now.”
Chris’s silence is intimidating, the vacant expression on his face unreadable. If he understands what you’re getting at, he shows no signs of it.
“I know it’s selfish of me, but every day, I think about what we could have been to each other. What we… could still be,” you whisper, too deep in to back off. “My feelings haven’t changed, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about you, because I do.”
 You search his face, stalwartly unmoving.
“I care more than I’ve ever cared, still, right now. And knowing you’re not where I am, that you don’t date, that you’re not interested, that you just want to be friends and get along… it hurts.”
Chris draws in a slow breath, shifts his weight towards you.
His wrist still in your grip, he twists his hand to hold your own, locking your fingers together. The electricity of his touch flits up your arm, across your shoulder, the slinking intertwine of your fingers feels so right.
You’re gathered in close, a strong arm around your waist, the linked hand held tightly. Chest to firm chest, you’re dizzy with his warmth, his closeness, coherence slipping from you. The space of the apartment shrinks down to only your immediate breathing vicinity, and when the curve of Chris’s parted lips moulds tentatively to your own, the room capsizes.
His kiss is explorative; nudging lips brush gently to part yours, the warm slick of a tongue dips briefly into your mouth, returning when you meet it halfway, call it back. Held close by the small of your spine, linked hand released so that he might seek more purchase on your body, your groan of explicit want is a weight of relief bleeding from your very centre.
Trail your fingers over the swell of his right bicep, the other clutched to his black tank, the source of so much teasing infuriation. You’re inclined to rip it right off him, would if you had the freedom of movement, restricted by Chris’s eager hold when he deepens the kiss. He groans a muted sigh into your mouth, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones, noticeable only when the kiss breaks and your foreheads meet amongst each other’s drags for breath.
Then, the moment is pierced.
A shrill ring from the pocket of Chris’s—suddenly far tighter—gym shorts shocks the room back to colour, reality invading the space. You’re released with a huff of apology, but you know the moment Chris checks the caller ID, this is where things end.
“Shit,” he grimaces, “I have to take this.”
“Gracie?”
Chris startles, then nods, as if he’d forgotten apprising you of his situation, “Y— Yeah. Sorry.”
You shake your head, finding an apology unnecessarily weird.
“I’ll be back in a minute?”
Suddenly awkward in your own space as Chris breezes from your apartment, you hope everything’s okay.
You hope he didn’t mean to ask you if he’d be back in a minute.
You hope the dread in your gut is a fleeting thing.
You hope he’ll just come back.
 ***
He didn’t come back.
Indeed, several days passed with no word from Chris.
The first day, you understood. He might have needed time to deal with whatever that call was about, and of course, Gracie takes total priority.
The second day, you debated calling him, if only to soothe yourself of the anxious unease that something terrible had happened.
By the third day, you’re more or less ready to march over to his apartment, because you’re about done with wallowing in the misery of life post-Chris, when a string of messages puts an end to all that.
>> Hi.
>> I’m really sorry for bailing. Again.
>> I’ll explain everything when I’m back.
>> Gracie’s coming to stay with me for a while.
>> Do you want to meet her?
 ***
You wonder if kids can just detect awkward.
Like bloodhounds or something; they’re able to sniff out when an adult is desperately ill-equipped to deal with or look after them. You seriously hope not.
Gracie is the mirror image of her dad.
Soft brown ringlet curls, a smile that dimples when she really means it, inquisitive, dark eyes that absorb everything.
She’s tucked behind her dad’s leg, peering around it at the giant fish tank positively brimming with all forms of aquatic life, swimming happily oblivious amongst the towering corals and winding sea shrubs that make up the habitat.
The aquarium was your suggestion. A relatively harmless, fun activity to break the ice with a child you’re meeting for the first time, maybe establish a cautious rapport by way of shark plushies and ice cream bribes.
You’ve not had a chance to really talk to Chris yet. From Copper Court to the aquarium, he’s had his hands pretty full with explaining to Gracie that you’re ‘daddy’s friend’ several times over, explaining that the aquarium is where fish live, explaining that she’ll see all different kinds of things and have so much fun with ‘daddy and his friend’.
You know it’s beyond petulant to entertain the way your heart sinks every time he refers to you as the ‘friend’, but you’re far too resigned to the clutch of your emotions by now.
Bathed in off-blue light, Chris looks the very picture of domesticity. The trademark black tank has been traded in for a thin black sweater, the gym shorts for jeans. The leather jacket is still slung over one shoulder, a plain staple that apparently not even fatherhood can rob him of.
“Hey, honey,” he guides her out from behind his leg, “why don’t you go take a look at the penguins? Right over there, see?”
Gracie blinks, nods, smiles as she toddles through the wide-open circular aquarium to the penguins, still well within sight. Keeping a watchful eye on her, Chris scratches the nape of his neck, clears his throat and asks, “So, how are you holding up?”
You can’t help giggling.
“Really? That’s the first thing you ask me?”
“W— I mean, yeah? Why, can’t I ask?”
The sheepish grin he affords you makes your chest swell with warmth; you’ve really fucking missed him, actually.
“You can ask,” you acquiesce gently.
“So?”
“So,” you hum, watching a tiger shark glide past you, “since admitting that I care about you and want you in unhealthy ways, I’ve been great.”
“You want me in unhealthy ways?” he scoffs, ears reddening. “Damn.”
You shrug, conceding the moment to him. It’s not like he doesn’t already know, especially after your last encounter.
Chris sidles up to you, quietly confident as he slips his hand in yours, locks your fingers, “I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry. Forgive me?”
“Eh, wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Ouch,” he grimaces, laughs.
You squeeze his hand, reassurance that you’re really actually fine, and you’re really only half down for giving him a hard time. Gracie cranes to her tiptoes the other side of the aquarium, tries to get closer to the waddling penguins, small hands against the glass.
“She’s great, you know.”
Chris glows, eyes scrunch with fondness as he watches her and says, “You think?”
“Of course. She’s a dead ringer for her dad, honestly.”
“Poor thing,” Chris cringes, to which you nudge his shoulder.
“She’s okay, right?” you ask.
Chris nods, breathes a deep sigh, “Yeah. Her mum’s digging her feet in about childcare arrangements. I’ve offered to take Gracie more often, but she’d rather I pay through the nose to send her to nursery instead. I just can’t afford that right now. Not with the contracts I’m getting.”
You hum in realisation, sympathising with the stress that kind of thing must bring on parents plural, let alone one that appears to be dead set against the other.
“But it’ll all work out,” he eventually shrugs. “It has to.”
“Daddy!”
Gracie’s voice rings out from across the aquarium floor, the pitter-patter of her small feet eager as she runs back over, “Daddy, come look at the penguins! There’s a baby penguin, and a mummy penguin, and a—”
You’re about to draw your hand away from Chris’s on reflex, utterly surprised when he instead holds it strong, refuses to let you go. Gracie stops, her little brows furrow as she looks at your joined hands, then her dad, then at you.
There’s a second of silence where you dread the next words from her mouth, where you’d rather the ground swallow you up than be present for the conversation this precedes.
But the bright, baby-toothed grin that Gracie breaks into is entirely unexpected.
She runs to your free side, reaches up to grab your other hand, doing nothing more complicated than copying her dad, the way children are wont to do. Yet as you enclose her small hand in your palm, you feel entrusted with so much more than simply playing the part of aquarium guide.
Chris smiles slowly, swallows down the lump of formed emotion in his throat.
You wonder if this feels as right to him as it does to you.
“Where, honey?” he rasps. “Show us the family.”
 ***
The next day, you’re alone in your apartment with Chris, and it’s not like all other times you’ve been alone together.
Because things are different now.
Cards have been laid to the table, confessions and admittances made. There’s nothing more to hide behind, no excuses to be made or—even better—misunderstandings to walk into.
You went with Chris to drop Gracie off at her mum’s, waving from the passenger side of his car as he took her to the door. The whole way back, you were regaled with happy tales of Gracie as a baby, promised to be shown pictures when you got back to Copper Court.
Those intentions were somewhat waylaid when the realisation of privacy sunk in.
The movie Chris chose is playing quietly in the background, nothing more than an accoutrement to the way he rests above you on the sofa, warm lips exploring mouths, gentle hands touching skin.
There’s a patience to how he touches you, an enjoyment he finds in the act of winding you up, dragging you down, feeling the ebb and flow of your arousal as he pushes and pulls at parts of you, if only to see what’ll happen.
He discovered your penchant for neck kisses with zero fucking issue. Wet warmth against the thin skin of your throat sends inexplicable tingles of delight fluttering in all directions, centring in your core to add to the tight gathering of want.
“Chris,” you sigh, shivering when he focuses on your pulse point. He hums, occupied.
“I…”
Your hesitation is misplaced, you know. There’s nothing you could say now that would be a surprise to him, nothing you could admit that would bring any embarrassment. All that’s left is to enjoy each other.
“I want you to stay.”
Chris gathers himself, hovers above you with eyes a little on the blown-out side of present.
“Here? Tonight?” he croaks.
You nod, pull your lip between your teeth. His brows draw together, he skims his knuckles over your cheek, down your jawline, pained disbelief on his expression.
“If I stay, I might not want to leave.”
His quiet admittance is met by your kiss, soft and careful, “Then don’t.”
Chris grins—for the first time since you’ve known him—a wolfish expression that sparks a flurry of butterflies to activity in your gut.
Shoves himself up from the sofa, takes your hand to do the same, escorts you from the living space to the bedroom with an air of confidence that would seem misplaced to you, had you not just kissed his face off.
When in the safety of your private space, the atmosphere shifts with the closing of the door, boxing you into the moment. It’s weighted, rife with thick anticipation that makes you more nervous than keen, for it suddenly dawns on you that this is the first time you’ve been with anyone that way in a desperately long time. And apparently, you’re not alone in that, telling from Chris’s raised shoulders, the way he releases your hand and looks around your room, scratches the nape of his neck.
He meanders over to the neatly made bed, drags his fingers along the pastel pink linen, rocks the headboard like he’s inspecting a car for purchase. You feel like you should say something; maybe reassure him that he can leave, if he wants to.
“You can go,” your mind-mouth filter fails spectacularly, “if you want to, I mean.”
Dumbfounded, Chris turns back to you, drops his gaze to where you’re currently wringing your hands together nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, daunted by so many things at once you’re unsure where to even look.
“You just told me you wanted me to stay.”
“I— I know. I do. But if you don’t… I just don’t want to, you know, put pressure on this or…”
Chris huffs a sigh, draws his bottom lip between his teeth. Before you’re even able to offer yet more reassurance that bailing would be totally okay, he grips the hem of his black tank, drawing it lusciously up his body, over his head, tossing it to your carpet.
“O— Oh…”
It’s more a groan of realisation than a formed word in itself, but it’s the only thing you’re able to muster as you shamelessly lave over his frame; he’s positively shredded. Lean, strong abs form a six pack that tightens with his stance, defined pectorals curve under broadly sloping shoulders, veined arms.
Chris scrapes his curls from his forehead, outstretches his hand, beckons once.
You suppose that’s all the reassurance you need.
The ensuing moments are a heated mess of stripping and breathy instruction; eager hands driven by need that actively slow themselves for the appreciation, but still, want more. And you do.
You’re naked under him, legs spread and held so with him settled between them, lips bitten pink and slick. Arms around his neck, the soft tickle of his curls over your cheeks, you’re on fucking fire with the need for him; more so because he’s insisted on keeping his shorts on.
“P— Please,” you drag your nails over his muscled back, “need you.”
Chris tenses, relaxes into a shiver, grins against your throat, “Noticed.”
Propping up on his hands, he assesses your state of desperation, drags a heated gaze over you.
“You’re so gorgeous.”
“W— What?”
“I mean, fuck, look at you,” he drops a hand to cup and massage your breast, bicep swelling with the shift in weight, “you’re just unreal.”
Notoriously terrible with compliments in any form—not to mention ones revolving around your nakedness—you sink back into the mattress, pouting in adequate disapproval. Chris drags his thumb over the swell of your lip, eyes heated with darkness.
“What?” he hums. “Baby doesn’t like being told she’s a ten?”
Oh, God. Thick heat swells arousal between your thighs, your heart thumping desperately quick. He searches your face for any sign of unpleasantness to the impromptu pet name, and on finding none, falls into it.
“Does baby need to be shown how beautiful she is?”
The hand at your breast drags lazily down your stomach, navel, dips to the place where your need is most prevalent.
Chris watches you intently, jaw slack, “Maybe baby needs it right here,” an isolated middle finger parts your labia folds gently, makes itself a snug home amongst your essence. Your hips gyrate with a mind of their own, a welcoming blanket of white noise descending on your conscious mind as he—with a few explorative circles—finds your gently throbbing clit. Lids flutter and a weak whimper slips from your lips as he plays with you, touches you, shows you just how genuine his compliment was, is, always will be. Under the intensity of his watch, the shadow of his frame, it’s all you can do to babble your appreciation.
“F— Feels good—”
Chris draws his bottom lip between his teeth, hums low from his throat. He shifts a little—barely a movement at all—yet the subsequent rigidity that prods at your thigh is clear enough.
Drop a hand to claw at his gym shorts, pulling at the waistband like it might miraculously break. Chris bites back a smirk, makes no move to assist or obstruct, appearing to revel in your eager need.
You finally admit defeat, unable to focus with the ministrations on your sopping core and the urge to touch him in return.
“Take them off—”
Chris raises a brow, sneers, “Say please.”
Who made him?
“P— Please?” you croak, dazed.
“Good girl.”
Balances back on his knees for the ease of removal, slinking his shorts down his chiselled hips and svelte physique. The tenting of his crotch is immediately concerning, in the way that one might worry about fitting their new sofa through the door on its delivery.
And as he drags the thin material down to his thighs, allowing his cock full freedom to breathe, the concerns manifest to outright worry.
He is huge.
You’ve not the head or mindset to draw any comparison to length or girth once experienced, and indeed, it would be a wasted effort. Chris’s cock—now hanging heavily to his mid-thigh—is easily the most intimidating thing you’ve ever faced. Veins and swollen vessels protrude against the thin skin of his impressive shaft, the broad head a shade of pink matching his lips. The not-so-subtle curvature is all the more pronounced when he drops a hand around his base, works a single, slow stroke to the tip.
You wonder how stressed you should be that not even his hand is capable of containing the whole girth.
“I know,” he assures quietly, and you’re definitely relieved that he’s at least addressing it. Perhaps the mortification is written all over your face.
“Y— You’re… That’s… I mean, come on—”
Chris takes your wrist, guides you to sit upright, closes your hand around the base of his cock to take over his ministrations. He inhales a shaky breath on the sight of your struggling grip, wholly inadequate in wrapping around him entirely.
“Fuck… so tiny.”
“Not tiny,” you protest, albeit weakly.
Chris scoffs, from being perched on his knees he sinks back to his heels, thighs swelling against calves.
“Use both hands,” he instructs softly, chest heaving.
And you do, utilising both hands in surely the most unforeseen hand job you’ve ever given. With both, however, you’re able to work him from base to tip properly, squeeze around his length, elicit gentle groans of content from him.
“That’s good,” he reaches out, tucks a stray strand of your hair aside, “you like touching my big dick, baby?”
Of course, he gets off on this. Why wouldn’t he?
You nod, offering your best pleading gaze.
“Mhm, you’re so big,” he twitches in your hands, “don’t know how I’m going to take you.”
Chris’s lids flutter, the flush on his chest deepens, blooms out to his neck.
“You want to?” he heaves. “Want to try and sit on my huge cock?”
“So bad. Want you inside my tight little pussy.”
“Oh my God—”
“Want to feel you throbbing thick inside me,” you hiss.
“Fuck—”
He keens, eyes rolling back when you rotate a tight grip around his leaking head, the pearls of pre-cum dripping off to soil your sheets.
“Want to feel so fucking full, want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t even remember my name—”
The tether of Chris’s self-control snaps like a string pulled too tight, the lunge he makes for you effortless as he manoeuvres around to the headboard, hitches you to his lap. Feverish, he cranes up to consume your mouth, strong hands settled either side of your hips. Your thighs spread over his, his cock slick against your centre, you brace yourself on his shoulders as the initial breach seizes you in place.
“Relax,” he holds his cock still, “breathe through it, baby.”
The inches come slowly, each one salaciously adding to the easing fullness that only just threatens to burn when his excitement gets the better of him, when he thrusts through a gentle groan of strained delight.
“S— Slow,” you remind him amidst lips pressed together in stillness, “don’t hurt me.”
“Never.”
Glowing warm with the promise, it’s with no small amount of struggle that you manage to—carefully—settle a few inches above the base of his cock, feeling like he might well do real damage.
Drawn tight against one another, chest to chest, vibrating with the heated need to claw and writhe together, you can only murmur a gentle, “Fuck me, Chris.”
“Shit—”
Feet planted on the mattress, head buried in the clammy expanse of your cleavage, the slope of his shoulders hardens under your trembling palms as he indulges in a gentle thrust, abrupt and too stunted to offer any real depth, and indeed, that’s entirely deliberate.
“God, tight,” he whimpers—high-pitched and desperate—each upwards shuck of his hips nudging his cock a little deeper, slackening you a little better.
Thoroughly impaled on him, befuddled by equal parts adrenal fear and lustful thrill, you allow a spate of weakness in your thighs, sink yourself a measure lower to meet him halfway, and Chris revels in the extra room to move. Relaxing into the motions, ever aware that his excitement still has the potential to spell disaster for both your sanity and your cervix, his languid thrusts make the most of his perfect curvature, dragging himself through your velvet warmth with increasing determination.
“C— Chris,” his name leaks through a moan of delight, the thick stimulation wonderfully consistent against your g-spot, like intermittent splashes of pool water you’re awash with the smatterings of bliss.
Throws his head back, reaches up to clutch your throat and drag you in for a kiss that’s more saliva and breath than anything else.
“Mhm, yes,” he nips your jaw, “feel so good around me, baby.”
Abs flex and roll under the sheen of sweat that’s coating him, he presses your chest back a little, enough that he can watch the place your bodies connect. Rakes his hand through his curls, clutches the roots and groans through locked teeth with desperation in his eyes, “Greedy little cunt just wants all of me, doesn’t it?”
Drops his hand to your centre, smooths the coarse pad of his thumb over your throbbing clit to send a ripple of heat through your gut, up your spine.
“How does a tiny thing like you ride my big cock so good, huh?” his voice is rasping filth, low and hot. “Look at you, taking so much of me on your first try, fuck—”
You hold your hand over his at your pussy, fighting the urge to bounce and grind while he’s fucking you like this, for he really is simply too big.
“R— Rub my clit more, don’t stop—”
Chris’s eyes flash with wicked delight, applies pressure to your pubic bone and strokes over your clit tenderly, rapidly, cursing out a hot breath when you tighten around him, eager for the delicious friction that makes you feel like you’ll release all over him.
“Going to come for me, baby?”
“Y— Yeah, fuck—”
“Good girl, God, you’re so nice and wet. Tell me how big I am,” his free hand squeezes the swell of your hip appreciatively, drops around to your ass cheek, “tell me my dick’s the best you’ve ever had—”
“You’re so fucking big, Chris,” you whimper, so far from a lie you might pass out just trying to comprehend that it’s even inside you. “Your c— cock is so thick and massive; feels like you’re going to split me in two.”
Chris melts against the headboard, eyes glazing over as he fucks himself inside you, inches slick with your essence. Unable to contain your own encroaching bliss, you’re rendered near breathless by the trickling heat that creeps over your limbs, gathers hot inside you, around his cock.
“I— I’ve never been fucked like this, never taken anything so… so fucking huge—”
Chris preens, whining a pitch more associated with high notes and tantrums as he tenses and trembles, smacks the fleshy plump of your ass, “B— Baby, shit, you’re going to make me come just talking.”
The way you contract around his length is involuntary, a response to the orgasm breaching your pleasure threshold like a delightful fucking invasion.
“Oh my God, fuck, Chris, I’m coming—”
You collapse into him, arms around his neck. Arching up and forward, you slick yourself over the head of his cock, able to move at much faster a pace, eager for the brief spate of fullness, the relief, rinse and repeat.
“C— Can’t hold it—”
Chris ceases his movement, allows you to ride out the numbing waves of your orgasm as he himself finds brutal release, the swell of his girth stretching you out in ways you’ve never found reason to tempt before. One pump, then another, sticky skin and the musk of sex, sweat, him, has you dumbed by the knowledge that’s filling you up, milking himself to completion.
The moments that follow are shrouded in a silence of only heavy breaths fallen shallow, groans of content and affectionate afterglow. Yet as Chris gently manoeuvres to rest you on the mattress proper, it’s only when your legs are spread wide and he’s allowed a front and centre seat to the view of your abused pussy, that he retracts his softening cock from you. The tickle of his cum leaking from you inspires a shiver, Chris’s lids are heavy, bitten lips twist into a prideful—near impressed—smirk.
“A total ten,” he mumbles inaudibly.
As the midnight hour draws in and the exhaustion caused by your exertions demands succour, you suppose you’ve learned a few things over the last few weeks.
Firstly: Tinder isn’t all that bad after all.
Secondly: parenthood is inevitably complicated.
And third: he likes you.
He really fucking likes you.
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𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙧. 𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙚.
𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡
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give me a minute (1/2) | chef luca
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pairing: chef luca x ex-wife!reader word count: 4.7k warnings: established former relationship, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, discussions of separation and divorce, luca and reader has a son, unresolved sexual tension 👀 notes: this fic has been the bane of my existence for the last couple of months or so. it all started as a simple thought of "ooh it would be fun to have a steamy smut with ex!luca" and then it turns into a whole thing with like proper angst and stuff lol. this will be split into two parts, and i think i need encouragement to finish the second part. so please enjoy this first part and tell me what you think! ✨follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notifications to get alerted of my latest fics! ✨
03:49 PM
Everything is fine, you keep telling yourself.
Your soon-to-be ex-husband is flying in from Denmark to finalize the divorce—and even after two years of exhaustive paperwork and mediations and court proceedings, you still don’t know how to feel about this. His visit to New York is meant to be a consolation prize for your six-year-old son Alfie, whose only facetime with his dad lately is through… well, FaceTime. But, given how extraordinarily difficult he’s being—fussing over his breakfast, stalling shower time by a record of 48 minutes, refusing to wear anything you picked out for him… you have an inkling that he might be a little nervous to see his father.
And to make matters worse, it’s raining cats and dogs outside, which delays Luca by two hours now and actively threatens the zoo outing he has planned out for him and Alfie.
So… despite the shitstorm that is happening in your apartment and out, you keep telling yourself that everything is fine.
Because it is. Your home is tidy enough, with all the toys and the mess tucked away in their little cubbies. Your son is dressed up enough; he’s finally put on his pants and shirt, although you missed a button and he won’t let you fix it. The storm is outside, and you’re safely sheltered in. And your relationship with your ex is civil enough, so you feel…
Fine enough.
But the doorman buzzes in, and you can definitely tell the awkwardness in his voice. “Afternoon, Ma’am. I have your husband— I mean, Chef Luca— I mean Mr. Bailey—”
You sigh, not having the energy to let this go on. “Yeah, yeah. Send him up.”
Alfie looks up from his coloring book and practically jumps out of the couch. “My tummy hurts, I’m gonna make a doodie!”
“No running!” You remind him just a second too late, watching him dash over to the bathroom and slamming the door closed. He has a nervous stomach just like you, and as you feel the icky twist in your gut… you can’t help but empathize with his antics today. You would be fucking shit up too, if you only could.
There’s a knock at the door, and you brace yourself as if you’re about to let the storm itself in (although, quite frankly, you probably are). Your hand feels clammy, and you have to wipe it off on your dress before you unlock the door and turn the knob.
“Hey.”
If the storm was a person, you wouldn’t have associated it with the man standing before you. So tall and broad and sturdy. With boyish features and dark blond locks like gentle daylight. It feels like a reach to imagine the seven years of your relationship with him was, indeed, an epic fucking hurricane.
Still. 
You can’t help that you miss him.
“Come on in.” You step aside, not really meeting his gaze.
He murmurs a small thanks and apology, a staple combination in Luca’s British vernacular, as he squeezes in through the door with his duffel bag and suitcase.
“I thought you’d dropped these off at your hotel before you came here.”
“I know. I was going to, but…” he puts down his bags close to the jacket closet, like he always does, “But I got held up for ages and traffic was awful and I didn’t want Alfie to wait even longer, so…”
“Right.” You nod absently. “Well. He’s in the bathroom, should be out in a second, so… have a seat. Do you want anything to drink?”
“Um, water’s fine.” He takes his seat on the dining table.
You’re not sure which one is more jarring; the sheer familiarity of this, or the fact that it isn’t anymore. The two of you just hovering in the home you used to share, courteous but distant.
Luca looks around the place, and notices all the differences right away. You kept the glass dining table and two of the chairs, but changed the corner seating into a plush dining bench against the kitchen island. He recognizes Alfie’s favorite stuffed bunny on the couch, although the throw pillows were new. But he takes one look at the wall… and his heart drops.
Gone are any traces of him in the snapshots of your life. The pictures are all of you and Alfie—eating ice cream in the park, grinning and showing his first lost tooth, dressed up on Halloween… He really shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed to find the wedding portrait gone, or the vacation selfie in Italy four years ago. But it hurts quite a bit to find a generic flower portrait replacing the picture of him kissing you on the forehead while Alfie, laying on your chest, merely hours after his birth.
“Yeah, I…” you clear your throat as you hand him the glass of water, “…did some redecorating.”
“It looks good.” He manages a stiff nod, taking a hesitant swig of water.
“You look…” good, you want to say. Because he is. He’s got that tan and the haircut that reminds you of when you first met him years ago. But you can’t say that. So you settle with, “You look well.”
He meets your eyes, really meets your eyes for the first time, and you try to convince yourself the little flutter you feel inside is just your nervous stomach. But he smiles, soft and earnest. “So do you.”
You turn back and open the fridge, welcoming the cold air and how it cools down the burning warmth on your cheeks. Trying not to freak out and decide what you’re getting, so you don’t look like an idiot. Your hand grabs a can of ginger ale, and you sigh in relief.
“How’s Alfie doing in school?”
“He’s doing alright. He’s enjoying his art classes. Math is still a struggle, but Ms. Rashad says his reading is quite advanced for his age.” You relax a little bit into the conversation. The topic of your son resets you a little bit into a somewhat common ground as co-parents. Plain and simple.
“Definitely takes after you. My dyslexic ass could never.”
You smile at that. Small jokes are still there, always a good sign.
“And the, uh…” he lowers his voice, “the anxiety?”
“Comes and goes. He’s been complaining about a stomach ache all day.” You glance towards the bathroom.
He frowns in concern. “Should we go check on him?”
“Sure…” You walk together with Luca following suit, tentatively knocking at the door. “Alfie? Hey bub, how’s your doodie?” It sounds silly, but you find it helps to ask open questions instead of showing your worries outright.
A flush from inside. “There’s no doodie,” he hollers. His voice is murmured from the barrier, and then the running tap water.
You catch the unease in Luca’s features, and you feel a little bad for him. It wouldn’t feel great that your own son is nervous to see you after many months apart. “You wanna come out, then? Your dad’s here.” You try to sound cheerful and upbeat, hoping it’ll hype them both up.
The two-second gap never felt so long. But the door opens, and there he is, standing meekly against the frame. Staring up at you and then at Luca.
Luca’s heart nearly stops as those big doe eyes stare up at him, a spitting image of you. The same softness. The same spark of stubbornness.
The same vulnerable look.
“Hey, bub.”
“Hi.”
“Can I get a hug?”
There’s a brief pause, before he steps forward and throws his arms around his father’s middle. Luca grunts softly, a little surprised by the sheer force Alfie is hugging him, his heart swelling three times over.
“Oh my God, look at you!” He ruffles the boy’s dark hair and kneels down to level with him. His cherubic face is small cupped in his large hand, but not as small as Luca remembered it. “You’re so tall now!”
“Of course. I’m 3 feet and 8 inches tall now. Right, Mommy?” He proudly announces, getting the exact height completely memorized.
“That’s right,” you confirm with a grin. 
Luca gasps, a smile blooming on his face. “What?”
Alfie nods. “I’m gonna be as tall as you.”
“No! Don’t grow up so fast!” He playfully cries out.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t get to do this anymore!” Luca seizes his boy into his arms and sweeps him off of his bunny-socked feet, sending Alfie into a fit of hysterical giggles.
The sight makes you chuckle, but the feeling could bring Luca to happy tears. He’s been gone for so long, he’s afraid he’d forget how it feels to hold his son in his arms again. Or worse, that his son would find his presence alien.
But he’s here now. With you and the son you share. Attacking Alfie in tickles and noisy kisses, and letting the boy climb him like monkey bars. And it calms his anxious heart a bit as he reminds himself, everything’s fine. 
And as things fall back into place, thunder crashes outside, as if sobering all of you back into reality. Alfie shirks into himself, climbing off of his father’s back. You want to reach out for him so badly, but at the same time, not wanting to interrupt his bonding time with his dad.
“It’s okay, bub. It’s just thunderclap,” Luca soothes emphatically over the sudden silence, bringing Alfie back down to his feet. He smooths his son’s hair gently, comfortingly. “I got you, I got you…”
“Do animals even come out in the rain?” Alfie is back to his withdrawn self, mumbling his words and avoiding Luca’s gaze.
“Some animals actually love playing in the rain,” you chime in helpfully.
Luca keeps his tone cheerful and bright. “Yeah, and you can wear your raincoat and your wellies and I’ll even let you jump in puddles—”
“I don’t wanna do that! I wanna stay home!” He whines, voice raising a little.
“It’s your dad’s time—”
“No!”
“Alfie.” Your tone is firmer now, as he struggles out of his father’s arms and runs to his favorite corner of the couch in the living room, holding his stuffed bunny tight. 
But Alfie’s got a point. This is not the kind of rain where you can take a leisurely stroll in. No, this is the kind where you stay huddled inside and hope it doesn’t flood the streets. Luca takes a thoughtful look at Alfie who is sulking and shrinking from the sound of thunder, at the window completely obscured from rain, and then at you… offering an apologetic smile.
So much for quality time with his son. 
Luca’s heart sinks a little. He sighs in defeat. “Maybe we should just wait it out…”
“Are you sure? I mean, you flew 9 hours to see him—“
“And I don’t want him to be pissed at me the whole time we’re hanging out,” he reasons. “Besides, I don’t think any Uber would take our order at this time.”
It makes sense, you think. As much as you want this awkward little broken family dance to end, you know that staying in and waiting it out is the best option. Alfie would feel much more comfortable at home than in whatever hotel Luca is staying in. And maybe it’s your protective side talking, but if he ever gets fussy, you’d prefer to be around to deal with it.
“Alright, fine.”
“Yeah? Is that okay with you?”
You shrug. The truth is a little more complicated, but ultimately you settle with a simple, “yes.”
Alfie takes a quick glance at you and Luca emerging from the hallway (you have your mother’s side eye, Luca always said), before returning to fiddling his stuffed bunny’s ears (your father’s neutral look of disapproval, you would say). Like clockwork, Luca takes the seat next to Alfie, while you take the puffy stool in front of him.
“That wasn’t very nice of you to raise your voice at me and your dad like that. I get that you’re nervous about the weather—a bit startled, too— but still. We don’t raise our voices in this household.”
Alfie looks at you and Luca. “I’m sorry.”
Luca nods in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry for being late, buddy.” He gingerly reaches out to touch the boy’s hand. “You’re right, though. It might be best to stay in for a bit.” He motions at the rain hammering down on the window outside.
“I told you. I wanna stay at home.”
“I know. And we are for now. We can…” Luca scans around for something to do. His eyes fall on the coloring book and the open box of color pencils next to it. Bingo! “We can… color some drawings in that book?”
He pouts, not entirely sold on the idea but not outright refusing it either. 
“Or, hey, I got some new drawings on me. You can color them, too.” Luca takes off his hoodie and shows off the tattoos on his arms.
God, you forgot about the plethora of trashy tattoos adorning his skin. Even worse, you forgot how it highlights the defined curves of his biceps. Focus, for fuck’s sake! You avert your gaze towards the flower portrait on the wall. 
Alfie perks up a little. “This is my old drawing.” His tiny finger pokes at his forearm, on a tattoo of a stick figure climbing up the stairs. “You still have it?”
“Of course. It’s there forever. I’ll always have it.” Luca finds himself choking up at that simple admission. A little token of childhood of his ever-growing love. “Go on, get your crayons.”
Alfie looks at you as if seeking permission, and it makes you want to laugh that he shares the same animated eyebrows as his father. 
“Go ahead, bub,” you usher him off lightly, and as soon as he’s out of sight, nods at your ex. “Good save.”
Luca half-smiles. “Thanks. You should chill out. Read a book, take a nap or something. I got him.”
“What, are you trying to kick me out?”
“No, I just—”
Your smile breaks out. “I’m kidding! Go hang out with Alf. I got a Zoom meeting in a few minutes anyway.”
He sighs in relief, chuckling lightly. “You almost got me there…”
You briefly pat his shoulder and for an even briefer moment, his hand is atop yours. The big ‘A’ tattoo on the back of his hand—your son’s initial in a bold Gothic letter— serves as a reminder of what’s past; a whirlwind romance, the wild days of being a family of a merry band of misfits…
Misfits. That’s the biggest takeaway here, you suppose. Your pieces don’t quite fit right. Not without little Alfie gluing you together. 
With a final squeeze on Luca’s shoulder, you make your way to your bedroom, making space for Luca’s puzzle pieces to fit with Alfie’s because they don’t fit yours anymore.
***
05:04 PM
By the time your Zoom meeting ends, the pelting rain outside is louder and the chatter inside is nearly inaudible. It feels nice for about ten seconds… until you remember that you have a six-year-old at home and long bouts of silence can be quite… well, suspicious. You pad out into the hallway to check on him.
“Let’s see. You wanna do the sunflower next? What do you think, my love?”
Oh right. For a moment, you forgot that the thirty-year-old other parent is here with him.
Luca has his t-shirt sleeves hiked all the way up, biceps in full display as Alfie colors in a tattoo on the back part of his upper arm. The boy’s tongue sticks out and his eyebrows furrow in focus. It seems like a delicate operation between them, so you linger out of sight for just a while longer.
“Why do you like sunflowers, Dad?”
The two of you have always supported his inquisitive mind, and he missed these kinds of questions most of all. Even if the answers can be a little complicated. “Because of your mum, actually.”
“You like it because Mommy likes it?” Alfie’s little nose crinkles.
Luca chuckles in amusement, sensing the judgment in his son’s tone. Damn you guys for teaching Alfie not to get carried away by trends. “Well… when your mum and I first met, it was winter in Chicago and it’s pretty bleak and gloomy and freezing. But, your mum had a little sunflower by the window—just like that one.” He glances at the little potted sunflower on the windowsill. “She said it’s a reminder to let the sun shine in. I thought it was adorable. We started doing that everywhere we lived and… I don’t know, it reminds me of home.”
“Do you have a sunflower by your window, Dad?”
His heart catches as he realizes the answer. “No, I don’t…”
“Why? You don’t miss home?”
There’s a sharp pang of hurt in hearing that innocent query. The apartment in Copenhagen, as nice as it is, has never been much of a home for Luca. He would get up before the sun is up and return from work late at night—lather, rinse and repeat. On his days off, he would either go on a morning run and spend much of his time outside, or sleep til noon and live on instant ramen and takeout. There’s no time for a sunflower by the window. No room. He made sure of that.
He doesn’t deserve one after leaving his wife and son for fucking Noma. 
Luca swallows back the lump in his throat, although the slight waver in his voice gives him away. “I got my sunflower right here, bub. My little piece of home.” He taps on his arm softly as his son finishes up. 
Alfie hums, pleased with how the tattoo looks, now filled in with yellow and black and brown crayons. “I think this is my favorite one.”
“Yeah? Not the tabasco?” Luca grins, looking down at his forearm—specifically at the mostly accurate red and green of the hot sauce bottle.
“No…” Alfie taps his chin with his finger thoughtfully. “This one is prettier.”
Luca maneuvers around to look at the sunflower tattoo a little better. “You’re right, it is much prettier. Maybe I should get the colors in permanently, huh?”
The boy’s face lights up. “Can you?”
“Yeah. I think I will. Nice job, my little tattoo artist.” Luca pulls him into a bear hug and kisses the top of Alfie’s head. 
You can’t help but chuckle, glad to see them bonding again, lost in your thoughts for a moment.
“Mommy! Dad says I can be a tattoo artist!” Alfie snaps you out of your reverie.
“Is that right?” Your eyebrows shoot up, struggling to maintain a neutral expression while staring at Luca like with all due respect, what the fuck?
He raises his hands in surrender. “I just said he’s my little tattoo artist, that’s all.”
“I colored in all of Dad’s tattoos! Look!” Alfie tugs at his dad’s arm, beaming as he shows off his work.
You step forward, studying the results of the tattoo makeover. Every single tattoo is colored in; some accurately, like the sunflower and tabasco, while others (like the purple fish and chips and blue scotch bonnet)… not so much. You don’t know which one’s more amusing; your son’s artistic style, or your ex’s bashful look as he models the art works on his arms. 
“Looks great, bub. Well done!” You ruffle Alfie’s hair, enjoying his improved mood.
“Can I watch Bluey now?”
You purse your lips comically. “I don’t know, bub. Why don’t you look at your checklist on the fridge and see if you can?”
Alfie bounds past you, towards the fridge, and reads the checklist out loud to himself. “Have you… brushed your teeth? Yes. Brushed your hair? Yes…” He flattens his wavy locks with the palm of his hand, continues reading with a lower murmur. “Mommy, I did everything except tidy up my room and play outside for 30 minutes!”
“Okay. Obviously we can’t play outside, so… why don’t you just go clean your room and I’ll let you watch Bluey for a bit?”
Alfie gamely nods and goes into his bedroom, his bunny socks muting his footsteps against the hardwood floor.
Meanwhile, it takes you an extra beat to realize how close you’re standing with Luca without your child between you. He rolls down the sleeves of his black t-shirt sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. 
“Your meeting went okay?”
“It’s alright.” You look at literally anything but the man in front of you, ultimately stopping at your potted sunflower by the windowsill. “That storm out there, on the other hand…”
“Yeah…”
You take an inconspicuous look at the hallway, making sure your son is out of earshot. “Weather reports say it might last a few more hours.”
Luca huffs, trying not to stress out about the possibility of street floods. Of all the things he missed, New York thunderstorms are not one of them. Still, this shitty weather has granted him some time with his son, at his former home… with his former spouse. And God, does he miss this more than he dreads the weather…
“Want me to make you guys dinner?” He offers earnestly.
You pull back, returning to your normal volume. “Oh. No, you don’t have to—”
“I don’t mind. Really. Might as well, right?”
You hear heavy footsteps from the bedroom and Alfie hollers from the hallway. “I’m all done!”
“Don’t forget your crayons!”
Alfie promptly makes a beeline towards his leftover mess. “Heard, Mommy.” He hurriedly puts his crayons back in the box and rushes into his room to put it away. Returning mere moments later with a newfound spring in his steps. “I’m done for real! Now can I please watch Bluey now?”
“I can cook while he gets his screen time.”
The two boys look at you with their best puppy eyes, and it’s the most disarming thing you’ve seen in a while—and the resemblance between them only makes things worse. You playfully roll your eyes in relent. “Alright, alright. Go ahead. Watch your TV and make your dinner.”
There’s a quiet little yesss from Alfie as Luca low-fives him before they scatter, one to the living room and the other to the kitchen. For a moment, you feel like you were transported back in time. For the first time in over two years, you’re caught between cartoon sounds from the TV and the kitchen alive again. All was well in the household. 
“Is he still a picky eater?” Luca mouths the last two words inaudibly.
You raise your eyebrows in confirmation. “All he wants to eat is chicken nuggies.”
“I can do chicken nuggies,” he shrugs easily, rummaging through the freezer and takes out a pack of chicken breasts. “Or some version of that.”
Upon overhearing the key word, Alfie’s head all but whips toward Luca. “We’re having chicken nuggies for dinner?”
“Er, kind of.”
“Can I help?” He perks up from the back of the couch, excitement bubbling over.
Luca smiles apologetically. “Maybe later, my love. Daddy’s gonna be using a big knife…” he says as he checks the blade closely, swiping it with his thumb. “…which is dull, by the way. When was the last time you sharpened this?”
“I… have no idea.” You frown. You don’t even remember sharpening any knives… ever. Meanwhile, Luca simply rummages through the kitchen drawer, which makes you ask, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sharpening it,” he states matter-of-factly, already setting up a makeshift sharpening station which… what?
“Didn’t even know we had that,” you murmur plainly as you watch him work. Taking out a block of whetstone from the drawer (where did that even come from?) and running it under the sink. Laying out a kitchen rag and the stone on top of it.
He chuckles a little, scraping the blade against the stone at an angle, firmly but carefully. “Can’t leave you good Santoku knives without the proper sharpening tools, right?”
“You never taught me how to do it, though.”
“Yes, I have.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“What are you talking about? Back in Chicago, I—”
You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was one time forever ago! And you never let me sharpen the knives. You literally always do it.”
He pauses, grinning bashfully. “Fair…”
For the umpteenth time that day, Luca’s heart catches—this time from hearing you laugh. Your warm voice rings so pleasantly in his ears, and the way your face lights up… he almost forgets there’s a storm outside, because he’s got a lovely summer day right here in front of him.
And honestly, what is beautiful sunny Copenhagen compared to this warmth of the two people he loves the most?
“Alright, alright. You want a refresher? Come here.”
You gingerly take the place next to him, arms crossed so as to not invade his space. Neither of you say anything when your shoulders brush against each other. It’s brief, painstakingly so, but eerily familiar. You wouldn’t admit that you want to stay pressed against him a little longer, but… you do.
“Okay, so. You see this bit right here?” His finger runs up the line where the blade flattens into the edge. “Rest the knife on the stone on this angle, start from the heel—near the handle— and just… bring it in,” he demonstrates the inward sliding motion—short and precise and repetitive, “and work your way up to the tip.”
You silently watch him work for a moment, handling the knife. Firm and steady, but not harsh. On the contrary, it’s almost… delicate. You’ve seen many chefs work in your lifetime, but no one is as composed or stoic (or handsome, but that is beside the point) as Luca. It’s quite fascinating. 
“And you do this on both sides, right?” You vaguely recall.
“Good memory.” He nods appreciatively. “Some people like to do each side one at a time, back and forth, but I like to do one side, get that burr forming…”
“What’s a burr, sir?”
Luca chuckles at your little Hamilton reference. “So when you work on this side, you’ll feel a nice little rough bit forming on the other side like this.” He slides his thumb from the knife’s spine to the edge and carefully guides your hand through the motion. “Feel that?“
Yes. That should be an easy enough answer, because yes, you do feel the rough edge of the excess metal on the blade. But it’s a bit hard to focus on that when you’re more fixated on the rough calluses of his fingertips instead…
In theory, playing a knife with your almost ex-husband is as bad as a bad idea can get. In practice, though… Having your hand in his again, feeling him so close to you, smelling his perfume…
“That’s the burr. Once you get it on one side, you can switch over to the other side and balance it out.” His voice is lower now. Softer. “And you just… do it over and over again until you’ve worked off the burr and have a smooth and sharp blade.”
Luca switches the knife to your other hand and stands behind you, hoping to God you can’t feel his pounding heart as his chest presses against your back. Gently guiding you through the sharpening motion—the firm, steady, angled scraping of the blade towards you. You swear to God, every pull brings him just a tad closer.
“So you basically have to break the knife a little to fix it?” 
“That’s basically it, yeah.”
The storm feels miles away. His hands are still curled against yours. His chest flush against your back. His body heat emanates from within him and shrouds you like your favorite cardigan.
“Listen, I—”
“Thanks… for the refresher.” And with that, you put the knife down on the kitchen rag and pull away.
It takes him an extra second to snap out of it and step back to make way for you as you retreat back into your bedroom. “Yeah, yeah. No problem.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck your fucking life to hell.
***
if you've reached the end of this page, thank you so much for reading! do tell me what you think, reblog, send me asks, thoughts, ANYTHING. i would LOVE to hear your opinion!!!
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matrixbearer2024 · 2 months
Text
Get Off My Screen!
Vox x CollegeStudent!Reader
A/N: I'm doing this cuz someone wanted to see my shitposty idea hahaha, I hope it's not too OOC but oh well- I hope someone could write a proper fic with this since I don't trust my writing much HAHAHAHA
A/N: I'll also be doing this from the reader's POV for now. Just message me or request if you wanna see Vox's POV since it might be too long if I include his thingy in this post XD
College life is fun, do doubt about that; from the parties to the friends you make- it truly was unforgettable.
Even if you did study a lot, wanting to get high marks- you had time to indulge every once in a while and goof off with friends.
It made you a star student on paper- but nearly bordering troublesome with your chaotic behavior.
You were lucky to never have been caught with their shenanigans.
But of course your friends just had to push it.
A new ghost hunting hype trend surfaced online and they were convinced that they had to get into it.
You said it was a bad idea, getting into stuff you didn't know.
Your friends brushed you off and all piled into the attic of your parents' home.
Of course, your parents were more than happy to explain some things before leaving your group to their devices.
They've been messing with the... "paranormal" for most of their lives.
You just chose not to believe it.
It wasn't like there was proof aside from heresay anyways.
Your friends proceed to mess with the ouija board they found, among other probably possessed things.
You found it all way too creepy to be honest.
Especially that old CRT TV that was just sitting in the corner.
It was an old thing you remembered using, but it always glitched and stuttered when you were a kid.
Even if there wasn't actually anything wrong with it according to the technicians that tried to fix it over the years.
Your friends started screaming before you could really reminisce.
"WHO'S MOVING IT?!"
"I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING-"
"IT'S MOVINNGGGGGGG-"
The fact the ouija board was actually reacting slightly freaked you out.
You managed to calm your friends from bombarding the thing with questions before asking what actually mattered.
"What's your name?"
V... O... X...
That didn't sound like a demon name you were even vaguely familiar with, at least off the top of your head.
Then of course that creepy TV from your childhood turned on by itself.
Your friends were screaming bloody murder at this point.
You didn't even realize the fuss until you saw the darn thing was unplugged.
You freaked out too, bolting down the attic stairs with your friends quickly in tow.
It was smooth sailing afterwards, your parents assuring you that nothing would happen.
Your friends stayed for dinner until they had to go.
You were about to retire for the night as well until you realized you couldn't find your phone.
Everywhere you looked, it wasn't there.
That left one place.
The attic.
By the time you gathered the courage to return, everything seemed just fine.
The TV was finally turned off, how and why- you didn't bother enough to know.
So you picked up your phone off the floor and just headed to your room.
Only to practically get jumpscared when you opened your phone.
WHO PUT A FRIGGIN WEIRD GLITCHY SMILEY ON YOUR WALLPAPER?!
Annoyed, you switched it back before plugging it into the charger.
Come morning, you had a bone to pick with your lot of friends.
Because not only was your phone stuck with the wallpaper problem, soon were all your devices.
You tried everything, restarting your stuff, running an antivirus, even getting it professionally checked.
Nothing.
And the problem continued to persist.
Now at your wits' end, you figured whatever entity was messing with your gadgets could at least converse with you through said gadgets.
So you opened a blank notepad on your laptop, nearly glaring at the screen while waiting for something to happen.
Five minutes passed and nothing happened.
"OH YOU CRAPPY PIECE OF TECH JUST DO SOMETHING!"
Even more waiting and still nothing.
Eventually you just decided to type something up on the notepad in impatience.
"I know you're in there. Stop messing with me."
And to your surprise, something finally replied.
"Oh I know, you're just fun to mess with doll."
What. The. Fuck.
And that was how you met him.
Vox, the tech overlord demon, months ago.
When he infected your phone, then consequently the rest of your electronics too.
Since then he's been an annoying thorn in your side.
Well... or even a welcome distraction.
Maaaaybe even an odd Omegle Buddy?
Who even still does those?
Either way, you never had to use spellcheck again whenever doing your work.
Nor did you consult Google as often either.
As rude and annoying as he was, Vox was quite helpful when it came to paperwork.
Not that you didn't know much about him, on some days you would both just chat using the notepad.
He hated some radio guy named "Alastor"?
You would laugh if you weren't so tired.
Depending on Vox's mood, he was either tolerable or a downright prick.
Fighting over control of the cursor was also pretty common occurrence.
Vox practically living in your gadgets forced you to learn at least basic software care and programming.
The guy also ended up sorting your files!
You'd be more thankful if he wasn't so bitchy about your file arrangement anyway.
It wasn't that bad.
You want to call him your virtual friend- but he's more like an annoying virus that throws hissy fits from time to time.
Even if said hissy fits were either excessive amounts of lag or mostly obstructive visual glitches and pop ups.
The little shit was also constantly messing with you during class.
Not that he cared enough even if you told him you were, he'd still be messing with your notes or even your files every now and then.
You stopped trying to change wallpapers after you realized he kept switching them back to his grinning face.
Let's not even mention his multitude of custom emojis stuck in your device.
How that got there, you didn't care enough to figure out.
What a weirdo.
Though him constantly interacting with your software gave you an idea.
You saw your friend fawning over a thing called a "desktop pet" just a little ago in class.
They chose to get a virtual slime.
It piqued your interest after you saw it was interactive too.
And knowing that Vox liked to mess with your operating systems a lot, you decided to try and get one to see what he'd do.
You got the basic one, just a random anime "chibi" or so it was labeled on the website.
It walked around and did some emotes before a notepad opened up with a message.
"What the fuck is that."
"My new desktop companion, do you like it?"
You didn't get a reply so you just left to grab a snack.
You weren't even surprised with what you came back to.
Vox was already using the cursor to bully the desktop pet you downloaded.
Either throwing it around or just repeatedly spam clicking it so it fell over.
The sonova bitch-
You kind of expected it, just leaving Vox to do his thing while you went to take a nap.
Only, you didn't realize you would be coming back to a new custom desktop pet and an open note.
"You're welcome~"
If that was what Vox looked like, you couldn't deny it was cute.
Or at least the small desktop pet made it seem so.
It was a striking design for sure-
Did he have a monitor for a head??
Oh that explains the face on your screen wallpapers.
You didn't realize until too late that Vox could interact with you using the desktop pet either.
Sometimes the things he did were cute with it, like the emotes that were installed on the thing.
Or he was just a little shit closing your windows or dragging them off screen before you could notice and stop him.
He was an annoying bastard-
But you kept him around anyways.
A/N: I really had fun writing this thing, it hasn't gone romantic since I didn't know if I wanted it to go that route so this is more of a friendly thing? Either way I might write Vox's POV sooner or later this was a really fun idea HAHAHAHA
A/N: Vox's POV is here!! :3
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vivalabunbun · 1 year
Text
Let's Look Over The Garden Wall
Summary: One wants an easy meal and one wants to play house. 
Word Count: 9.9k
Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Smut(r18+), MDNI, Modern AU, Vampire AU, Contract Marriage, NSFW, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Unrequited love?, Vampire! Alhaitham, Dom! Alhaitham, Human! Reader, biting, pet name? (calls you good girl) TW: Blood & Blood drinking, TW: Death, Terminally ill! Reader, slight orgasm denial, slight corruption kink, wedding night, temperature play? He falls hard, slow fic, tragedy
Authors note: This whole fic was a challenge since I wanted to write it kinda from Alhaitham’s pov. I’m not really knowledgeable about vampires, so in this fic they’re just a type of monster and not undead, and vampire blood can turn humans into monsters. Enjoy!
Side note: Here is the other side, Finale
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The secretary had just arrived at the office not too long ago, shift starting at six pm and going until midnight. The typical hours for a creature of the night. 
Like a sweet breeze that blew stray leaves through his office’s open window, a stranger came gallivanting through the boundaries of his door, contract in hand. Faruzan, the office receptionist trailing after you with your proper introduction. 
“Secretary Alhaitham, this young lady here would like to make a blood contract with you.” 
He certainly wasn’t expecting this when he walked through the sliding doors of the building. The biggest company in Sumeru, the firm that specialized in such dubious pacts. 
In an age where humans now outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten the once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to play by mortal rules. One such rule, vampires can no longer drink human blood. 
Animal substitutes were of course inferior in both taste and satisfaction, any vampire would know this. However, there’s a loophole to this law. Vampires can’t drink human blood legally unless it’s consensual by both parties, established through contracts. Business exchanges for money, power, or glory. 
Of course, this practice is heavily regulated. Hunters who uphold the balance ready to rip the hearts out of those who dare make an unfair deal. Alhaitham is the simple secretary who files these contracts, not one of the agents tasked with such things. 
Still, he’s intrigued. Even in this office there are many who have yet to see the face of this elusive vampire, how did this human identify him? He was looking for an excuse to stray away from dull lines of files, might as well entertain your musings. 
The ashen-haired immortal pulls out a seat for you, nodding to Faruzan sending her out of his office, giving you privacy. Alhaitham ambles to the other side of the polished wood, settling down on his plush office chair.
“The process for filling a contract is straightforward, even though this consultation wasn’t planned, if negotiations go well you’ll then undergo a psychological evaluation.”
You nodded your head lightheartedly, posture relaxed in the chair. 
“So,” he begins.
“What are your demands?” 
“Marry me.”
Dead silence. He certainly wasn’t expecting a proposal this Monday night. Were you wasting his time with a joke?
You must’ve read his unfazed mask. Quickly pulling a pen and notepad from your pocket.
“I’m being serious, I want you to be my husband.” Hands swiftly jotting sentences down on paper.
In your graceless handwriting, you listed all your qualifications. Age, name, blood type, and financial status. You also detailed some self-prescribed personality traits. 
Alhaitham skips over that section. 
Marriage contracts weren’t unheard of, nor were marriages between humans and vampires. He believes such practices weren’t deemed illegal solely because of human morbid curiosity and desires.
No immortal, with their centuries of knowledge and wisdom, would waste such energy on a mortal, without a price of course. It would be a fool’s errand to not have fair compensation.  
“For a fraction of your time, I’ll give you all of mine.” You point the pen toward him. 
How romantic. 
“I’d say you’re getting the better end of the deal, Mr. Alhaitham.” There’s a curl to your lips, resting your elbows upon his polished desk. 
With a slight sigh, Alhaitham pulls out a form, pen swiftly recording the necessary information. There’s going to be a long process of straightening out the clauses, but this should suffice for approval.
“Why me?” He inquires, straightening out the proposal on his desk.  
“You’re handsome, have money, and I like your voice.”
The rustling of papers and pens stopped. Dead unamused silence. 
“Pfft! Too brash? Sorry, sorry, I was only joking,” giggling as you waved it off. 
“Well, to be fair the real reason isn’t much better, to be honest.” You leaned in closer, creeping towards the unseen boundaries of his personal space.  
“I often see you passing through the streets, guess I got enamored from there.” Your smile was shameless but your cheeks were tinted pink. 
A hopeless romantic, that answer suffices him for now. He could’ve easily shown you the door, but life has been stagnant for a few decades. History repeats itself if you live long enough to see it, new occurrences are rare. As the sky deepens from indigo to midnight, two bodies sit across from each other, discussing sentences written on paper.
“I’ll contact you in three business days with the verdict, have a good night.”
“I shall await the news.” You beamed at him, warm and icy hands meeting for a handshake. 
Just as you entered, you left with that same giddiness. Now left with his thoughts, Alhaitham reviewed the documents, he had three days to ponder whether or not to submit them to the legal team, and through the judgment of a certain scarlet-eyed General Hunter. 
As per Sumeru regulations, all offices run by vampires must have uncovered glass windows. An attempt conquered by humans to enfeeble creatures of the night. Alhaitham’s beryl gaze traveled up the length of the building stationed across the street. 
What an ironic placement for a hospital to be facing the biggest firm staffed by immortality. Or perhaps it was strategic, after all the most desperate humans are the ones who lay upon their deathbeds for one last hurrah. 
The perfect scheme to keep the blood contracts flowing in. 
Teal eyes observe the room right across through the glass, it seems freshly vacant. New untouched sheets, new unflatten pillow, and fresh towels. 
Alhaitham can now confirm the validity of your statement, a half-truth. 
When deciding on a contract, one must weigh the pros and cons, to see if they balance or if one side gives away to another. Your demands? You wanted to experience married life, all aspects of it. Your offer? Your everything. 
All your assets together can’t hold a candle to the amount Alhaitham has accumulated for centuries, but it’s a decent amount. Perhaps due to a medical settlement. 
Alhaitham has lived long enough to rein in primal desires, he can suffice off animal substitutes just fine. However, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want a taste of the real thing again. You offer him a steady supply, and to give him every last drop after seven years.
Yes, all of this for a mere seven-year contract. A deal heavily tipped in the favor of the vampire, not even a mere fraction of the time immortality offers. However, what piqued his interest the most weren’t the benefits listed.
A garden wall the tall vampire can’t peer over. Insight only attainable by those who near the end of their finite paths. What’s it like to have agency? What’s it like to have such finite time? 
He’ll have seven years to observe. He submits the forms on the third day, delivering your verdict over the phone. Alhaitham agrees to entertain your little daydream. 
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On part that it was Alhaitham who personally filed the forms, the approval process went swimmingly, skipping the paper line. Tighnari oversaw the psychological evaluation, test after test confirming the sanity of your mind, speeding up the process of getting that stamp.
“What flowers do you like? I’m planning the decorations.” Your legs swinging under his kitchen table. 
The contract was approved, hands held and certificates signed at the town hall, your belongings moved into his house. It’s excessive to want a celebration after all of that. 
“Whichever flowers you want.” 
Alhaitham will hold his tongue, after all, he’s signed to play the role of a husband.
The venue was spacious, high ceilings with marble floors and pillars, all of which were lavishly cluttered with Padisarahs, Sumeru Roses, and Kalpalata Lotuses. Alhaitham stood at the altar just off to the side of the wedding officiant. Tuxedo crisp and hands folded together, he scans over the rows of guests invited. 
Since there weren’t any in-laws, Alhaitham assumed you wouldn’t have much of a social network. No one’s correct all the time, he ignores the piercing glares of a few eyes. The all-too-loud tones of a grand piano resound through the room. The previously shut doors open to reveal your figure. Embellished dress and veil perfectly framed by the carved entranceway as you ambled your way up the aisle. 
The twilight hues of the sky dye the white gown in everchanging vibrancy as you passed by the standing crowd, up the steps to the altar, and finally in front of him. The overwhelmingly floral scent of the bouquet itches his nose. 
Alhaitham pays no mind to the soliloquy of the officiant, he simply follows the rehearsed procedures. Sliding the gold band onto your finger and allowing you to do the same to him, lifting the veil to reveal your starry-eyed gaze he places a practiced kiss against your warm lips.
Is this excessive ritual over yet? No.
Alhaitham stands in the corner of the reception hall, hand nursing a glass of wine. The rich spices of the buffet offered to the guest irritated his palate. Supernatural creatures with their enhanced senses, a double-edged sword. Human food serves no purpose to vampires, it’s over-seasoned and pungent. At least your species has created drinks such as coffee and wine, delicacies even immortal creatures can enjoy. 
In the center of the artificially lit hall, you eagerly greeted all your guests as they beamed at you. Giggling and hugging each person as an entourage of three friends helped with that embellished gown of yours. Two pairs of eyes from said entourage occasionally glared at him, their bodies forming a barrier to separate groom from bride. Candace and Dehya were the names you introduced to him. 
Your starry-eyed self blissfully unaware of the silent cold war as the scarlet-haired dancer calls the attention of the two hunters back for the bouquet toss. Alhaitham was nothing more than just a decoration, you just wanted an excuse to prance around in a pretty white dress and throw a fancy party. He’s your husband, he’ll tolerate this daydream.
“Did you enjoy the reception?” 
Only after the send-off and closing ceremony of the celebration, when the bride and groom were behind the thick oak doors of their suite, that you seemed to remember the decoration named ‘Alhaitham’. 
“Yes, it was lovely.” The wine provided by the venue was of the highest quality, it entertained him enough. 
“I hope you’re not upset at me being busy with guests.” Your arms found their way around his waist. 
Quite comfortable encroaching on his space huh. 
“I’m not.” Better they talk to you and not him. 
As his cold hands pat the exposed skin of your back, his teal eyes didn’t miss the trail of goosebumps that prickled your skin. Shall he move on to the next scene? The lacing of your dress seems quite complicated, he assumes that it must have taken a few pairs of hands to tie it. Should he be a good husband? 
“Do you need help with this?” His baritone voice was right against your ear, noticing the flush on the tips. 
“Yes.” For once your voice was just barely above a whisper, a blushing bride. 
The lacing weaved in and out of eyelets running down along the length of your back, how troublesome. Always one for efficiency, Alhaitham simply takes a handful of the taught lace and pulls, they snapped like simple threads. Such things offer no resistance to a creature of the night. The gasp that escaped your lips feed into something deep within. 
With the bonds loosened, the embellished dress of yours lost the fight against gravity, fabric pooling at your feet. Revealing to teal eyes the lacy white stockings, garter belt, and panties, all the hallmarks of a wedding night. It’s impossible to deny the hunger crawling up his throat, no force of nature could resist such a sight. 
“Aren’t you forgetting something? It’s rude to not offer the groom some help, no?” His hunger enjoyed that scarlet flush on your face.
Indecisive fingers going for the easiest button, opening the tuxedo jacket allowing him to shimmy it off his broad shoulders. Teal eyes continued to survey your flushed face, the smirk on his waiting for your hands to continue. Obeying his silent command like a good bride, you loosened the bow tie next, finally freeing him from that stiff collar. 
Slowly your eyes peered up, asking if the torment was over yet, the slight rise in his ash brow directing you to resume. From your lips came the beginnings of a whine to which he sternly shushed. If you couldn’t even undress him how would you be able to do the other vulgar activities? 
Finally relenting, your fingers continued with their clumsy attempt at unbuttoning his dress shirt, once a small window of his chest appeared your face pressed against the cool skin, staying there until all the buttons were undone. Oh? So even you can feel shame?
“Shall we continue on the bed, my bride?” 
Your face was still hidden in his chest as you nodded, where did that shameless nature of yours go? With your gaze adverted he didn’t even bother hiding the curl of his lips. Sweeping you off the ground, he could hear the flutter in your chest increasing as the distance between the bed closes. 
Upon silk sheets, Alhaitham settles down with you in between his legs and back against his chest. One key difference between humans and vampires? Body heat, one creature’s cells produces warmth, while the other simply remains the temperature of the environment. Your flushed skin seared itself into his, icy and hot mending together to create an equilibrium. 
Of course, a good husband would warm his wife up. Alhaitham runs his cool palms along the length of your plush thighs and leg, absorbing the warmth as his own, soothing the shivers and goosebumps on your skin. Every now and then boldly creeping up the sides of your waist to twist at your perked nipples, enjoying every jolt and whine. 
“Oh? Since when was this transparent?” 
A firm hand grasps your chin, directing your vision towards white lace panties, the fingers on his other hand tracing over the shape of your cunt through the soaked fabric. Another lovely whine left your lips, face burning even more as you weakly protested in his hold, too powerless to do anything. 
Skilled digits honed in on the nub that made your body jolt away, rubbing the faintest of circles over the delicate fabric, your legs trapped by his robust arms standing no chance to preserve your shattered dignity. As such, you had to follow his desires tonight. 
“Or are you excited just by a few fleeting touches? What a lewd bride you are.” 
It seems that you were telling the whole truth when you exclaimed how much you liked his voice, his finger could feel the slick that began to seep through the lace. Brushing the fabric to the side, Alhaitham allowed his middle finger to collect the slick along your slit allowing the rest of his digits to warm up against your cunt’s soft mounds. His throat felt parched as the sweet scent teased his nose, but now was not the time, maybe later in the night. 
“Will you be honest?” The heel of this palm freely pressed against your clit as his middle finger continued to run up and down your wet lips, every now and then almost slipping. 
Your body couldn’t hide its eagerness, hole clenching at nothing every time his finger passed by. However, he needed confirmation from you. Communication is important in a contract no?
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I’ll be honest.” You pressed your back flat against his chest, trying to hide your face but his firm hold wouldn’t allow it. 
“Good girl, then tell me what you desire.” His crisp breath provides your searing skin some relief. 
Your plush lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes shut, cheeks heating up even more. It wouldn’t be good if you passed out from heat exhaustion so quickly. He grinds his palm into that sensitive nub, tormenting the answer out of you, nectar now dripping onto the sheets below. 
“I want to c-cum,” You breathed out. 
How direct, close but it wasn’t what he was looking for. 
“You have to be more clear with your instructions, how do you want to cum?” 
“Y-your fingers.” 
“Good girl.” Finally, his finger breached your soaked entrance. 
Pulsating walls welcomed him with unyielding squeezes, dragging his soaked digit further. Your sweet moans and whines resounded through the spacious suite, the volume of your voice directing him toward that spongey spot deep within. You were wet enough for another finger, so Alhaitham adds another, two digits stretching and exploring your soaked cavern. 
“Mmmh! T-there!” Your toes were curling. 
“Mmm.” The hum vibrated in his chest as his fingers went hard at work, thrusting into your quivering walls. 
Each time his palm would slap against your clit your honest hole would clench down so endearingly. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, the muscles in your leg tensing up more and more. It’s obvious that you were close, but before he fulfilled your demands, he decided to be proactive and prepare for the next step. 
Releasing your chin from his grasp, allowing your head to lull back against his shoulder. Alhaitham reaches between your bodies, hands never pausing their pace, swift fingers undoing the confines of his trousers. Allowing for his member to lay right against your back, the jolt of your body at the foreign object pressing against you made his hunger worse. 
“Did you get more turned on? You’re clenching down tighter, did you want it that badly?” 
Even if your eyes refused to meet his, the way your hips grind against his length, warming it up, told him all he needed to know. Your gummy walls constrict more around his fingers, it’s time to wrap up this scene, the next one is even more exciting. So his palm now digs into your clit, circling the now swollen bud in combination with his finger pressing against that nice spot deep inside. 
“C-cummin-” 
How cute, he didn’t even need to ask you to announce it. Letting your body ripple with the force of the orgasm, trembling limbs within his solid hold. If he was merciful, he would’ve continued to slide his fingers in and out, or maybe continue to caress your little nub, guiding you back to reality. However, hunger doesn’t allow for mercy. 
Removing his soaked digits away from your pulsating cunt, teal eyes observing the transparent strings that clung to them with amusement. A small appetizer wouldn’t spoil the main meal, skilled tongue cleaning his fingers of your slick. Your head still limp against his shoulder, eyes rolled back in the throws of pleasure. To bring you back down to earth, it's best to use a new type of force. 
Effortlessly, your hips were lifted up dripping cunt lined up with his impatient length below. In one fluid motion, your walls encase everything, drenched cunt giving no resistance as his tip kisses the spongy spot. Alhaitham lets a hiss escape him, it was as if he thrusted into the sun, your walls quickly bringing his member up to its temperature. 
From your lips another moan was ripped out, oh it seems that you’ve plummeted back to reality. Your cunt trembled yet gripped onto his cock like a vice, coaxing him to go in deeper, encouraging his hunger to abuse your gummy walls even more. Barely riding out one wave of pleasure before another drowned you. 
The hunters at your wedding could stick to your side the whole celebration, they could glare at him all they wanted, and they could try their damndest to keep the vampire at a distance. However, it was all efforts wasted in vain. For it was you, the blushing bride, who walked straight into his arms in the end, so open and receptive. 
As he slides out just the slightest bit, your cunt protested by desperately clamping down, begging for his thick girth to stay in. In response he tightened his grip on your hips, lifting your body back up before bouncing you back down. What a glutton for pleasure you were, even as your little mouth whimpered and babbled, your walls thanked each slap of his hips with squeezes. 
Sadistic hunger wanted more, to thrust deeper, to bully that poor spot inside of you over and over again with his thick tip as your walls stretch to accommodate the girth. His thighs collected the mixture of sweat and slickness from your body at each thrust. Your fingers dug into his hands, fingers white as you tried to grasp at anything to ground yourself. 
“F-fast, too m-much.” There was drool escaping the corner of your parted lips, eyes barely back from seeing the inside of your head. 
“Oh? Do you want me to stop?”
Alhaitham grinds to a stop, member still pressing deep inside you as he pulled you closer so his breath could ghost over your nape. In an instant, your mouth and cunt protested, you should be more clear with your instructions. 
“N-noo.” Crying over the ruined tension. 
“No? You wanted this.” His finger finds its way back to that swollen nub, flicking it a few times to watch the jumps of your body.
“If I let you cum, then I’ll do it my way, is that clear, my bride?” Tormenting your clit with firm circles. 
“Yes! Please! P-pleasee.”
So weak against his voice, the sweet calls of a beast to lure you into the depths of depravity. Such is the fate of a shameless bride. Thus, his hips sprang back into action with renewed vigor. One hand keeps your hips still and the other remains on your clit to force that knot to reappear deep inside you. 
Nothing but nonsense and moans babbled from your loose face, nectar dripping down to his heavy balls as they slapped against you with each pistoning of his hips. Your frantic hands entangled themselves into ash-mint locks as he felt gummy walls closing in tighter and tighter, your toes curling at the end of spread legs. Sinful slaps increased in frequency throughout the room as did the pace of the finger on your clit. 
Your tense body held the warning of another storm, another fall off the edge into the depths. Alhaitham brushes his nose up your nape, the floral scent didn’t distract him from the goal laying just behind the skin. Your nerves were exhausted from the shooting pleasure, now was the perfect time to finally get his share. It’s only fair. 
Prepping the area with a slow lick as his hips continued their brutal pace, incisors brushed against the delicate skin before piercing through. His hand shot up from your hip to your neck, a loose grip holding you still as your body tensed then violently shivered. The frenzy clamping of your cunt on his length was proof of your fall. Loose jaw uttering out broken moans as tears dripped down your chin. 
The fresh scarlet flooded over his tongue and down his throat as Alhaitham continued with his slow suckling. Ah, you were very much like a flower, so delicate, so fragrant, and so bittersweet. It’s been almost a century since he last tasted the real thing, his body celebrated by filling your walls with thick release. An equivalent exchange of some sort. 
A human body is quite frail, losing over two pints of blood borders on fatal territory. It’s not good to deplete a resource so quickly. Alhaitham releases your neck, running his tongue over the wound to seal it up. Teal eyes checked your complexion to ensure his measurements were accurate. Cheeks still with a healthy red flush as your chest heaved with pants, eyes glistening with tears. Such a shameless sight. He allows your head to roll onto his shoulder. 
The rhythm of your heart settles back to its resting state as Alhaitham analyzes the taste he just experienced. 
“I love you,” you breathed into his shoulder. 
Alhaitham stiffens, the herbal aftertaste of your blood was bitter, the tang dried out his mouth causing a drawn-out pause. This is no good, he can’t miss the cue to say the line a bride longs to hear from her groom. 
“I love you too.” 
The choir of crickets from the world outside filled the void along with your pants.
“Pfft! Maybe let’s not say that, it’s too weird.” You shamelessly laughed, lifting your face from his skin. 
What a relief, at least you seem to still have sense. Such words felt forcefully wedged into a script that wasn’t written for it. Might as well remove the line altogether. Moving on from the scene, Alhaitham lets you enjoy the warmth reflected off his body by yours. 
It’s in the clauses to allow you to enjoy all aspects of marriage, so enjoy this honeymoon segment.
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“Haitham, can you carry this for me please?”
“Haitham, I can’t reach, can you get it please?”
“Haitham, let’s have panipuri tonight!... Can you cook it please?”
It would’ve been better if he remained nothing more than just a decoration. It would’ve been easier if he was just a view for you to see behind glass. Perhaps Alhaitham’s acute eyes misread the contract, did you want a husband or just a maid? 
Instead of sitting down in his own house to enjoy a book, he finds himself saddled with domestic responsibilities. 
Must you call on him for everything?
Laundry and groceries aren’t that heavy. If you can’t reach the top shelves with the duster, then just get a chair. No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ could prevent the downward tug of his lips every time you call him that doltish name. Your justification of a ‘nickname’ between lovers was moronic. 
“Huh… Haitham how come you only use salt?”
Why do you make a creature who doesn’t consume such foods cook them? You’re more than capable of cooking for yourself every day. Although, Alhaitham would prefer it if you stopped using such overly fragrant herbs and spices. 
Of course, when two breaths occupy the same space, there are bound to be pieces that don’t fit together, just as two breaths never sync. Alhaitham already factored those into his decision, but this was more proof of why a theory is always second to application. How troublesome the reality of marriage is, no wonder divorce rates are so high. 
A good actor knows how to stay in character, so he’ll keep these thoughts to himself. Just as he lists your quirks silently. 
One, you’re capricious. One moment silently enjoying a drama on the TV you asked him to purchase, body hogging the entire expanse of a couch. The next, you’ll be humming as plates and cups clatter in the sink, or the heavy thumps of your steps as you bound through the house with a mop. Alhaitham prefers it when you’re stationary, at least it doesn’t disturb his reading.
Two, you drink tea, an unfathomable amount of it. A warm cup always nestled between your fingers, bitter water mixed with honey. The herbal tang finds its way into your blood, making it taste like medicine. Thus, Alhaitham treats it as such, medicine just to alleviate suppressed bloodlust taken in moderation. 
Three, you wanted to celebrate everything. Each square of a calender marked with scribbles. Why celebrate a celebration that’s already past? What is so special about a birthday? The past two years you purchased the same bundle of pungent flowers that made up that bouquet on that day to gift to him. 
“Don’t you want a taste? I saved a slice just for you. Oh, would you eat it if I sprinkled some of my blood on it?”
Alhaitham swiftly accepts the plate from you, lifting the fork of overly sweet birthday cake into his mouth. Useless carbs take up space in his body, but such a thing causes no harm. Better to taste like pure sugar and not medicine. 
The worst quirk of yours? You rise as soon as the sun greets the sky, adamant to not miss a single second of a day. Every day’s itinerary is filled with spur-of-the-moment decisions, such as going to a farmers market only open on Saturdays between the hours of 9 am and 2 pm. And how you drag him along. 
 Curses, only a human would drag a creature of the night into the day. What sadistic creatures, delighting in others' misery, you’re no exception. 
“I thought you said vampires aren’t like how TV depicts them.” Curious eyes observe his slouched figure. 
Vampires aren’t like how those dramas of yours depict them. No formal invitation to cross wooden thresh holds, no garlic braids as an effective shield, and no turning into a pile of ash at the mere rays of a star. 
If so, then vampires would’ve been long gone by now. However, just because the sunlight can’t kill a vampire-
“It doesn’t mean it’s not unpleasant.” His stoic voice was too tired to add a bite. 
You continued to stare at him with wonderment, as if what he said was the most complex theory known to the universe. Those dramas must’ve rotted that mind of yours, he concludes. You’re beyond saving. 
“I see.” Gentle hands lift the excessive sun hat from your head. 
Reaching on your tiptoes you place it atop his head, the straw brim providing some reprieve for his irritated skin. Shuffling the hat around until it’s securely nested along his now trussed ash locks. Satisfied, you lower yourself back down. 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. We can go home..” 
Tenderly, your hands clasped around his, guiding him into the shade. The whole walk your hands never left his, eyes always searching for the next patch of shadows to lead him into. For the rest of the weekend, you just watched your dramas, the sensation of guilt must’ve muted your voice. 
Good. He celebrated this rare break in his library away from you.
Alas, all good things must come to an end. Monday night rolled around again, as he passes the living room, he spots your loafing body napping on his couch as the TV acted as white noise. Tsk. Regardless, it’s time to get to work, he walks toward the front door.
“Wait,” came a soft command, dripping with sleep. 
From around the corner, your figure comes stumbling towards Alhaitham, his hand still firmly on the knob. Hands busy trying to rub the fatigue away from your eyes, blinking away the pleasant dream you were just in. 
Why did you abandon it? Alhaitham doesn’t know. 
Your frame reaches his, transferring some of your warmth to him, arms outstretched towards his neck. Teal eyes don’t miss the way your drowsy legs were wobbling. To prevent any accidents, he supports your body with an arm around the waist. 
Just as he feels your body steady, clammy palms encase the sides of his face. Pulling it down as your supple lips pressed against his cool cheek. Did you traverse all the way from the sofa just for a kiss? 
“Have a good night at work.” Your shameless smile beamed. 
A habit formed from one of your dramas, a wife bidding goodbye to her husband with a sweet kiss to boost his spirits. Curiosity must have gotten the better of you, or maybe you wanted to amuse yourself, two possibilities Alhaitham devises. 
“So, how’s married life treating you?” Kaveh’s smug tone grated against his eardrums as the blond rested an elbow on the bar table. 
Alhaitham couldn’t stop the frown from forming, nor the heavy sigh, so he took a hearty sip of his wine. Emptying the glass in one fluid motion. 
“Heh, I see you’ve been enjoying the spoils of marriage very much,” Tighnari snickered. 
“Sure, if you wish to see it that way.” Alhaitham’s hand found itself pouring another glass. 
It seems that everyone around the ashen-haired vampire was enjoying the spoils of this odd union, everyone but him that is. His miseries fueling the chaff nature of his acquaintances, still he needed a reprieve to drink. 
Not that herbal blood of yours, but something actually palatable like the fragrant wine washing the frustrations down his throat. It’s not marriage, it’s having to work overtime. 
“Regardless, you signed a contract, you must uphold the clauses.” Cyno’s scarlet eyes leered over the rim of his glass. 
Alhaitham sighs, he should’ve drank alone. 
The tavern wasn’t a far journey away from his house. The deep hues of night slowly shift to the youthful flushes of dawn. He’s been drinking for quite some time, it didn’t matter, alcohol has no effect on a body such as his. 
Alhaitham twists the key, the door creaking ajar just to reveal your figure with arms crossed. Disappointment ever so clear in those eyes of yours. 
“Where’ve you been?” No chirp in your tone. 
After a few hours of reprieve, Alhaitham is welcomed home with an interrogation. Wonderful. Why should he answer this meek creature standing in front of him? He could just walk to bed and get the rest he deserves. 
‘You must uphold the clauses.’ 
Right, Alhaitham has to play the role of a husband, he signed a contract, too late to just burn the papers now. 
“I went drinking with coworkers,” he curtly answers. 
“Why didn’t you call beforehand?” Your head tilts, disappointed eyes still honed on him. 
Why does he have to inform you of his every movement? Who were you to demand so much of his individuality? Alhaitham couldn’t help the frown that reappeared, directed at you, the hurdle that blocked him from entering his own home. 
The grandfather clock counted the seconds in the background, two sets of eyes locked in a stare-down. One frowning and one disappointed. How long will this last?
Your shoulders slumped as a sigh left your lungs. Eyes finally finding rest behind two heavy lids. 
“My life’s too short for misunderstandings and messy communication,” you huffed. 
Your back straightens again as you lean in closer, eyes recentering on his towering form. They no longer held the burden of disappointment, they twinkled with something else. 
“I’m your wife, and you’re my husband.” You stated the obvious.
“So when my husband, who usually arrives home at half past midnight on the dot, didn’t arrive home until dawn without a single text or call. I got worried.” 
What wasted concern, why worry for an immortal creature?
“You don’t need to report every movement to me, I don’t want that either, but if you plan on staying out please give me a simple text. So I don’t have to spend hours worrying about why my husband isn’t answering my calls.” 
Alhaitham scans over the discoloration hanging heavily under your eyes. An unpleasant sensation crawled up his spine. Phone shut off by habit, unaware of how you were losing sleep as he emptied bottle after bottle. He has to remedy the situation now, it’s what a husband should do. 
“I understand, I’ll do that from now on,” he answers. 
Is he allowed back into the confines of his own house now?
Your hands were now positioned defiantly on your hips, brows quirked up as if expecting something more. 
No. 
“You’re supposed to apologize, ya know. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife’,” you advised. 
“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife,” he parroted. 
The magic words to finally open the path into the house, words that finally returned that grin to your face. Arms outstretched you wrapped them around his neck as your lips warmed up his cool cheek. 
“Welcome home, Haitham.” 
Ah, he knows what that twinkle in your eyes was, sincerity. 
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Audiences rarely see the behind-the-scenes of a movie, with directors always handpicking which mistakes are charming enough to be shown as a blooper. Audiences don’t see the multiple scenes filmed then refilmed, they can’t experience the long hours, and they don’t know how many times lines were misread. Three years is enough time for actors to learn their lines. 
“Is my drama too loud?”
Alhaitham peers over the top of the journal, focusing on your face peeking through the entrance of his library. Judging by the apron, he guesses it's almost time for dinner, the dialogue playing on the TV was just above a muffle from here. 
��It’s fine, remember to turn on the kitchen hood.”
“Okay, which wine did you want to baste the meat in?”
“Top left, how long will it take?”
“Pfft, famished already? 15 minutes, you won’t waste away in that time right, Haitham?”  
The ever-so-adventurous palate of yours and the ever-so-drab palate of his. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, two existences that bend and twist each other until equilibrium. Equilibrium in the form of a steak basted in red wine, rare for him and medium for you. A dinner that could be enjoyed by both breaths. 
“Oh?” Your bewildered eyes blink at the bouquet presented to you. 
A wrapped box held tenderly in your hands. Alhaitham had taken note of a certain scribble marked on the calendar, it was he who got the fourth bouquet. Placing an order ahead of time to ensure the freshest flowers. 
“You said they smelled bad.”
“I’m used to it.” A half-truth. 
Your lips couldn’t suppress its toothy grin, balancing the box in one hand as the other accepts the bouquet. 
“Since you have every book in existence, I got you something else.” You nudged the wrapped present toward him. 
Unraveling the decorative paper his eyes were greeted by the sight of a carved figure of a… what is it? Meeting your eager gaze, the quirk in his eyebrow told enough. 
“It’s a hawk, I saw in storage that you used to collect these decorations.” 
Ah, you found a petty hobby he had decades ago to torment a certain someone. A figure serves no practical purpose in a home, but the eagerness of your eyes was enough to find the endearing gift a place on a shelf. 
“How does one make their blood tastier?” You pondered into his embrace. 
His tongue traveled up the nape of your neck to collect the escaped drops of scarlet and to close up the wound. Your bare skin pressed against his, rising his temperature to a pleasant warmth. 
He could feel every shiver as his length shifted within your overstimulated walls, recovering the overwhelming pleasure experienced just moments earlier. 
What an obvious answer, stop drinking that tea of yours. However, Alhaitham prefers when you have the energy to trot through crowded walkways at dusk with him in tow. Bittersweetness is an acquired taste, one that took him some time. 
“Since you have enough clarity to ask questions, I’m assuming you’re up for another round.” His husky breath ghosts over your ear.
“Wait~ I’m still sens-Ah!” 
Over time, something as short as five years, even a trickle of water can crave a home for itself in the rocky foundations of the earth that’s existed since the dawn of time.
The side of the polished dinner table with the clearest view of the TV was your side. 
The mug left in the sink with the faint aroma of tea and sweet honey was your mug.
The couch with cushions misshapen and molded by repeated use was your couch.
 Such is the lull of domestic reality, each kiss at the door to bid goodbye and each kiss to welcome him back.
Nothing, not even immortality, is resistant to time.
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Due to the crowd you’ve built your circle from, hunters were semi-frequent guests at his home. Much to your delight and his dismay. A husband should get along with his wife’s friends. 
“Your complexion has gotten paler.” Candace’s heterochromatic eyes narrowed, her hands turning your face from side to side. 
“Mmm, I haven’t been going out during the day as much.” Resting the weight of your head within her palms. 
“Bullshit, he’s been using you like livestock,” Dehya snapped. 
“Mmm? Not really, he says my blood taste like leaves.” Halfheartedly lifting your face out of Candace’s warm hold. 
“Don’t cover for that bastard,” the Flame-Mane hunter scowls. 
“Need I remind you ‘that bastard’ is still in the room?” Alhaitham breaks his silence. 
“Who said you could speak?” Sapphires clash with beryls. 
“Who’s home are you currently guests in?” 
Even without glancing down, Alhaitham could tell that Dehya’s hand was twitching to reach for the silver dagger hidden up her sleeve. The hand then falters back down, Candace must’ve also noticed, steadfast eyes sending a warning to the other hunter. 
“Of all people, why did you have to marry this vampire?” Dehya turns to you exasperated. 
“Mmm,” you hummed. 
With the finger pressed against your lip and your eyes wandering up towards nothing, Alhaitham couldn’t tell if you were deep in thought or just faking it.
Your pondering filled the room with silence, three pairs of eyes intently trained on your frame. Eyelids closed as you deepened your thought. After a few beats, they fluttered back open.  
“Because he’s just too handsome.” There’s that shameless smile again. 
The disgusted expression that plastered itself all over the hunter’s face at your response almost pushed a quiet laugh from his lips. However, Alhaitham wanted to avoid a physical confrontation from starting in his house. 
If there’s one virtue you have, it’s that you’re a fair person. You perplex your friends and husband to equal degrees. 
It’s now time for the hunters to start their night, much like how Alhaitham will soon report to the office. The two women and you were now at the threshold of the door bidding goodbye, their skeptical eyes every now and then glaring behind you at the vampire. 
“Oh, one more thing,” your voice perks up. 
Arms encapsulated two sturdy frames, pulling them close against yours. 
“I love you guys.” Your words make the two robust warriors take a sharp inhale, bodies tensing up momentarily. 
“We love you too, very much.” Candace’s voice forced itself to steady. 
“Yeah.” Dehya pulled you closer. 
After a few beats, you pulled away from your friends. Lighthearted grin lopsided on your face. 
“Alright then, stay safe out there,” you chimed, waving at them. 
After their figures disappeared from view, Alhaitham shut the oak door. You still peered out the curtains, daydreaming something as the stars reflected in your eyes. He observes for a moment before he collects the cups and dishes that once held tea and sweets to entertain bygone guests. 
You were already surrounded by love, genuine love. Why did you sell your soul to experience something you already had? Alhaitham will save that question for another day.
Would you try saying that line to him again? Maybe this time he read his line without hesitation.
Alhaitham’s heavy lids shot open. The unwelcome greetings of morning birds signaled the time of day. Keen eyes scanned over the empty space beside him, sheets still trussed in the shape of a smaller figure. The bird songs rang like sirens, heightening his senses. 
For once his ageless body left the bed without protest, swift steps pattering through the dim halls until the backyard came into view. Sunlight poured in through the open door, the wooden mounts perfectly framing your slumped figure. 
Tired body balancing upon the basket of damp laundry, halfway from the backdoor and clothes line, you stopped to take labored breaths. 
Swiftly he was by your side, towering stature blocking you from the harsh rays. Alhaitham lifts your fatigued body from the ground, giving your aching legs relief. Even with the sun hanging high in the sky, your skin didn’t absorb an ounce of warmth. 
He takes you to the safety of the dim house, settling you onto the soft cushions of your couch. 
“Don’t push yourself.” Alhaitham shifts a few pillows behind your back. 
“I wasn’t, the laundry needs to be hung,” you huffed. 
“Just call for me.” 
You sounded out a whine of protest, but your breathing steadied. Alhaitham moves to stand back to full height, ready to finish the task awaiting out in the sun. 
“Wait,” came your soft call. 
Plucking your favorite sun hat off, you bestowed it upon unkempt ash locks still dusted with sleep. Fussing with the oversized straw brim until it stayed in place. Once satisfied you beamed, fingers caressing his smooth cheeks before placing a peck from curled lips. 
“Thank you, Haitham.” 
Adamant hands smoothed over the damp clothes, ensuring that they didn’t dry on the line with wrinkles that stayed stubbornly. The morning rays felt like sand against his exposed skin, but the hat bestowed upon him made it tolerable. 
“It’s dusk, would you like to stroll through the market tonight?” Beryl eyes inspect the curled figure of his wife among cushions and blankets. 
“Mmm, maybe not tonight.” You sink deeper into your couch, drama long forgotten. 
“I see.” Alhaitham moves to the armchair just adjacent to you, a frequent perch of his now. 
“Come here?” 
Just as you finished blinking Alhaitham was by your side again. Slowing lifting your upper body just off the cushion, you pat the now free space, welcoming him to sit. He wouldn’t be a good husband if he were to deny such a request. So he sits. 
Once the ashen-haired vampire was fully situated, your head found its place upon his thighs. 
“Lap pillow,” there was that giggle of yours. 
Alhaitham sighs, but he couldn’t prevent the corner of his lips from curling up, so he hides it with his book. This must be something you learned from those dramas again. He’ll humor it. 
His cool fingers run along your scalp as his teal eyes switched between your resting face and the words printed along the aged paper.
Maybe not today, perhaps tomorrow when the rays of a selfish star kiss your cheeks.
The drinks were served quietly, the tavern didn’t seem as lively tonight. Perhaps because it’s the busy season, Spring air carries with it the signs of renewing life and tax forms. 
“So, how is she, the wife?” Kaveh traverses the stagnant air. 
What a redundant question, Alhaitham knows they can smell the fragrance lingering on his body from you, the aroma of flowers only found in a garden beyond a line immortals can cross. The scent of an ending journey. 
“I’ll send some more Kalpalata Lotus tea, one cup a day should help with lethargy.” Tighnari prescribes, making a mental note to prepare the delivery once he returns home. 
“Thank you, how much would I owe?”
“None, just a gift for your wife.” 
Alhaitham hums in gratitude, and the table continued to play cards placidly. Throughout the rounds, his teal eyes stole glances over to a dark screen. 
The group dispersed at dawn, but it wasn’t long before Alhaitham acknowledged the presence behind him. 
“Alhaitham.” 
He only glanced over his shoulder at the tan vampire. 
“Remember the punishment that awaits those who dare disturb the cycle of life.” A threatening crackle resounded from the curled fingers by Cyno’s side. 
Alhaitham already knows and Cyno knows it all too well. After all, the privilege of a good true death was stolen away from the white-haired man many years ago. Cursing the shorter man to eternity. Thus, Cyno now spends eternity punishing those who dare break the most sacred law.
Alhaitham responds with a nod and with that the two men parted ways as the rosy hues of dawn dyed the sky. You’re probably in bed already, it’ll be his kiss to announce his return.
In an age where humans outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to obey mortal laws. The most sacred of laws, vampires cannot turn humans into immortal beings. It’s illegal, it’s immoral even to curse such fleeting creatures with eternity. 
However, vampires are creatures born outside the grace of god from the very start, lurking in the shadows of iconoclasm. What difference would it make? 
It’s his night to make dinner, steak with red wine sauce. 
What is the difference between blood and wine to the inattentive eye? The scarlet hues could be easily mixed. All it would take is a sprinkle, drops stirred into the fragrant sauce served over the juicy meat, for you to abandon your humanity. For the ticking of a grandfather clock to stop its hands.
Who wouldn’t want more time? 
A scene from a night now long past resurfaces at the front of Alhaitham’s mind. 
“Would you want more time?” Came a question that broke the silence after a moment of passion. 
Your damp skin glistens under the moonlight, your chest rising and falling as the lust slowly blinks away from your eyes. Alhaitham’s hand on your back guides you down from cloud nine. You stared at him inquisitively, teal reflecting back to him as he remains silent. 
Ashen hair tussled and scratches fading away from cooling skin, he awaits your answer, schemes manifesting. 
You let out a hum, signing that you’ll humor his question this time, as your face rests against the pillow comforted by his woodsy scent. 
If you had more time, he would have more time. More time to pick your brain. More time to search through the archives of your thoughts to decrypt you. More time to grovel at your feet for forgiveness after he rips the humanity away from your arms. 
Alhaitham is a prideful thing, but he’s not a dense fool. He knows when an apology is necessary, insight gained from his time shared with you. 
Teal eyes glance back behind him towards the living room, where your figure sat quietly, attention distracted by the pair of lovers on screen in the midst of a tense argument. Never once turning behind to glance into the kitchen, not one ounce of suspicion. The scene finishes.
“I was born a human.” Your lids opened again, meeting his beryl-like eyes. 
Irises pure like the moonlight reflected in them. He hums in acknowledgment, fingers tracing mindless scripts into your tender back. 
“I will die as one.”
He hums in confirmation. 
A riddle he couldn’t quite solve to bypass the sphinx who guards the sanctuary of your mind. Humans are greedy creatures of conquest, always wanting more, always hungry for more. That’s why creatures like him exist and thrive, feeding into the natural greed of humans. 
Every human wants more power, more money, more wisdom. Every human wants more and more and more. Every human, so why can’t you want more? It seems that the breeze who gallivanted into his office, proposing to him with a contract, won’t reveal her secret. 
As it was outlined on the paper signed by two names, he shall honor your wishes for now until the end, such is the character of a husband. 
Alhaitham runs his hand under the kitchen sink, shameless eyes watching as the water turns clear again, and as the skin closes up. A feature only a creature born outside the jurisdiction of god would have. 
He finishes the meal with a few sprinkles of freshly cut herbs, serving the untainted sauce over juicy cuts of steak, one cooked medium and one cooked rare. He calls you over to the dinner table. 
The average human life span has increased drastically in the past centuries, it’s now about eighty years give or take. 
Still a mere fraction of the time held by vampires. 
Eighty years, and yet you could only have a fraction of that. You could only offer him a sliver of a fraction. 
“It’s been a while since you’ve fed, aren’t you hungry?” Your eyes peered over at him. 
Alhaitham wipes the washcloth along your back from beside the porcelain tub, steamy water carrying the fragrance of Nilotpala Lotuses. The humidity of the bathroom made the shirt cling to his skin like a wet rag, but the moisture helped with your coughs. 
“I’m satisfied.” Another half-truth, teal eyes scan for any signs of discomfort, he can bare it. 
“Really? I’m sure my blood doesn’t taste like leaves anymore.” You rested your cheek again on the warm washcloth, eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights as you looked into his. 
The gift by Tighnari sitting untouched in the corner of a cabinet. Perhaps you’ve gotten tired of the bitter herbal taste, or maybe because there wasn’t a point in drinking it anymore.
Alhaitham fought the urge to click his tongue at your brash humor, only you would worry about how you taste during the closing days of a contract. However, his lips couldn’t form a frown when you beamed at him like that.
On the path to work, beryl eyes landed upon a bouquet arranged with familiar flowers, the petals dyed by the rich hues of dusk. The florist was busy gathering up the displays to bring them back inside for the night. 
“Excuse me, I’d like to purchase this bouquet.” 
That night at the office, the staffed vampires crinkled their noses at the overwhelmingly floral scent that plagued the floor. Alhaitham just shut his office door, bouquet resting in a hastily prepared vase, such a thing won’t kill a vampire it’s such a minuscule issue. 
“I’m home.” He locks the door after him. 
Keen hearing not picking up the pattering of feet along the hardwood floor. Placing the flowers on the entranceway table along with his dress shoes, the ashen-haired immortal trekked through the halls, silence ringing in his ears. 
Behind the solid bedroom lay his answer, turning the knob, Alhaitham feels tense muscles loosen as the steady melody of breaths resounded through the room. 
You’ve been here since this afternoon, body now imprinted into the plush mattress. Still, your blood still runs and your chest still rises, even if there were faint hints of wheezing it was good enough. Quiet as a shadow, Alhaitham removes his blazer and tie before joining you under the sheets. He’s been craving sleep. 
A timeless body doesn’t need sleep, ageless cells don’t require such downtime to recover. However, claiming that vampires don’t enjoy sleep would be a blatant lie. A calm way to pass the endless time offered by eternity, a nice way to escape boredom. 
Or maybe it’s because sleep gives immortal creatures a taste of an experience they’ll never have. Peaceful expiry. 
Teal eyes observe the ever-present curl of your lips before cool lips are pressed against your plush ones. A habit formed after six years. The flowers were still left at the door, but they’ll survive the night. Alhaitham will show them to you in the morning, and you’ll beam that grin at him in the morning. 
Fresh flowers rested in a vase gifted by friends on the nightstand, the last flowers of Spring. The delicate blooms give way to the vibrant greens of Summer. Such a cruel season for vampires, with days so long and nights so short. A cruel season that offered your body no additional warmth. 
Alhaitham’s hand brushes against the apples of your cheeks, your unconscious body protests in an instant with shivers and curls away from the thief stealing what precious heat you had. As if burned by fire, the vampire retracts his hand. 
Right, he can’t be greedy. Teal eyes watch every tremor until his legs finally remembered how to walk. Pacing to the closet Alhaitham pulls the Winter covers out from storage, insulating your body with the thick duvet. 
The layers form a barrier protecting you from icy touches as he smooths out the wrinkles. 
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When humans walk into a garden, their eyes are immediately drawn toward the most beautiful blooms. Watching intently at how the petals of the young blossom unravel, their senses enjoying the heavenly fragrance. It’d only be a matter of seconds before their inevitable greed takes over, and they wish to claim the flower as their own. 
In this sense, the gods are no different than the mortals who were crafted in their image. Greedy to pluck the most beautiful blooms from the garden for their mere amusement. 
Is that what went on behind the garden wall those born outside the jurisdiction of god couldn’t peer over? Alhaitham wonders if you’d answer this inquiry of his. However, if he wants answers, he’ll have to ask soon. 
How should he say the last lines of this script?
Alhaitham ponders. There wasn’t a director to give a cue, no parenthetical to follow. Perhaps he’s entertaining such futile thoughts to distract himself.
With each wheeze of your chest, the itch in his palm grew unbearable. His thumb begged to dig its nail into the smooth skin until scarlet droplets trickled out. However, it never got its chance for soon your ailing fingers occupied the space, interlocking to halt its motion as gold rings clinked together. 
“My husband is such a handsome actor.” Breathy voice babbling with a giggle. 
Alhaitham’s cool skin hogged your warmth, trying to permanently sear the temperature into itself. 
“You don’t have to play this role anymore.” You craned your neck away with a deep exhale, exposing the vulnerable skin to him. 
There’s nothing viler to a vampire than stagnant blood. Blood that no longer runs tastes rotten, cold blood is worst than bile. Your blood still ran warm, he could sense it. This time it was his incisors that itched. 
Keen eyes don’t miss the way your nape prickled at the breath that ghosted over it as his lips parted. Your lids gently shut, bracing yourself. The incisors brushed against your exposed jugular, but they couldn’t break through the delicate skin. They wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t. 
Like the cowards they were, they retreated. Alhaitham closes his lips, deciding to press a tender kiss on the spot instead. His free hand guides your head back into a comfortable position on the plush pillow. 
“You don’t have to hold yourself back.” Your eyes were open again. 
“I’m not holding myself back,” he spoke the truth, the whole truth.
You were born with blood, it’s only right that you die with it, Alhaitham concludes. 
The ending clause of that contract be damned. 
“What a silly vampire.” Your bell-like laughter twinkled in his ears. 
Yes, he is. Even after all these centuries, Alhaitham realizes he’s still no better than a fool. A shameless fool. An idiotic hypocrite ready to stray away from the principles he thought he held firm. He’ll accept this verdict, he’ll continue this fool’s errand, if and only if you continue to giggle at his antics.
Outside the window came the dirge of Summer crickets, gentle crips accompanying your fleeting wheezes. Alhaitham shifts the thick comforter up your body, smoothing out the wrinkles as the soft warmth lulls you away. 
Your still fingers in between the spaces of his, your head curled within the space between his nape. 
Under the moon’s pure rays, lay two bodies atop soft sheets, curled towards each other, the fleeting warmth long dissipating. Atop silk sheets, one body envisions the two buried under cold dirt and not clean comforters with hands somehow still locked together. Deep under the garden wall.
Once the cruel sun creeps into the sky, and the night flees into hiding with her stars, Alhaitham will have to make a call. 
He’ll have to speak with the receptionist on the other end, with their bright customer service greeting, and get a legal pronouncement of death. Then soon after that, he’ll have to arrange the transportation of your cold husk. He’ll have to lower you into the ground alone.
However, the morning is still hours away, the moon is still here to lend her quiet sympathies. So tonight, just for tonight humor his little daydream.  
Fin~
©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 
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beepboopkek · 3 months
Text
— Strip Starchess with Jing Yuan (Female Reader)
Including: Jing Yuan cw: afab!reader, pwp but barely, slight mention of reader having a size kink, unprotected p in v, first time writing a proper fic, first time writing smut (please send help), reader is a little bashful, overall its kind of a self-projection I guess. Jing Yuan is a little bastard (affectionate), stripping (who would've guessed), grammatical errors(I tried), Jing Yuan calls you pet names (dear, love), no use of y/n, light bondage ( reader gets their hands tied with a t-shirt nothing too bad), safe sane and consensual w/c: 3941 (might be a little off since I made a few edits in this post) a/n: I am so sorry for this I am going to die of cringe later but I needed this out of my brain so I made my best attempt at writing. There is a lot of stuff that is bad but I do not have the energy or patience to do it so, you have been warned, this is a first-time smut from an inexperienced writer whose first language isn't english :3 hope someone out there likes this
You were bored.
Extremely bored.
Jing Yuan had promised you he’d come home on time so that the two of you could enjoy dinner together. You had something fun planned for the evening for the two of you. Something you were excited to try out.
One problem though, there were still no signs of your boyfriend’s arrival.
You sent him a few messages asking him where he was but to no avail, you knew for a fact he wouldn’t be able to respond anyway.
The sound of a door opening broke you out of your thoughts as you turned around and were met with an apologetic soft smile on Jing Yuan’s face.
“Yu.”
“My Love.”
You huffed at him in annoyance, realising what he was trying to do. He always knew how to soften you up.
“You’re late.” You said as you watched him unstrap his boots and place them near the shoe rack before he turned to look at you.
“I apologize, I overslept in the afternoon and had to compensate as a result.” Jing Yuan gave you a pitiful look.
“Regardless, I am here now,” He walked over to where you were seated and leaned down to place a chaste kiss on your head. “And I’d love to eat what my dear has cooked for me.”
You rolled your eyes at him a little and turned towards the table again as he took his seat opposite to you. You began eating in silence while Jing Yuan served himself some of the food you’d made.
“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He spoke suddenly as you focused on eating and ignoring him.
“Be like what? I didn’t do anything.” You huffed back to him again while continuing to look at your food when you suddenly heard the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor, you looked up, only to be met with your boyfriend’s amber eyes boring into yours.
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
You grumbled something with your mouth full.
“I didn’t catch that, love.”
You gulped down your food, 
“I said, play Starchess with me”
“Do we not play Starchess on a regular basis already?”
“We do, yes, but I found a new variation of the game that I thought would be fun to try out. Only if youre up for it, though.” You made eye contact with him again as his eyebrow shot up in surprise.
He leaned in on the table and rested his head on the palm of his hand as he tilted his head lazily.
“Go on.”
Your confidence and annoyance all but vanished this exact second, you really hadn’t expected him to be this interested and knowing him , he probably already has an idea simply based off of the tone of your voice.
“...Nevermind.” You looked away, blushing as Jing Yuan continued to watch in lazed amusement.
“Is it-”
“Yes it’s Strip Starchess, okay? I thought it would be fun to play.” You blurted out as your ears turned a light shade of red.
“I was going to say Blitz Starchess.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you turned back to look at Jing Yuan who was now miserably failing at holding back his laughter as his shoulders shook silently and he pressed his lips together.
“I hate you.”
Jing Yuan laughed and you pouted.
“I didn’t do anything, though?”
“You know exactly what you're doing, Yu.”
Jing Yuan smiled apologetically once again as you pouted while avoiding eye contact with him. He sighed fondly and picked up his chopsticks again.
“Strip Starchess, hm? Let’s finish dinner and begin.”
You huffed again and turned back to your food and soon enough, Jing Yuan started some casual conversation and the whole ordeal was pushed to the back of your mind.
. . .That was until after you both finished eating and cleaning up.
Shit.
You suddenly had very important things to do in your library so you quietly started walking towards it, hoping Jing Yuan had all but forgotten about your earlier conversation. Just as you were about to open the door, a familiar voice called out from behind you,
"Dear?" 
You slowly turned around, trying not to look like you were caught committing a crime.
"...Yes?"
"Where would you like to play? I think the living room would be best since it is rather spacious. We can close the curtains but,"
Jing Yuan paused as he looked towards the box in his hands and back to you,
"I'm saying that while assuming that we will be taking off our clothes sooner or later. Am I wrong?" 
He smiled innocently. This bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
"... Fine, let's go to the living room then, I'll explain the rules to you." 
Jing Yuan hummed pleasantly as he walked behind you, setting the board down onto the hard wooden flooring as the both of you sat down facing each other. 
He opened up the box and set up the game and looked at you expectantly.
There was no backing out now, so you might as well give it your best.
"It's in the name, you strip when you lose a pawn." 
"Strip entirely? Or just an article of clothing?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
You gave an exasperated sigh as you stared at him with the grumpiest expression you could muster.
"I'm afraid I don't, love."
He gave you a cat-like smile as he patiently waited for you to explain.
"...Only a piece of clothing. The one who has the most clothes off at the end of the game is the loser,"
You made yourself comfortable, you need your initial confidence back desperately.
"We'll play 3 games and see who wins. I won't be going easy on you."
You smiled at him mischievously as he chuckled and re-adjusted his seating position before looking right into your eyes.
"Very well then, let the games begin." 
You focused your eyes on the board and played your first move, positioning the soldier pawn in front of your king 2 steps ahead.
Jing Yuan’s eyes lit up as he countered it by moving the same piece on his side. He knew exactly how you were going to play and he was going to ensure he won.
The game progressed and you eventually lost your first pawn, you sighed in annoyance at the realization as you looked up to see your boyfriend with his cat-like smile and of course, he had the most innocent look on his face.
Damnit.
You sighed reluctantly as you cursed him under your breath and removed your jacket.
“Happy?” You deadpanned at him.
“Very much so. Don’t be upset, you still have a chance to win.” He smirked lazily as he waited for you to play your turn
You were more cautious now, not letting him take any of your pawns when you realized you had a safe opening to take his pawn!
You took the chance and took his soldier with your bishop. Looking up at him in triumph.
He smiled back at you casually as he raised his hands in surrender,
“You got me there,”
You watchedn him in anticipation as your mouth watered a little, sure you’d been living together for a few months now but, nothing beat seeing Jing Yuan’s body.
He place his hand on his shoulder guard and removed it before smiling at you pleasantly again.
You blinked once.
Twice.
Scanning him to see if he removed anything else while you were day-dreaming.
Nope, nothing.
"I said one piece of clothing, your shoulder brace doesn't count as one." 
"You never specified if accessories were also counted."
You huffed at him, "You never asked!" 
"I don't recall having to ask, I gave you the chance to explain everything to me." He smiled innocently again.
He was right. 
He knew he was and continued to play his next move.
Bastard.
Suddenly, it dawned on you that he was still in his armor and work uniform, meaning it would take at least 15 individual games of Starchess to get even the first layer off of him. Your eyes widened in realization as he looked at you and stifled his laughter.
Well, you certainly weren't in your work clothes and barely had anything on in the first place but you might have a few accessories on your person if you looked hard enough.
Two can play that game.
The game continued as you tried your best to defend your pieces from his attacks but he was too good… much to your displeasure.
By the end of the first game, Jing Yuan barely looked any different from how he was when he entered your shared home while you had to remove your own rings and piercings, putting them away in a corner neatly as to not lose them.
Jing Yuan won the first game by the rules of normal Starchess and the two of began your second round.
You were determined, but so was he.
Time passed rather quickly as you watched your boyfriend remove more accessories and you really wondered how he was able to walk or even fight with that much on his body.
You shook your head. Now's not the time for distractions.
The game progressed as you watched your pawns get taken one by one.
Rook, Bishop, a couple of soldiers and the list went on.
…You realized very late that you were going to lose.
You've never beat him in a game of starches, partially because he sneaks away your pieces but also because he's genuinely skilled at playing the game.
You were down to your last game, Jing Yuan in his shirt and pants along with some random trinkets of his uniform that you didn't even know the purpose of, you, however, were a different story.
You'd managed to get down just to your t-shirt and panties, shivering a little in both anticipation and the chill of the night.
“Do you need a blanket? You won't have anything to cover you soon enough, I'd hate to get you sick, dear.” Jing Yuan looked at you lazily.
Bastard.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“I'm good. This is the last game and by the look of it, you've lost more pieces than I have.”
He made a content noise in the back of his throat as if agreeing with you before looking down at the board and smiling.
“I'm afraid you are correct, I admire your confidence in the face of calamity. However,”
He moved his bishop in line with your king.
“Checkmate.” 
You glanced around the board, trying to find an escape route but there were none. 
There was no denying it, you had lost the third game as well.
But the rules were about clothes, you looked up at him and back at yourself.
“. . . Fuck.”
You sighed, reluctantly admitting defeat.
“Alright , alright. You win the 3 games and the whole game considering you have more layers on you than I do.” 
Jing Yuan smiled in amusement as he crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly,
“So, what's my reward for winning?” 
You were already packing up the board as you looked at him with a huff and stood up.
“I'll let you nap in the afternoon more tomorrow, that's your reward.” 
But before you could move your half naked self away, Jing Yuan moved closer and swiftly knocked your knees back so you toppled down onto him.
“Jing Yuan! I almost knocked the board on your head!”
You had wrapped your arms around his neck, scared to lose balance and plop onto the floor if he were to drop you.
“I'm interested in another reward.”
“What?”
“I'm the winner so isn't it natural I get to pick my reward? Besides, no proper terms were set for it when you explained the rules to me.”
“You little shit, you knew this was going to happen.”
“Dear, I am the divine foresight for a reason.” 
He chuckled as his hands slowly moved down your torso and to the hem of your t-shirt. 
He grasped the hem as he leaned into your body and spoke lowly in your ear
“Of course, if you don't want this, we could just revert to my original reward.” 
His hold on you was firm but gentle, indicating that he'd let you go if you wanted him to.
“But, something about the way you're trembling in my hold tells me you don't want to stop, do you?” 
Your breath was coming out in shaky puffs now. You simply looked away in embarrassment before he pressed himself closer to you, you could feel the warmth of his body through the clothes he was wearing.
“Answer me.” 
“. . . I don't want you to stop” 
He smiled against your ears and you swear if he had a tail it would be swishing around in excitement by now.
“That wasn't so hard, was it?” 
Kissing the red shell of your ear he moved your face towards him and kissed you deeply before pressing his forehead to yours.
“Now, allow me to claim my reward.”
He peppered kisses along your jaw as his hands finally, finally took your t-shirt up to your neck as you raised your arms to help him get it off.
You were down to your panties and bra now, coincidentally, you were wearing one of his favourite sets’.
His kisses continued downward, unbuckling your bra with one hand while the other appreciatively squeezed around your body.
He leaned down on your chest, taking a nipple into his mouth as his other hand tweaked with the other and you gasped, sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
Your hands immediately found purchase in his soft hair as you closed your eyes and whispered his name.
Jing Yuan always , always made sure to lather extra attention to your chest, you never understood why but it had now become a sensitive spot for you.
He kissed and licked around your nipples, leaving little bites in between so that he can see them in the morning and fuck you all over again.
Deciding he'd done enough to your chest (for now) he moved his attention downwards, chuckling breathlessly at the small wet patch on your panties.
His large hand slid down as he started moving his finger up and down on your panties, making the wet patch grow bigger.
“You call me a bastard and yet have the nerve to be this wet for me, hm?” 
“S-Shut up.” 
You panted as your brain became fuzzy and warm, not being able to think of anything else except Jing Yuan touching you.
He smirked as he added pressure with his finger on exactly where your clit is and you gasped loudly. The fabric of your panties providing a weird but not unwelcome feeling.
“Do you think you can cum just from this alone?”
“I don't k-”
You cut yourself off with a loud moan as he pinched your clit and rubbed it.
“You don't know? Well, that's too bad. We'll just have to find out it seems, hm?”
You were gasping for air and moaning loudly at this point, thrashing and tugging at Jing Yuan’s hair like your life depended on it.
“I'm feeling nicer today, let's take this off, dear.” 
He tugged at your panties and your hazy mind cleared for a second 
“Jing Yuan! Don't I-”
A loud ripping sound echoed through the room as you stared in horror at the shredded remains of your panties but before you could utter a word, Jing Yuan kissed you and simultaneously continued to make circles around your clit.
You weakly slammed your fisted hands onto the hard planes of his chest but to no avail, he wasn't going to let up.
He continued flicking your clit at a faster pace before speaking into your ear.
“Be a good girl and cum for me”
You moaned as you clenched his (now crumpled) white shirt in your hands as your eyes rolled back and your orgasm flooded over your body in waves.
The general continued to make slow and gentle circles on your clit as you got down from your high, peppering your body with kisses and bites everywhere.
You were still breathing heavily when you regained your senses again.
“So, my hypothesis was correct.” 
“You're gonna pay for that, Yu.”.
You said, not sure if youre referring to the torn panties or the fact that him massaging your clit was enough to get you to cum.
“Of course I will, and any other matching set you like so I can rip them all off of your body.” 
His voice was so calm while speaking you'd almost think he was unaffected by the situation but that was far from the truth, sitting on his lap gave away that he was extremely hard underneath you.
He kissed you again, gently this time as he pulled back and bore his eye into yours.
“Do you want to continue?” 
You didn't respond, only leaning in to kiss him before bringing your hands to the collar of his shirt and unbuttoning it.
“I'm not the only one that's going to be naked here.” 
He helped you take off his whole shirt, watching you as you admired his sculpted and scarred torso. 
“Turn around for me, love.”
You did as you were told, sitting in his lap with your back against his chest.
His hands suddenly came up on you again, going downwards to your pussy as he outlined your lips. Pressing gently on the soft flesh.
Your hands immediately found purchase on top of his much bigger ones, your breathing picking up again.
He inserted two fingers in you, pushing them in and out and curling them in just the right spot, hitting your already frayed nerves and stretching you open for him. Keeping the rhythm of his fingers up, slowly getting you towards the edge again when suddenly,
You were left empty as Jing Yuan retracted his hand and wiped it onto his pants as he unzipped them, before hooking both his hands under your plush thighs and lifting your slit above his cock.
“Tell me if you need a break.”
Before you could respond, he was already impaling you on his cock, pushing you down slowly as you reached back with your hands and grabbed his neck while arching your back.
“F-Fuck- too much-”
“You can take it, I know you can.”
He whispered breathlessly as he continued pushing you down until you met the base of his cock.
“There we go.”
Jing Yuan waited for you to adjust while rubbing gentle circles on your clit, watching intently as you fought to gain back your breath.
You were struggling at this point, mind in a haze at the feeling of being so full. Not knowing where to place your hands you blurted our the first coherent thought that came to your mind.
“. . .Tie my hands, please.”
Now it was the general’s turn to be surprised, you were not one to beg usually. He smiled coyly as he grabbed your discarded t-shirt and rolled it up to form a makeshift knot.
“If i was aware we were going to this tonight, I wouldve prepared more.”
You pushed your hands out together in front of you impatiently, just wanting to move but not trusting your shaking legs to carry through.
Jing Yuan kissed around your ears again started working on binding your hands immediately. Securing it as tight as he could, he tugged on it before pecking you on the cheek.
“There. Is that better?”
“Yes.”
You were fully panting now, subtly grinding yourself on his cock.
Jing yuan took it as his cue to move and hooked his hands under your thighs again before lifting you off his cock.
The split second where you were left empty was enough for you to whine. He wasn’t a cruel lover, though, he thrusted back in, filling you instantly.
He kept the tempo of fast but deep strokes and before long you could feel your second orgasm approaching.
Suddenly, there was a change as he pushed you down onto the wooden floor face first and ass up, the angle making him reach in different areas.
Your tied hands were above your head as you got rubbed on the floor like a mop cloth from his powerful thrusts. Jing Yuan bent over and draped his larger frame over your back, holding down your shaking hands with one of his own and thrusting faster.
“Come on, come for me.”
He whispered into your ear, again, reaching his other hand down to play with your clit.
And that's all it took for you to orgasm, releasing over his cock as he kept his pace.
For a few seconds, you blanked out completely, caught up in the haze of your orgasm that you didn't even notice Jing Yuan continuing,
That was until you were brought back to reality by a hit of overstimulation, tears already collecting at your lashes as the pleasure soared through your entire body.
“Y-Yu-”
“Just a little more.”
He continued rubbing fast circles over your clit and you could feel the tendrils of your third orgasm creeping up on you as you clenched around him hard.
It pierced through you just as your boyfriend finally released inside you, hot liquid filling you up and you felt so full.
Jing Yuan panted as he rested some of his body weight on you, essentially pinning you in place and having no way to move. Just the way you like it.
He grabbed your hips with both his hands as he gently thrusted a few times to get the last few seconds of pleasure in, wrecking your already overstimulated pussy.
“. . . I think my reward is incomplete.” He said after a few beats of silence.
“Absolutely not.” 
Jing Yuan laughed breathlessly as he pulled you back onto his lap and rested himself against the sofa, wrapping his hands around your waist and putting his head on your shoulder.
The both of you relished in the afterglow for a bit with him still stuffed inside you, just enjoying and soaking each other’s presence, you were the first to speak.
“Horny bastard, you really piledrived me on the floor of our living room.” You laughed while pecking at his cheeks.
“Me? I’m the horny one now? You were the one that suggested this game in the first place!”
Jing Yuan feigned hurt as he tightened his hold on you, eyeing you cheekily as your ears turned red.
“I didn’t proposition sex! It was a game to-”
“To what? Play house with each other?” Jing Yuan asked in an amused tone before continuing,
“You wanted it to end like this, didn’t you?”
“Not on the goddamn floor! I’m gonna have bruises from this tomorrow, I hope you're happy.”
You pouted and held your (still bound) hands close to your chest, hearing Jing Yuan snicker and feeling his chest shake.
“I’ll give you a massage right now, on the bed this time, to make up for it”
“And then what? Escalate it into having sex again? I need to walk tomorrow, Yu.”
“You know me too well.”
You looked at him into his eyes and he simply gave you a crooked smile
“Untie my hands, we need to clean up and get to bed”
“Hmm… How about I let you go now and you let me enjoy my reward in the shower again?”
You sighed before nodding in acceptance, you weren’t going to feel your legs tomorrow.
This is the price you pay for provoking the sleeping lion.
“Horny bastard.”
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uglypastels · 1 year
Note
Hi there! Maybe tmi but I’ve been daydreaming of a scenario where you and Eddie have been staring at each other for most of senior year but you’re too shy to approach each other and then you bump into him at school after-hours and suddenly you’re slamming each other into the locker room or AV room or whatever other school setting and having crazy panting feral hot sex. I love your fics so I’d pass out if you wrote something along these lines and then spontaneously combust from horniness
ok this immediately got me inspired to write, even though I told myself "no blurbs until you finish the pirate eddie fic" but fuck it. i had to write this.
warnings: SMUT minors dni! unprotected PIV (female!reader). kinda public?? in a school building but no one's around. swearing. i don't think there's anything else, but I'm sorry I'm tired.
masterlist // inbox // add yourself to my taglist
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What were you doing? What in the world were you thinking? 
Well, the answer to the first question was quite simple. You were standing in front of the janitor’s closet. It was just the beginning of your free period, when you were supposed to be sitting in the library studying for your upcoming chem final, but it turns out you had more important things at hand. 
You looked down at the note in your hand again. The one he had dropped right in front of you just a few hours ago. It had been at your locker, it was early, and you were barely awake, putting away your jacket. 
At first, you had thought nothing of it, still trying to get over the fact that Eddie Munson had bumped into you. The image of his flashy smile was still developing in your corneas. So when you saw the small piece of paper, you thought it might have just been some trash he dropped, but either way, you decided to pick it up. Out of mere curiosity, really. You had seen the black pen marks bleeding through it and wanted to know what the school’s freak had to say. And what it was… was quite interesting. 
5th period. Janitor’s closet, west. Meet me there. 
E. 
Your heart nearly burst out of your chest, but it couldn’t have been meant for you, could it? Either way, you went to the west hall. You found that janitor’s closet and looked around for anyone. What would other students think if you stood around? Could they tell what you were trying to build the courage up for? 
Eddie must have already been inside as the clock on the wall ticked loudly away past the first minute of the hour. You wanted to go inside; you did, but you couldn’t push away the feeling that he might have meant the note for someone else. Had he accidentally dropped it in front of you and been waiting for a completely different person?
So, why the hell did you still knock? 
Why even knock in the first place? Why not just open the door? It all felt so stupid, and you felt even sillier when the door opened and Eddie popped out.
He grabbed you by the arm and pulled you inside. It was neither light nor dark in the cupboard. The lightbulb above your head barely gave off any light, but the window in the door was a bit of help. That's when you realised that even though you could not see him there, he had seen you pace about in the corridor.
‘I thought you’d never come in.’ He said with a smile, voice airy, his body inching closer to you with each word. His hands were already setting up their place on your hips, hesitant for your reaction. He clearly had a lot of things on his mind that he wanted to express, but he also didn’t want to push any of your boundaries. You could tell just by how his breath hitched in anticipation, how he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. 
‘I– I thought you might have given me the note by accident.’ you placed your hand over his chest. Just that feeling alone, even with the many layers of his clothing between you, it made you melt. Of course, the room was small, with no proper air circulation, so that might have been why you felt so hot, but something in you told you that might not have been entirely it. He chuckled at your confession.
‘Who else would it have been for?’ His nose brushed over your cheek, his words hitting your hot skin as he spoke. He was about to move away, but you mirrored his actions right in sync, crashing your lips to his, breaking the dam of feeling and need that had been building between the two of you for the last few weeks. 
It all started with innocent looks across the room—a smile, a wink. 
But it all gradually escalated in subtle ways. No matter how much you would have wanted to, you never dared to take it any further than this. And neither could Eddie. He was a person who was very loud and boisterous, but at times he could shut down and close off. At times, for example, when he was struck by you looking directly at him from your cafeteria table. How he had wanted to walk up to you, tell you everything he had wanted to say each time he saw you, but all the words collapsed in his mind as soon as you actually showed up in front of him. And pretty much the same happened to you. 
Maybe that is why you felt like you were being pulled together. This invisible string connected the two of you in ways no one could explain but wouldn’t complain about either.
The last week, in particular, something had been set off in both of you. Nothing you did was particularly sexual, but it got him going, and you could say the same thing about Eddie. Just seeing him sit there, laid back in the chair, legs spread out, laughing at whatever his friends were saying– you wanted to sit in that lap and laugh along with him.
You couldn’t be wearing a cuter outfit, could you? Eddie’s heart was doing overtime in trying to keep him alive at the sight of you. He needed to talk to you, say something about how you made him feel. 
That is all he had intended with the note. Just so the two of you could talk. Perhaps the tiny enclosed space of the cupboard in an abandoned part of the school was presumptuous of him. Maybe he should have picked a bit more open space, but in all honesty, he was scared that after talking to him for a minute, you would just laugh in his face for how wrong he had been about you. You being interested in him? Now that would make its rounds around the school in no time. 
But then you got into that damn little closet with him, and it’s like all his sanity had left him. He couldn’t compose himself any longer. The feeling of you being so close to him made him haywire in the best way possible, and when you kissed him– 
‘Fuck,’ he grumbled from between the kiss. Your lips just parted long enough for a catch of air, but nothing longer than that. The idea that you did want, maybe even needed, him as much as he desired you… he couldn’t comprehend it, really. All he could do at the moment was hold you close, hoping that his hands weren’t actually too tight on your body. 
But then you let your body free. Your hand clasped at his shoulder as your leg snaked its way around his. Eddie took the opportunity without hesitation to push you against one of the shelving units. It buckled back and forth, but nothing fell off, so neither of you cared. Instead, he pressed you up against it, holding you up by your legs as you crossed your arms around his neck.
Eddie groaned out, to his own surprise, at you tugging his hair. His hips bucked into yours. Was there any way you didn’t feel how hard he was getting? His mind was becoming increasingly clouded with this visceral and nearly animalistic hunger for you. The kisses were getting sloppier by the second when you started pushing the denim vest off his arms. 
The untangling clothes of your bodies was a challenge, but you got there in the end, only getting rid of the most necessary parts. So, naturally, Eddie’s vest and jacket had to go so that he could pull his shirt off. You hiked up your shirt, revealing your bra and pulled your skirt up your legs, while Eddie unbuckled his trousers and let them drop to his ankles, together with his underwear. As it continued, neither of you could explain what came over you. 
He reached his hand to play with your cunt over your panties, but you scolded him. 
‘No time.’ there wasn’t. You weren’t sure how much time there was left before you had to get to your next class. There was no need to waste the little time you had on foreplay, no matter how much you wanted it or both of you wanted it.
‘Wouldn’t have taken you for being so bossy, sweetheart,’ Eddie smirked and kissed you before you could respond. Simultaneously, he thrust his cock deep inside you. You would have screamed out in pleasure if his lips had not been on you. The feeling of him stretching you out– it was almost blissful. 
‘Eddie, oh my god,’ you grabbed his hair tighter as he kept going. It was something that seemed to spur him on. Eddie Munson liked it rough. Not an unexpected discovery, but maybe how you found out– or the fact you got to experience it first-hand, was a bit of a surprise. 
‘C’mon baby, c’mon,’ his voice got deeper with each thrust and groan, mixing with your moans and gasps of pleasure. The shelf to which he had pinned you also kept making noise, and the two of you constantly had to keep pulling yourselves back before everything would topple over and the entire school would hear what you were up to. 
You could feel yourself getting closer, and you tried to clarify that to Eddie, but coherent words, or even noises, were too much for your brain at that moment. How he actually managed to understand that was a miracle. He kissed you deeper. Like the ones before, the kiss was full of heat and passion. It was hungry and filthy. Messy. 
Your nails scratched over his back; Eddie hissed at the sensation, bucking his hips deeper into you. You had just enough time to open your mouth, where a nearly pornographic moan would escape from if it wasn’t for Eddie’s hand that quickly caught it. He pressed his palm over your lips. 
‘Shh, don’t want to get caught, do we?’ he smiled. It was a tired smile, enhanced by the pearls of sweat on his chest and his hair curling on his forehead as he kept on pulling you closer to your climax. He pulled you into it. Tighter and tighter. So tight until it all snapped, and you unravelled in his arms. 
Eddie pulled out of you slowly, carefully. He held you until both of you caught your breath and pulled your shirt back over your chest… but not before lightly kissing your breasts. Something you couldn’t help but giggle at.
 You took the time he spent getting dressed to regain some energy. Never had you ever been fucked like that before. You could readily admit that. Eddie Munson was… something else, for sure. It was terrific… and yet, when you looked at Eddie, something seemed to be off. He was chewing at the inside of his cheeks, brows furrowed, deep in thought. 
‘Something wrong?’ you asked.
‘No,’ is all he said, but you called bullshit. ‘This isn’t how I had… Sorry, I guess, if that was a bit…’ he drifted off, cheeks tinged in a pink hue as he focused on buckling his belt. 
‘It was great Eddie.’ You wanted him to know you enjoyed yourself. 
‘I just… I don’t want you to think that this is why I told you to come here. I had just wanted to talk, actually–’
‘What did you want to talk about then,’ you smiled. 
‘I– I’m not quite sure anymore,’ he chuckled, scratching at the back of his head. The boy was utterly whipped and fucked out. You noticed a lock of his hair sticking out, and without much thought, you walked up to fix it. 
‘Well, I’m really glad I came,’ you kissed his cheek, which was burning up, ‘in all senses of the word.’ 
‘I’d be more than happy to do it again,’ he kissed the corner of your mouth. ‘If you’d let me, of course.’
‘It’s a deal, Munson,’ you told him as you walked out of the cupboard. 
Eddie felt like he was walking on a cloud for the rest of the day. He couldn’t believe what had happened. He just couldn’t…. He couldn’t think a girl like you would just do all of that with a guy like him. At one point, he actually started considering he had dreamed it all up. He had probably accidentally fallen asleep during a class or something, and it had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. 
Easy to say all of those ideas went away the second Eddie opened his locker at the end of the day, and a small piece of paper fell out. Right on the ground between his feet. On it was written: 
Tonight, my house.
How about that deal, Munson? 
the End
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thank you for reading! please reblog and comment (maybe leave a review??) I would love to think what you thought of it <3
taglist in reblog
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dr3c0mix · 7 days
Note
Alistair x (platonically) Teen Reader
In the fic he is like oh my god a bride, he walks in and instead of an adult..or a bride-
They find a teen, who literally threw a pebble at him, an angsty teen💀
I’m very happy to read ur fics and usually pair them with teen/child mc because I find it funny because they expect the love of their life
and teen mc standing there :🧍‍♂️
anyways sorry for the long request, luv ur writing, and ur art :D
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Yandere! Evil King x Teen! GN! Reader
CW: platonic relationship, Alistair is a bit of a DILF so do with it as you will, Dads are hot you guys!! READER IS A MINOR.
👑 Who is this sassy lost child?
👑 His minions kidnapped you while you were on a carriage ride back to your kingdom.
👑 He was hoping for like a princess or something to marry and take over the kingdom with or whatever so like...what tf he gonna do with you???
👑 Clearly you were too young to be in a situation like this, but theres no way he's giving you back without a reward, so yes he still holds you for ransom.
👑 "Child, I am Alistair, King of-ACk!"
👑 Did...did you throw a pillow at him?!
👑 "How dare yo- AHK! Stop it!" another one..
👑 You refuse to listen to anything he says, you just wanted to go home
👑 You two had a bit of rivalry for a bit. He hated you and you hated him.
👑 He promised not to show any affection or care towards you since in his eyes, your actions didn't deserve it. How can someone be so rude to a king !?
👑 But he starts to notice you don't eat much. He never sees you in the dining hall and has only seen quick moments of you nibbling on some bread or pastries the servants gave you.
👑 He scoffed, so irresponsible! You must eat a proper meal right this second or you'll starve!
👑 You're surprised to see a meal prepared for you during your routine trip to get a snack from the pantry with a note on the plate.
👑 "Next time, ask for a proper meal. I don't want your parents to think I've been starving you. -Alistair P.S. go to bed early."
👑 Huh...
👑 Alistair smiled from the doorway of the dining hall, watching you eat up with a smile on your face. You might have been too scared of him to ask for food so you've been sneaking snacks while he wasn't looking.
👑 Of course he wasn't doing it because he cared about you, he just didn't want royalty like you to resort to such pathetic means to eat!
👑 Why are you still sad? Perhaps he should get you some things to keep your attention..
👑 He asks (threateningly may I add) about your hobbies or interests.
👑 The next morning your cell (which has been upgraded to a lovely room in the castle because he didn't want you to be filthy and gross in a dungeon) was filled with anything he could find that he thought you'd enjoy.
👑 Don't think he wants you to be happy! He's just tired of seeing you sulk everywhere!
👑 He denies everything, but you swear you could see a tiny smile on his face when you hugged him happily.
👑 You start being a little more open to him, showing him anything you've made or done with pride and he'd receive it gratefully, but he won't show it of course.
👑 "I made you this friendship bracelet!"
👑 "I've seen better jewelry."
👑 "Oh I'll take it back then I guess.."
👑 "No, it's mine now, back off."
👑 Drawings and the like that he said would be thrown out as soon as you left would be seen framed in his room
👑 It would be a..waste of good canvas..
👑 And of course he buys a few books of your choice for you to read, he'd be damned if your brain turns to mush.
👑 Bro bro he'd be the type to let you swing around while holding onto his bicep.
👑 If you ever have any problems, or come to him in a bad mood, he'd have no idea how to help other than to sit down and listen to your troubles.
👑 He's not the most physical when it comes to affection, but you bet your ass he's gonna do everything he can to cheer you up.
👑 At this point he's rewriting his demands for the ransom. Either your kingdom lets him sign some adoption papers or he's starting a war.
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sattlersquarry · 7 months
Text
orange juice (steve harrington x fem!reader)
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Summary: (Post Season 4 AU) Steve's world changes in the worst way when he loses you. He struggles to move on...but he learns he might not have to when he miraculously gets a second chance with you.
Word Count: ~8k
Warnings: 18+ PLEASE!!!! for language, death, grief, alcoholism, mentions of sex, mention of alcohol poisoning, and an allusion to a suicide attempt (in a miscommunication!!!! no one actually tried). the reader is presumed dead after the events of season 4. lots of angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending bc if I ever wrote something without a happy ending my identity has been stolen. inspired by "orange juice" by noah kahan with some other references to his music sprinkled throughout.
a/n: i've been bouncing between this and bloom for the past few months and they are two very different fics tonally, but i hope you enjoy. please let me know if i missed any warnings because this one is kind of heavy.
🍊🍊🍊
ORANGE JUICE
MAY 1986
A ringing phone rouses Steve from a restless sleep.
A near-empty bottle of gin rests on the floor by his bed. He doesn’t remember drinking it, nor does he remember anything else from last night.
It’s been two months since you died. Steve’s not taking it well. 
That horrible day, Steve, Nancy, and Robin ran from the Creel House and found Eddie and Dustin sobbing over you, your eyes lifeless and the wounds on your abdomen weeping.
I’m so s-sorry, Steve, Dustin had said through sobs. W-we tried to save her!
An aftershock of the initial gate-opening earthquake caused panic amongst their group. Steve wanted to carry your body back to the real world for a proper burial, but there was no time before the aftershock got much too intense. Dustin and Robin refused to leave the Upside Down without him. He wasn’t going to let them get hurt, so despite the fact it broke his soul in half to do so, he allowed his friends to drag him back to the gate in the Upside Down’s version of the Munson trailer, leaving you behind.
When the dust settled and reality set in that Steve was going to have to move on without you, grief overtook him. He turned to alcohol as a welcome distraction. He’s been consistently ignoring Robin’s desperate pleas for him to talk to a professional, to drink less, to try and really process his pain.
Steve should listen, but he won’t. Instead, he’ll grieve. He’ll wallow. He’d rather wither away into nothing than work on bettering himself, because you died and that’s not fair. To you, to him. To everyone who loves you.
Steve groans, a deep rumbling thing from deep in chest, as he stretches and rubs sleep out of his eyes. He blindly reaches for the phone on his nightstand.
“Hello?” he mumbles.
“Steve, hey.”
Steve sits up like a rocket at the tremble in Robin’s voice.
“Robin? Is everything okay?”
“Uh, kind of. I mean, yes! But no. Sorry, I just—can you come to Hopper’s?”
“What is it?” Steve asks. He staggers to his feet, getting tangled in the phone cord. “Is it Vecna? Shit, who did he take?”
“No one!” Robin says, voice way too high to be believable. “Please just come over when you can.”
Steve drives over to their basecamp at Hopper’s cabin, a million bad scenarios racing through his head. What if Vecna cursed Dustin? Or Nancy, or any of the others?
What if somehow he got El, and the Hawkins’ team was really doomed?
It takes Steve almost forty minutes to get to Hopper’s, due to earthquake damage and military roadblocks all over town. He raises his hand to knock on the door, but it swings open before he can.
Joyce smiles at him, but her eyes are mournful.
“Hi, Steve,” she says warmly. “Please, come inside.”
This isn’t what Steve expected. Hopper, El, Will, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are sitting on various chairs and couches in the cabin’s main room. Usually, it’s frantic around here: everyone running around with mixtapes, weapons, and crudely drawn maps of the town with markings where the most frequent monster attacks are. It’s never this still.
When Steve and Joyce walk in, everyone looks at him, sympathy in their eyes.
Steve’s first thought: Shit, is this an intervention?
Before he can ask, Hopper says: “The gates are closed, Steve.”
Steve’s mouth twists into a frown, heart pounding in his chest. That wasn’t the plan.
“Wait, what? How?”
“We’re not sure,” Joyce says. “But Will—”
“I can’t feel Vecna anymore,” Will explains. “And El checked this morning, and she found Vecna in the Void and…”
“He’s gone,” El says quietly. “Dead. Finally.”
Steve sinks onto a couch cushion. That should be good news. Steve should be celebrating, toasting to the death of the bastard that ruined his life and took you away by way of the demobats. But—
“We were supposed to go back,” Steve says. The back of his throat burns when he swallows hard, trying to choke down the sensation of nausea that’s either from his hangover or his panic. Or both. “We were going to go back and get Y/N’s body.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Jonathan says, looking down at his feet.
Steve whirls to Hopper, eyes blazing with a flash of anger that never seems to leave him these days.
“You promised!” he yells. “You promised that we’d go back for her!”
“I know,” Hopper says, keeping his voice even. “But something—or someone—killed Vecna in the Upside Down and the gates closed. The fight is done. It’s over.”
Steve’s lip wobbles. He won’t cry in front of them. He won’t. But his head spins.
“What am I going to tell her parents?” Steve says, voice cracking.
“You don’t have to do it alone, Steve,” Nancy says. She reaches a hand to touch his shoulder and Steve bats it away. “Steve—”
“This is such bullshit,” Steve snaps, turning to Hopper again. “If you had let me go back down there before, I could have brought her body back. We could’ve given her a proper funeral. Given her parents closure! But you made me wait!”
“It was the right choice,” Hopper says firmly. “I didn’t want to invoke another Vecna attack on Hawkins until we were ready to fight.”
“Maybe there’s a gate that we missed and—”
“We checked the gates this morning,” Robin says softly. “They’re all closed.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Joyce says. “But it’s over.”
Steve doesn’t say anything else. He storms out of the cabin, ignoring Robin’s pleas to come back, to not be alone right now. Steve drives back home, not without stopping at the liquor store first and loading up on various spirits to numb the pain.
Over the next week, you go from declared missing to officially declared dead. Steve can’t let on to your parents that he had known for months, and Hopper doesn’t want him to tell them the truth about Vecna, demobats, and the Upside Down. It kills Steve to lie to their faces, to attend the funeral where they bury an empty casket, knowing what he knows. Knowing that your body is trapped in another dimension. Dead and alone.
🍊🍊🍊
NOVEMBER 1986
“Y/N wouldn’t want this.”
Robin’s words echo in Steve’s mind hours after she’s fallen asleep in the uncomfortable armchair next to his hospital bed.
An overindulgence forced Steve to spend his Thanksgiving in a hospital—not that he had any plans with his family to get ruined anyway. Although he had been invited to Thanksgiving with the Buckleys, Wheelers, Hopper-Byerses, Sinclairs, Hendersons, Mayfields, and Munsons, Steve declined every invitation. He resigned himself to a holiday alone without you, got heavy handed with a bottle of whiskey, and passed out in the neighbor’s lawn.
When he awoke, he was in the hospital. Joyce and Robin were there, the former fretting over him and the latter chewing him out for being such a dingus and scaring her so badly on a holiday.
Like a broken record in his head of the worst song Steve’s ever heard: Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this.
Robin didn’t say it to be mean. She said it to get him to wake up. To cool it with the drinking, because if he kept going at the rate he was going, he’d meet a worse fate than a pumped stomach.
Joyce quietly reenters the room and smiles.
“Oh, you’re still up!” she says. “I thought for sure you’d try to get some sleep.”
Steve shrugs.
“I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up.”
Joyce settles on the chair next to Robin’s, ignoring the sleeping girl’s loud snores.
“When I can’t stop replaying the past in my mind,” Joyce says, “I try to think about my future instead. What are my aspirations and goals? What can I do differently to achieve them?”
Steve chews his bottom lip.
“Is it bad if I have no goals?” he says, feeling quite sorry for himself.
“Why do you think that is?” Joyce asks gently.
Steve shrugs again, before rubbing his eyes.
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve spent the past 3 years on edge thinking I’m going to get killed at any minute?”
Steve barks out a hollow laugh. “Or maybe it’s because 2 years ago I met someone who turned my life completely around, and she did get killed, and I wasn’t there to save her or be with her when she died. And I couldn’t give her or her parents a proper end and every time I close my eyes, I see her laying there. And I don’t know what my future looks like without her. I don’t even think I want one.”
Steve hates crying in front of other people. But when Joyce wraps an arm around his shoulders, he breaks down.
“It’s going to be all right, Steve,” she says. She squeezes him a little tighter. “I know it’s hard moving on from loss, but you do have a future. You have so many people that love you and are going to help you figure it out. And Y/N would want you to keep going. She’d want you to go off and do wonderful things.”
Joyce was right. If roles were reversed, Steve would want you to keep going without him. Not waste away and drink yourself into a coma.
Steve’s life is changing. And despite everything, things might be looking up.
🍊🍊🍊
FEBRUARY 1987
There is a beautiful girl in Steve’s bed and she’s touching him all the ways he likes to be touched—but he can’t even enjoy it because she’s not you.
He tries to clear his mind of all distraction. The girl with him—Molly—is very, very hot. And the feeling of her hands all over him should be sufficient to keep him focused on the moment. But his mind keeps wandering to you.
You were the last person he was truly intimate with. Sure, he’s kissed girls at parties. But that’s different than what’s happening now. Different than being in bed with Molly and her wandering hands, her gentle touches, her salacious whispers.
Steve thinks maybe he’s finally done it. Found a girl that can help him move on from you, the girl to help him feel whole again. To not feel so alone.
But then, overcome with sensation, Steve makes the worst possible faux pas in bed: he moans the wrong name.
Molly ceases kissing him.
“What did you just call me?” she asks, sitting up suddenly with narrowed eyes.
Steve sits up as well, resting against his headboard and floundering for a response that won’t make him sound like a douchebag.
“I just, uh, well—”
“Who is she?” Molly asks. She widens her eyes in horror. “Oh my god, are you seeing someone else? Am I ‘the other woman’?!”
“It’s nothing like that,” Steve rushes to assure her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just got caught up in the moment.”
“Caught up in the moment thinking of someone else when I was about to blow you!” Molly snaps. She stomps off the bed and grumbles as she pulls her jeans and sweatshirt back on.
“Wait, hold on!” Steve says. He struggles to put a pair of sweatpants on, hopping around frantically one-footed to pull them up as Molly grabs her purse and yanks open Steve’s bedroom door. “Please don’t leave, Y/N—ah, Molly!”
“Unbelievable!” Molly scoffs as she stomps down the staircase of the townhome Steve shares with three other students at the University of Indiana.
Molly gets to the front door but stops, whipping around to face Steve as he catches up to her.
“Who is she?” she demands. “An ex-girlfriend?”
“In a sense, yeah, but—”
“If you’re still so hung up on her, maybe you should ask her to blow you instead!”
Steve thinks about being an asshole. About letting the anger that simmers in his bloodstream 24/7 rear its ugly head. About snapping at Molly, telling her that yeah, totally, he’d love to get a blowjob from a corpse stuck in an alternate dimension.
But then Molly would feel bad and give him the pitying look Steve hates. So instead, he says, “Yeah, I’ll do that. See you in class.”
Molly huffs before giving Steve’s cheek a sharp smack! He doesn’t wince. Upset at his lack of reaction, Molly storms out.
Just as well. Remembering how the love of his life is dead is a real mood killer.
Steve rubs his forehead and heads to the kitchen. He eyes the six pack in the fridge. He hasn’t touched alcohol in three months. The temptation causes his hand to graze a beer can, but he quickly pivots to a cartoon of orange juice.
He chugs the drink before stalking up the steps to his room. Steve drops to his knees and blindly reaches in the dusty space under his bed. He grips the corner of a box and drags it to the middle of the floor.
Once opened, two black button eyes stare back up at Steve. It’s Lambchop, a stuffed animal lamb that your parents gave him. After your parents held a small funeral and buried that empty casket, they gave Steve this box of your things.
Lambchop here was her favorite toy, your mother had said at the time, eyes glistening with tears. She always hoped to pass it on to her own children one day. I think she’d want you to have it.
Steve thanked your mother and father, gave his condolences, went home, drank enough whiskey to fell a horse, and passed out.
Shaking himself out of the memory, Steve climbs onto the bed and places the lamb on the pillow next to him. It’s one of few connections to you that he has left, so he’ll cherish it, even if it’s a little silly.
What Steve doesn’t realize is that in another dimension, the very person he’s yearning for lays in the version of her bedroom created by the Upside Down, holds a dirty version of Lambchop, and yearns for Steve right back.
🍊🍊🍊
MAY 1987
You and Steve used to have your futures mapped out: start at U of I together in fall of ’86. Move in together after your freshman year of college. Get engaged by fall of ’89, married in fall of ’90, and have two kids by ’95. Spend the rest of your lives together, happy and healthy, with the horrors of Hawkins far behind you.
That was before Steve’s world changed in the worst way. Before you died in the Upside Down, when you drew the bats away from the gate. You were a hero, trying to keep them from flying into your version of Hawkins and destroying it.
Steve struggled for a long time. He’s still struggling, but in a slightly better place.
He’s sober six months now. He thinks of you often, but he tries to focus less on how he desperately misses you and more on how you wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life miserable and drunk.
But he does miss you so, so desperately. And he would give anything to have you back.
It hurts being reminded of you, so Steve stays away from Hawkins. But he can’t say no when Mrs. Henderson invites him to Dustin’s sweet sixteen birthday party, so he makes the trek back.
“Steve!” Mrs. Henderson coos, opening the front door with a beaming smile. “Welcome!”
“Hi, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve says. She pulls him into a hug and he adds, “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s so lovely to see you too!” Mrs. Henderson says. She leads Steve through the house. “Please, come in! You can put Dusty-Bun’s gift on the dining room table. I have strawberry wine in the kitchen—ah, and orange juice, or lemonade. It’s yours if you want it!”
Mrs. Henderson pivoted to juice awfully fast. She must have found out about Steve’s Thanksgiving Break bender. Steve tamps down the feeling of shame worming its way through his mind and body, instead offering her another small smile before turning to the dining room to drop off Dustin’s gift.
Dustin and the rest of the Hellfire Club are in the den, playing a one-shot campaign that Eddie planned. When Dustin sees Steve, his face lights up.
“Steve! You made it!” he says, rushing over and giving him a bear hug.
“Hey buddy,” Steve says, hugging him back. “Happy birthday, Henderson.”
Dustin grins, and it lifts Steve’s mood immensely.
Mike, Lucas, Will, El, Max, and Erica greet him next, along with Eddie and his Corroded Coffin buddies. Eddie can barely look Steve in the eye, guilt from not being able to save you eating away at him. Steve’s told him multiple times not to feel bad about it—he knows Eddie and Dustin tried their best.
“Want to join the campaign?” Dustin asks Steve.
“Oh, I don’t know how to play,” Steve says. “I’ll just watch, okay bud?”
A short while later, Robin arrives. Once the campaign ends, Mrs. Henderson brings out the cake, and then gifts are opened.
“He looks really happy, huh?” Robin whispers to Steve, nudging him gently with her elbow.
Steve nods with a smile. Dustin took your death really hard—the two of you had been close ever since you helped him, Steve, Lucas, and Max fight the demodogs in the junkyard. Seeing Dustin smiling and laughing with his closest friends on his birthday makes Steve really, really happy.
Still, Steve’s heart aches. You should be here. You should be smiling as Dustin opens his gifts. You should be getting cake frosting on your nose, playing along with the campaign although you have no clue what’s going on.
Ice grips Steve’s chest. He gets a flashback of you lying on the cold ground, unmoving, and—
“You okay?” Robin whispers, brow furrowed. How the hell can she tell that he’s upset? It’s frightening how observant she is.
“Fine,” Steve says, throat tightening. He’s not. But he isn’t going to let his grief ruin Dustin’s big day.
At the end of the night, Dustin asks Steve when he’ll be back to visit again.
“My summer classes end in August,” Steve says. “I’ll come by then. Maybe we can hit the pool?”
Dustin seems disappointed that it’ll be a while before he sees Steve again, but he doesn’t push.
However, Steve ends up coming back to Hawkins much sooner. Three weeks after Dustin’s birthday party, Eleven calls Steve and tells him something that makes his heart stop:
“Steve, it’s about Y/N.” 
🍊🍊🍊
Steve is a frantic mess.
He sits in the Byers-Hopper basement, knee bouncing as he intently watches El try to find you in the Void again.
El had told him that she’d sometimes look for you in the Void, hoping to give him some semblance of closure. However, she claims that a few hours ago, she finally found you for the first time and saw you not as a corpse, but fully alive. It’s a hope that Steve didn’t dare hold onto before, not until now.
As soon as she called, Steve got in his car and drove to Hawkins, going ten over the speed limit the whole time. He picked up Robin and Nancy along the way to El, Will, and Jonathan’s, and (unfortunately) Mike tagged along.
“Do you see her?” Steve asks, voice cracking.
“No talking, please,” El says, tightening her blindfold.
Steve purses his lips. Will gives him an apologetic smile and Robin squeezes his arm to offer a semblance of comfort. Jonathan looks between Steve and El, an uneasy expression on his face.
“I see her,” El whispers after a few minutes.
Nancy gasps. Mike’s eyes widen. Steve staggers to his feet.
“She’s okay?” Steve asks. “Where is she?!”
“I can’t tell,” El says. “But she’s holding a small, white fuzzy animal. Wait, is it dead?”
“Lambchop,” Steve says.
“Come again?” Nancy asks.
“Lambchop is her favorite stuffed animal,” Steve explains. His heart pounds in his chest at the realization that holy shit, you really are alive. “She must be in the Upside Down version of her house.”
“Y/N!” El calls. “Y/N!”
After a few more minutes of calling to you, El pulls off the blindfold and wipes her nosebleed away.
“She can’t hear me,” El says with a sigh.
“Maybe because the gates are closed,” Nancy offers.
“But if you open another gate,” Steve says, “we can get back through and find her. Right?”
“Hold on a minute,” Jonathan says, holding a hand up like a traffic cop. “Is that such a good idea?”
Steve narrows his eyes.
“Is it such a good idea to save my girlfriend’s life? Yeah, I think so, Byers.”
“Steve,” Robin whispers. “It’s okay. Just relax.”
“Relax?” Steve says, voice rising in volume with every word. “Relax?! You want me to relax? What about this fucked-up situation is relaxing! My girlfriend has been stuck in literal hell for over a fucking year! We’re going to rescue her, no matter what!”
“But opening a new gate could have major repercussions!” Mike protests.
“Screw the repercussions,” Steve snaps, glowering. “We can’t just leave Y/N down there to rot!”
“None of us want to do that, Steve,” Nancy says, keeping her voice level and calm. “But what if this is a trick from Vecna?”
“It’s not,” Will says. “If it was, I would feel his presence. I don’t anymore.”
“Boom!” Robin says, snapping her fingers. “If our human monster detector doesn’t sense any bad vibes, then we should be good to proceed.”
“Maybe we should ask El what she wants to do before we make any plans to open new gates,” Jonathan points out.
“Exactly,” Mike says. “El, what do you want to do?”
El looks down at her lap, before looking up. She locks eyes with Steve.
“I’ll do it. I’ll open the gate.”
Relief floods Steve’s whole being. He feels lighter. More hopeful than he has in a long time. But it all comes crashing down when—
“That’s not happening.”
The group turns to see Hopper and Joyce on the basement steps. Joyce looks worried, face twisted into a frown. Hopper looks angry, with his brow furrowed.
“But Dad—” El says.
“No buts,” Hopper says. “You are forbidden to open a new gate. You hear me?”
Joyce places a hand on her husband’s shoulder and says, “Now, Hop…”
Steve interrupts, walking over to the older man with a wild, panicked look in his eyes. “Hopper, please. Y/N is still alive in the Upside Down. We just need one gate so I can go through and bring her back. Please.” Hopper fixes Steve with a sorrowful stare, the smallest bit of guilt etched on his features. Still, he remains steadfast.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Hopper says. “I’m not putting my daughter at risk. She won’t do it.”
El, Robin, and Will all try to convince Hopper otherwise, their arguments overlapping into a cacophony. Nancy, Mike, and Jonathan share uneasy looks.
Steve can’t listen to this anymore. He quietly excuses himself, darting past Hopper up the steps and stepping into the backyard.
He sinks on the porch stoop and stares off into the quiet, cool night. He understands Hopper’s reasoning, but he doesn’t have to like it. He’s spent over a year mourning you, only to discover he might be able to get you back—for that hope to be dashed as quickly as it blossomed.
Steve picks a point in the tree line and focuses on it, putting all his energy into watching it so he doesn’t break down or cause any more of a scene than he already has.
He hears the squeak of the back door and Robin’s tentative, “Hey, how you doing?”
Steve shrugs absentmindedly, continuing to stare. Robin lowers herself onto the stoop next to him.
For a few blissful minutes, she doesn’t speak. She just rests her head on his shoulder and lets him stew in silence.
The spell is broken when she blurts out, “You’re not going to break your sobriety, are you?”
“Jesus Christ, Robin,” Steve grumbles, nudging her slightly so she’ll sit up. “You don’t have to ask that every time I’m in a bad mood.”
“Sorry,” she says. She picks at her fingernails. “Sorry. I just worry about you, you know?”
“I know,” Steve says softly. “I worry about you too.”
“Me?” Robin says. “No, no. I’m fine.”
Steve eyes the way her hands fidget. Before he can say anything, she blurts out, “I just don’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving. I mean, you almost died of alcohol poisoning. They pumped your stomach!”
“I know. I was there.”
“No!” Robin snaps, sounding awfully harsh despite the tears welling in her eyes. It breaks Steve’s heart to see. “You were unconscious! And it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, including all the torture and monsters, because I thought I was going to lose another best friend. I already lost Y/N. I can’t lose you too.”
She sniffles and Steve pulls her in for a hug. He can’t stop a few stray tears from falling down his own face as well.
“You won’t lose me,” Steve says, voice thick. “I promise, Robin. I’m not going to do that again. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbles, hugging him tighter. “I love you, dingus.”
“I love you, Rob.”
“That’s not fair,” Robin says, pulling away and wiping her tears on her sleeve. “You have to call me a mean nickname back or I just look like an asshole.”
Steve barks out a laugh and shakes his head.
“You are an asshole.”
“Perfect,” Robin says with a small smile. “Now we’re equally jerks. Just the way I like it.”
The back door opens and Will steps out.
“Hopper changed his mind!” he says with a grin.
Hope pumps like blood through Steve’s cold, shrunken heart. He’s going to see you again. Fuck, he’s going to see you again.
🍊🍊🍊
The next day, the group stands in the basement once more, this time making their plan for a rescue mission. Mike squealed to Eddie, Dustin, Lucas, and Max about what’s going on, and they all showed up wanting to help too.
“Not happening!” Hopper barks, a fierce look on his face. “New rule: you have to be 18 to come along.”
Eddie pumps his fist in victory, thrilled that he gets to come and try to make things right after losing you the first time. The younger teens grumble.
“But El is going!” Dustin complains.
“El is going to stay in the Lab with Joyce,” Hopper says. “She’ll open the gate for us and wait.”
“I can keep the gate open for one hour,” El says.
“That’s plenty of time to find Y/N!” Robin says brightly. “We already know she’s probably at her house.”
“And she lives close to Hawkins Lab,” Jonathan says, pointing to a map of Hawkins. “So we’ll be in and out.”
“It’ll be easy!” Eddie says.
“Don’t jinx it,” Hopper warns.
Nancy turns to Steve and pats his shoulder.
“You feeling good about this?” she asks quietly.
He nods. Although, truthfully, he’s terrified. If they come all this way, only for him to lose you again…he’s not sure he’d be able to handle that.
🍊🍊🍊
The Upside Down is not what Steve remembers.
The alternate dimension used to be dank and cold, like an endless winter’s night. Now with Vecna gone, it’s brighter, with a yellow sky and actual green foliage, not the moldy, dry shit from before. It seems less dangerous than last time.
No matter how much it’s changed, the thought that you’ve been here alone for over a year makes Steve’s blood run ice cold.
“This way!” Hopper barks, tracing his finger on his map of Hawkins and leading the group toward your house.
Jonathan and Nancy walk side-by-side with Hopper, glancing around at the tree lines constantly for any sign of danger. Eddie and Robin hang back, Steve walking slightly in front of them. He hears them whispering about something, but when he turns his head to try and listen, they quiet down.
He’s not an idiot. He knows what they’re worrying about: if they can’t find you, will Steve have another breakdown? Go on another bender? Would Steve even survive it?
Steve’s been wondering the same things himself. But for now, he stays positive, his optimism increasing tenfold when the six of them turn onto your street.
He can’t help but pick up speed, jogging past Hopper and causing the older man to snap, “Hey, stay behind me!”
Steve ignores his protests, shouting your name and pushing through the front door of your house.
He’s been here many, many times. He’s walked the pathway from your front door to your bedroom over and over again. Steve walks that path for the first time in over a year, charging up the steps and tuning out the concerned warnings from his friends.
He bursts into your bedroom, calling your name. He doesn’t see you, but maybe you hid when you heard the front door open. So he checks the closet, the ensuite bathroom, under the bed, to no avail.
Steve’s eyes sweep the space for any clues of your whereabouts. Most of the room seems untouched, except for your bed, where the sheets are rumpled and a grimy Lambchop the Stuffed Lamb sits primly on your pillow with her soft hooves crossed over her lap.
Steve picks up the toy, heart stuttering at the sight. You were sleeping here last night. You must have been. But where are you now?
“Steve!” Robin calls from down the hall, bringing him back to the present. “We found something!”
Steve gently places Lambchop back on the pillow—arranging her the way you always do, because anything else seems disrespectful—and heads back downstairs.
Hopper, Jonathan, Nancy, Eddie, and Robin are crowded around the kitchen table. On it is a sheet of paper with a rudimentary sketch of the town.
“Check it out,” Jonathan says. He traces his finger across the drawn lines. “It’s a record of where the gates originally opened.”
Sure enough, there are big stars drawn over Hawkins Lab, Eddie’s trailer, the road by the trailer park, Lover’s Lake, and the Creel House.
“That’s why she’s not here,” Nancy says. “She’s out searching for an opening.”
“We don’t have long,” Hopper barks, glancing at his watch with a grimace. “El can only keep the gate open for an hour. We have forty-one minutes to get back to the Lab.”
“We could split off into teams,” Nancy says. “Jonathan and I can go to Lover’s Lake.”
“Steve and I will hit the trailer park and the highway,” Robin adds. “Eddie and Hop, you can go to the Creel House.”
“We find Y/N,” Hopper says, “and we head back to the Lab. No wasting time. We move fast, we stay vigilant. Got it?”
The younger adults all nod and agree to stay on their walkies in case anyone needs to get in touch. Then, they split off to their destinations.
As Steve and Robin sprint toward the trailer park, Steve can’t stop panic from enveloping him head to toe. What if they’re too late? What if you’re dead—again? What if you don’t remember him somehow. What if—
“Look!” Robin says, throwing out an arm to stop Steve in his tracks. He skids to a stop and sees where she’s pointing.
Behind the closed curtains of the Munson trailer is the beam of a flashlight moving around. Steve’s heartbeat quickens.
“Okay,” she whispers as the duo slinks toward the trailer. “We need to think about this carefully, and make a plan to—wait, Steve!”
He charges into the trailer.
A figure flinches and whips around, hunting knife raised. Steve almost falls to his knees in shock at the sight. It’s really happening.
“Steve?” you whisper, voice cracking. He stands in front of you, hands raised and eyes flicking between your face and your knife. The corners of his eyes burn, tears starting to form.
He says your name, and the look on your face cracks his heart into seventeen pieces. He starts to step toward you, but—
“You’re not real,” you say quietly. “You can’t be.”
“No, I’m real!” Steve says. “It’s me, Y/N. It’s Steve. We’re here to take you home.”
You step back, still pointing your weapon at him.
“Don’t come any closer!” you shout.
“Okay, okay!” Steve says. He steps back, slowly.
“Steve!” Robin shouts from outside. “What’s going on in—”
“Stay outside, Robin!” Steve yells, voice wavering as he eyes your knife.
“But—”
Steve swiftly locks the trailer door without turning away from you.
The two of you ignore Robin’s knocks and protests. Eventually, she gives up, and Steve hears the crackle of her walkie-talkie.
“You can’t be Steve,” you say, shaking your head frantically.
“I am,” Steve begs. “And I’ve missed you so much—”
“You can’t be Steve because there’s no way into the Upside Down!” you say. He notices your arm start to shake. “Trust me, I’ve checked and checked and checked and there’s no gates anymore. And since my Steve isn’t a corpse at the Creel House, I know Vecna didn’t kill him and he’s back in the real world. If you’re not Steve, who the hell are you?”
Steve swallows hard. The back of his throat tastes acidic and he feels desperation wrench its way through every cell in his body. When he imagined his reunion with you, he didn’t anticipate this conversation.
“El reopened a gate for us,” Steve explains patiently. “We thought you were dead. But El looked for you and saw you were still alive, so we came to rescue you.” He glances at his watch and his brows furrow. “But we don’t have a lot of time. We need to head back to the Lab because she can’t keep it open forever.”
“How can I trust you?” you say. “How do I know you aren’t a trick?!”
“I’m really me, I promise,” Steve says. He hesitates before stepping closer to you once more. This time, you don’t move away. “We’re safe now, because Vecna’s dead.”
“I know. I killed him.”
Steve’s eyes widen a fraction.
“You what?”
“I had to,” you say. You shrug and look a little delirious. How much sleep have you gotten in the last year, Steve wonders. “Vecna brought me back. He would've flayed me and sent me to spy on and kill all of you if I didn’t kill him first.”
Steve almost falls over. The haunting fact that you had to fight Vecna alone makes his stomach turn.
The pained look on Steve’s face seems to shake something deep down in you. Any resolve you had crumbles. You heave out a sob, dropping the knife to the ground. Your knees buckle.
In seconds, Steve wraps you in his arms as you sink to the ground.
You cry, limp in his hold. Steve cries too, choking on encouraging words and apologies and everything he’s wanted to say to you since March 1986, when he thought he’d never speak to you again.
The door rattles. You startle and Steve holds you a little tighter.
“HARRINGTON!” Hopper barks. “Get a move on!”
“We have to go,” Steve says, urgent yet gentle. “We can talk more when we’re home. Okay?”
You nod, standing on unsteady legs.
Steve squeezes your hand before leading you out the door.
The whole rescue squad is out there, and you look wholly overwhelmed at seeing everyone after so long alone.
“No time for pleasantries,” Hopper says. “We’ve got less than twenty minutes to get through that gate.”
“Or it’s a slumber party at Y/N’s,” Eddie jokes. He playfully knocks his shoulder against yours and you gasp at the sudden contact. “Oh, sorry—”
“RUN!” Hopper yells, clapping his hands.
Everyone bolts toward the Lab. Steve and you run side-by-side, hands intertwined.
Shock envelops Steve’s senses, but he keeps running. The one thing racing through his mind is to get you back to safety.
The Lab’s gate is not the gaping maw it once was. It’s about the height of a minivan door, but its width is quite smaller—and slowly but surely shrinking.
El and Joyce stand on the gate’s other side, looking relieved to see everyone.
“Hurry!” Joyce says, waving you forward first. You hesitate, but Steve says, “We’re right behind you. Go on.”
You crawl through the gate and stumble to your feet on the right side of the universe. Steve would normally let everyone else go in front of him, but he wastes no time following behind you. Next comes Robin, then Jonathan and Nancy. Eddie and Hopper bring up the rear.
As soon as Hopper’s crawled through the gate, El drops her hand and it sews itself up—for the final time.
Steve and the others swarm you, all speaking too fast and asking a million questions. Joyce opens a first-aid kid and tries to sit you down and asses your various cuts and bruises. They hurt Steve to see.
“Look at her! She needs more than bandaids and alcohol wipes,” Eddie says, nodding in your direction.
“He’s right,” Jonathan says. “Mom, we need to take her to the hospital—”
“No!” you say. You stumble toward the staircase. “I need to go home. I need to see my parents, let them know I’m alive. How long have I been down there? I’ve been keeping track, and it has to be at least ten weeks, right?”
Steve places a hand on your shoulder. You look at him, eyes wild. “Y/N,” he says softly, “it’s been 15 months.”
That seems to be your final straw. Steve catches you as you pass out.
🍊🍊🍊
SIX HOURS LATER
While you get checked over by Dr. Owens and his people, Steve paces the hospital waiting room. Robin chews her thumbnail and watches the doors to the ER. Nancy and Jonathan bend their heads together and whisper, and Eddie attempts to distract Dustin and the other teenagers by juggling snacks from the vending machine.
After you fainted, Steve didn’t want to leave your side, but Hopper said everyone except himself and Joyce had to go home.
If our entire merry band shows up at Hawkins Mercy Hospital with a presumed-dead girl, it’ll look too damn suspicious, Hopper had said. Go home. Clean up. Wait three hours, and then you can come check on her. We’ll keep you updated.
In exactly 180 minutes, Steve and the others charge into the ER asking the nurse on duty about you.
“She’s still being looked over,” the nurse tells them. “Her parents and the Chief are with her now. You can wait over there and we’ll call you when she’s able to have visitors.”
Another 180 minutes go by. Now, everyone’s getting antsy. Steve has half a mind to charge into the ER and find you himself.
“Simmer down, Steve,” Robin says, noticing the way he’s squeezing the lilac teddy bear he bought you at the gift shop. “You’re choking the life out of that thing.”
“Why haven’t we heard anything from Hopper?” Steve asks. He checks his pager for the fiftieth time. “He said he’d keep us updated.”
“She’s probably going through a psych eval or something,” Max says.
“Or an interrogation,” Mike says darkly. “Maybe they think she had something to do with the murders last year.”
“Shut up, Mike!” Nancy hisses.
Steve curses and pinches his nose. Last year, a cruel man named Colonel Sullivan swept into Hawkins, searching for the real culprit behind Vecna’s kills after Eddie was proven innocent (thanks to a bogus alibi cooked up by Owens’ team). Steve was one of the unlucky few questioned, due to his connection as Jason’s former basketball captain. The thought of you, disoriented from so long in that shithole, handcuffed to a hospital bed while Sullivan grills you makes him see red.
Another sinking realization hits Steve: he’s changed since last year. What if you don’t like him anymore, once you realize how much of a mess he became when he lost you?
Hopper emerges through a set of double doors. Steve’s charging over to him in seconds, the rest of his friends piling behind and all talking at once.
Hopper holds up his hands to silence the group.
“Owens wants to run some more tests,” Hopper says. “They’re checking for contaminants in her bloodstream. You all can see her soon.”
He points at Steve. “Except she’s asking for you right now. You ready?”
Steve nods and squeezes your new teddy bear again. He gives Robin a panicked look, and she gives him a quick hug.
“Go get her,” Robin says with an encouraging smile.
Steve smiles back before following Hopper down the hall. Joyce stands outside your hospital room and smiles when she sees Hopper and Steve approach. Steve freezes.
Through the plane of glass in the door, he sees you with your parents. All three of you are crying.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Steve says, backing away from the door. Before he can fully chicken out, Hopper bursts in and says, “Hey, look who came by.”
You and your parents look up. At the sight of him, your mother and father beam.
“Hello, Steve!” your mother says, sweeping him into a hug. “Can you believe she’s back?!”
“It’s a goddamn miracle,” your dad says, wiping tears on his sleeve. “We’ve been praying for this for so long.”
“Let’s leave these two alone to catch up,” Joyce says. “Grace, Roger, why don’t we pick up some food for Y/N?”
Your parents agree and step out with Joyce and Hopper. When it’s just you and Steve, all either of you can do is stare at each other with awkward smiles.
You clear your throat and point to the teddy bear.
“Is that little guy for me?”
“Yes!” Steve says. “Uh, sorry.”
He hands it to you. When your fingers brush, it feels electric. Still, after so long apart—no matter how much he’s dreamed of what it would be like if he somehow saw you again—everything feels stiff. You’re the love of his life and he can’t think of one thing to say.
“How have you been?” you ask quietly, seemingly just as uncomfortable as Steve.
Steve can’t help but laugh and says, “Terrible. I mean, shit. I know what you went through is way worse—”
“I don’t want to talk about what I went through,” you say sharply. Steve recoils and you wince. “I’m sorry, Steve. I just—I’ve been through this like five times with Owens’ guys, and over a cover story two more times with the cops. I don’t want to talk about me. I want to hear about you. What’s been going on?”
Steve wants to know more about what happened. About how you killed Vecna. About how you survived. But he doesn’t. He would never push you to discuss anything you didn’t want to, but he hopes that one day you’ll feel ready to open up to him.
Right now, you want to hear about his life. Where to begin. Steve thinks of sugar-coating the truth but doesn’t when he admits: “For starters, I almost died last year.”
You gasp and sit up a little straighter.
“What? Oh my god, what happened?”
“I’m fine now,” Steve says, waving away your concerns.
“Was it Vecna?”
“No, nothing like that. I really missed you, and I was in a bad place.”
You swallow hard, eyes turning glassy.
“Oh, Steve. Please don’t tell me you tried to—”
“No!” he says quickly. “It was alcohol poisoning. I drank too much being too lonely on Thanksgiving. Had to get my stomach pumped. It wasn’t all bad, though. Robin and I watched ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving’ on the hospital room TV and Joyce snuck in some pie for me.”
You ignore his attempts and lightening the mood and wave him even closer to you. He cautiously approaches and intertwines your fingers when you reach for his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I feel like it’s my fault—”
“Stop it.”
“Steve…”
“No!” Steve says. He shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t think like that. I just…struggled without you. But it’s not your fault that I’m a basket case.”
“You’re not a basket case,” you say. You squeeze his hand. “You’re the hero that crossed dimensions to come rescue me.”
You kiss his palm before scooching over on the hospital bed. You pat the spot next to you.
“What if your parents come back?” Steve asks.
“I’m not trying to hook up right now,” you say with an eye roll. “I just want you to lay with me.”
Steve is happy to oblige. He settles next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder and hug the teddy bear he brought you.
“So, you didn’t move on?” you ask quietly after a few minutes of peaceful silence. “Find a new girlfriend?”
“What?!” Steve asks, looking down at you, jaw dropped. “You really think I found someone else?”
You nod, fidgeting with the bow around your bear’s neck.
“15 months is a long time,” you whisper. “I don’t want to stand in the way if you're with someone else.”
“I couldn’t,” Steve says. He rests a hand on your knee cautiously. When you don’t flinch or move away, he keeps it there. “Y/N, I don’t want anyone else. I only want you, if you’ll still have me.”
You look up at him, noses practically brushing. The close proximity makes Steve’s cheeks flush rosy pink.
“You mean that?” you ask.
Steve nods. It seems to placate you, because in seconds, you’re lifting your chin to kiss him.
It’s a soft, gentle thing. An innocent brush of lips, like the kisses you shared very early in your relationship. Not the passionate “welcome home” kiss that Steve wants to give you, but he understands if you need to take things slow. He’ll move as slow as you need.
For the first time in months, Steve feels hopeful about his future again. Steve’s world is changing once more, in all the right ways.
🍊🍊🍊
EPILOGUE
You and Steve have your futures mapped out: after six months of physical and emotional healing, move in with Steve and join him at U of I in spring of ’88. Get engaged and subsequently married sometime within five years. No kids—at least, not biological ones, because your time in the Upside Down has caused lasting physiological effects that you don’t want to pass on to children. Maybe you’ll adopt a kid, or some dogs.
It's less of a map and more of an amorphous outline of what you two want to happen. All you two know for sure is that you never want to be apart that long ever again.
Steve’s heart and soul have changed, but they belong to you, and yours to him. Always.
🍊🍊🍊
a/n please lmk what you thought 🧡
tag list; @hollandweather @starry-eyed-steve @aloneinthehellfire @tvandfanfic @a-dealwith-god @stevebabey @keerysquinn @spoookysix @inkluvs
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jaegersdevil · 8 months
Text
it's a bad idea, right? - eren jaeger
Ex!Eren x Fem!Reader
summary: seeing your ex after a night out… it’s a bad idea, right? cw: 18+, smut (afab!reader, unprotected sex, creampie), exes to lovers, swearing. w/c: 4.5k a/n: first time writing a ~proper~ smut, kinda bad, kinda fucking terrified to post but, we move 💪 olivia's new song is perfect for an exes to lovers whore such as myself, so i had to use it in a fic. enjoy :) masterlist
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Despite having the same friends, you hadn’t seen or heard from your ex for 2 months. The break-up was mutual, something about growing apart and wanting different things. Sure, you were upset, devastated even, but something inside you that knew you’d hold him again. And somehow, that one sliver of hope had wrapped around your heart and held it hostage. 
It’s how you found yourself at Moose with your two friends, Hitch and Annie, on the brink of passing out. The club’s multicoloured lights gave you a headache, and the generous amount of alcohol you had consumed an hour earlier started to wear off, but you continued to dance, laugh, and sing with the two girls. 
You held your phone in your hand as you threw your arms in the air. The room was lively and had been the best night you’d had at Moose in the past few months (or maybe it was because you knew who would call you tonight…). 
But when Hitch slapped you on the arm, and the phone in your hand started vibrating simultaneously, you had an inkling of who was calling.
“Don’t answer it,” Hitch yelled over the music, her eyes narrowed. 
You shrugged and, without looking, declined the call. “Who was it?”
“Don’t act dumb,” She shook her head, still jumping around. 
You rolled your lips between your teeth, and your heart started pounding faster. There was only one person who could elicit that tone from Hitch. 
You kept a playful smile on your face, and it remained when your phone rang again. But, this time, you faced the screen toward your body so the girls wouldn’t see. 
Eren’s name flashed on the screen, along with his contact photo: him with bedhead, shirtless, with the biggest smile on his face. Why his contact was still in your phone, with that specific photo, was beyond you, but all questions were out of your head when you turned around and left the dance floor without explanation. 
Swiping right to answer, you brought your phone to your ear. “What?” It probably wasn’t the most polite thing to say, but you were half-drunk, and your feet hurt. 
“Hi to you too, baby.” 
The tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine. It was the first time you’d heard his voice in months. 
“Eren,” You said, squeezing through groups to get to the bar. “Are you okay?” 
“I’m great, actually, now that I’m talking to you.”  
You could hear the smirk in his voice over the music, and that’s when you could tell you were in trouble. “What’s up?” 
He hummed into the receiver, but you could barely catch it. “Wanna come over tonight?” 
“Why?” You asked, but it was playful. 
“I got a new place. Wanna give you a tour.” 
“Do you? Well, where was this call, I don’t know, a month ago?” 
Eren groaned into his phone. “Just come! Please, I miss you.” 
You paused as you were adjusting your spot on the bar stool. “You want me to come over?” 
“Do you want to come over?” 
“Yes,” Your voice was breathless as you answered, and Eren’s soft laughter in the background wasn’t helping. “As friends.” 
“Okay, yeah. I’ll text you the address, bestie,” He said. “Can’t wait to see you.” 
And then he hung up. You knew what he wanted because you wanted it too. 
Flashes of Eren played on a loop in your head: the last time you saw him, the first time, him smiling at you in that cocky way of his, his body on top of yours, his under yours… it was insanity.
“Why’d you leave?” Hitch shouted in your ear. You jumped, a guilty look on your face that you hoped she and Annie wouldn’t notice. 
“I feel sick. I think I might go home,” You cringed at how the words came out of your mouth. 
And when Annie side-eyed Hitch, you knew they knew you were lying. 
“I’ll just get an Uber,” You unlocked your phone and clicked on the app, receiving a text from Eren simultaneously. 
How convenient. 
Typing in 843 Campanula Street, CS Apartments, you knew you should stop, but you couldn’t. A car popped up: 5 minutes away. 
Getting up to leave, you knew they would follow you outside. So, you held Hitch’s hand and pulled her, who pulled Annie out of the crowd and out of the entrance. You adjusted your purse on your shoulder and stepped out into the warm night air. 
“You should probably not see Eren tonight. You’re not in the right headspace,” Hitch said behind you. She knew you were lying about feeling sick, so you may as well play into it.
“Can’t two people reconnect?” You teased, glancing over your shoulder. 
“Bullshit,” Annie stated boredly. 
Blah, blah, blah… Eren, Eren, Eren…
“Listen, I only see him as a friend,” You rolled your eyes. “We’re done, we’re through, we’re never ever getting back together, okay?” 
Hitch and Annie shared a look. You’d just told the biggest lie you’ve ever said. 
“What’s the worst that could happen?” You looked down the road for your Uber.
Then Hitch choked out a laugh and Annie sighed. You furrowed your eyebrows. 
“We just don’t want you to get hurt again,” Hitch said softly after she finished coughing. 
You shook your head. “I won’t. Besides, I’m going straight home. I’ll ask him what’s up in the morning.” 
Hitch nodded knowingly. “Yeah, okay. Have fun at home. Text us when you get there.” 
Your Uber pulled up next to the curb. You smiled at Hitch and wrapped your arms around her neck. “See you.”
Turning toward Annie, you only grinned, making her look more bored. “Don’t be an idiot.” 
You threw your hands up in defence. “I’m not. I’m going home.”
“Bye then,” Annie waved and turned to reenter the club. Hitch stayed a little longer to ensure the Uber left, waving enthusiastically after it. 
You knew you should stop, but you couldn’t. 
Fuck it, it’s fine. 
When the elevator dinged, you stepped out onto the second floor. It was a nice complex with white walls, gold door handles, and dark, clean carpet, an upgrade from his previous apartment complex just off-campus. 
The floor was quiet for a Saturday night, except for the bass from party music coming from the lower floor. The carpet was plush under your feet, and the hanging lights were gold too. Maybe you were more tipsy than you thought as you picked out details you would’ve before. 
You saw nobody as you passed the first apartments. But, as you turned the corner of the hallway, Eren was standing in the doorway of the last apartment with a cocky grin. 
“Hey,” he called. You looked around and hushed him. It was 1am, after all. “Pish, they’re probably all out anyway.”
You felt your face heat up when you got closer, feeling self-conscious in your party dress and shoeless feet. But you couldn’t stop looking at him. Somehow, in the last 2 months, Eren had gotten more attractive. His black t-shirt was taut against his chest and biceps. His hair was pulled back into its usual half-bun, but the pieces in the front made him look prettier. You swore you’d seen someone much hotter for your sanity, but nobody came to mind. God, he really encapsulated everything you’d ever want and need. 
“Seeing you tonight… It’s a bad idea, right?” You giggled, swinging your heels in your hand. 
“I’d say it’s the best idea ever, but depends on who you ask,” His eyes raked up your body as you walked toward him. “Besides, just friends, right?”
The dimple you’d missed appeared on his cheek as he smirked, and your confidence grew. 
“We’re the best of friends,” At the sound of your voice so low and sultry, Eren blinked. 
His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and when you reached him, his hands wrapped around your shoulders, pulling your cheek flush against his chest. The action didn’t surprise you because you would do the same. 
“Hi,” He whispered before pushing you away, his hands still on your shoulders.
You were going to speak, but your brain short-circuited. The rational side of your brain continuously asked you why, why, why, while the other side screamed at you to kiss him. It was a jumble of static and blah, blah, blah… Eren, Eren, Eren… 
All you could think about was him. 
Fuck it, it’s fine!
“Wanna show me,” You paused, flickering your eyes to his. The usual bright green of his eyes turned darker, and his grip on your shoulders tightened—his hands were burning your skin. “The apartment?” 
This seemed to snap Eren out of his daze because he shook his head to rid his thoughts, then nodded, stepping back and widening the door to welcome you. 
“Uh, yeah, so…” Eren stumbled, closing the door behind him. “This is the apartment.” 
You walked inside, placing your purse on the granite kitchen counter and your heels on the floor. 
“It’s lovely,” You muttered. From the couch to the posters and photos on the walls, it was so Eren, but it was mature. And it was lovely, different, attractive, but your attention wasn’t on the decor. It was on the owner of said decor, but you weren’t going to make that obvious yet. 
Eren rubbed the back of his neck as he watched you look around the space: into the open-plan living room, down the small hallway to the bathroom and the spare bedroom, and then back into the kitchen and to the lone door on the other side of the living room. 
“Your bedroom?” You asked, your voice light. You weren’t giving anything away yet. It was risky being here in the first place. There were reasons why you broke up, but you didn’t care at that moment. This was more fun than ignoring each other. 
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Eren teased, breaking out of his frozen state to meet you at the door. 
The air was charged like it used to be, but you dismissed it, making a beeline for the couch—a large L-shaped black leather lounge. As soon as you sat down, all the aching in your back dissipated as you sunk deeper into the throw cushions. You groaned in relaxation, propping your feet up.
“Why do you always get the comfiest couches?” You closed your eyes. “S’not fair.” 
Eren didn’t say anything as you shuffled around to get comfortable, pulling the hem of your dress down your legs. He looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. 01:47.
“You tired, hm?” He asked, and you nodded, pretending to yawn. Eren narrowed his eyes when you did so. He’d seen that action before, the lesser version of your actual yawn—he’d seen the real one too many times to know when you were faking. 
“Guess I’ll take you home then.” 
Your eyes snapped open, and you shook your head. But when you saw Eren, a cocky smirk rested on his face, much like when you arrived. 
“I knew you were faking,” He laughed, stalking toward you. You pouted and looked up at him, your gaze catching his for a second before you looked away. 
“A more detailed tour, please,” You reached out your hand, and Eren pulled you up. 
The momentary touch of skin on skin was enough to fry your brain for a few minutes as you mechanically followed him into the bathroom, where you washed your face with his face wash, then into the spare bedroom to look at the view from the window, and finally, into Eren’s bedroom off the living room. 
Nothing was said as you entered, but the smell of his room was the same as it had always been—it was just in a different space without you to experience it. Cedar, geranium, bergamot, apple. It was the scent you bought him for his 19th birthday 4 years ago when you first started dating. You were stepping into a time machine, and all the emotions that came with it hit you in the face. 
You willed yourself not to cry as you turned your back to him to look over his desk. You ignored the few extra things he’d gathered without you in the two months you’d be apart, but it was all the same. It was Eren. 
“You like it?” He mumbled, the heat on your back making sense. You didn’t realise how close he was standing until he spoke, his hands on the desk beside you, caging you in. 
“It’s very you, Ren. The whole thing,” You spun around, your hips against his. “I really like it.” 
He smiled in relief and let his eyes wander your expression, recounting every mark, pore, scar on your face that he had memorised. It was all the same. You were still you. 
“I’m glad,” He breathed. “Thanks, bestie.” 
But you didn’t laugh. Your eyes were focused on his mouth. The realisation made Eren lick his lips again, but you noticed they twitched with anticipation this time. 
“This okay?” You whispered, slowly wounding your arms around his neck and pushing your hips harder against his. 
“You’re kidding, right?” He smirked, gaining his confidence back. His hands slid from the desk to your hips, and he leaned closer, breaths mixing, lips lingering. “I missed you so fucking much.” 
Eren’s lips brushed yours as he spoke. And you almost caved. Your fingers played with the loose hairs of his half-bun, and the action reminded you that you’d done this before, more than you could count—but never in the situation you were in right then. 
“Fuck it.” 
You don’t know who made the first move, but soon Eren was swiping everything off his desk and onto the floor so he could lift you onto his desk. You spread your legs apart and locked your ankles around his hips, pulling him closer. The kisses were sloppy and hasty, making up for lost time. You smiled when he began pushing the hem of your dress higher, his teeth tapping yours as he grinned too. 
Panting into each other’s mouths, you slid your hands down his chest and into the waistband of his sweatpants. 
“I want these off,” You mumbled, getting your nails under his briefs and pulling them down with his pants.
“Well, I want this off,” Eren laughed, reaching behind you to fiddle with the zipper on the back. The sudden exposure of your back to the hot air of his bedroom sent goosebumps over your skin. 
The front of your dress began to loosen, and soon, Eren pulled away from you, his hands carefully dragging the straps of your dress down your arms. His sweats were halfway down his legs, and his briefs sat awkwardly over his ass, but he couldn’t care less, not when you looked the way you did. 
The more you reflect on that night, the more you disagree. The thought of being in a club not an hour ago left you feeling gross and probably smelling gross too. But at that moment, you didn’t care because you were with him, in his new room and apartment, and all you could think about was him.
Blah, blah, blah… Eren, Eren, Eren… 
Eren laughed breathlessly at the sight of your tits, and when your dress was at your waist, he cupped them with his palms. “Fuck, I missed you.” 
Blah, blah, blah… Eren, Eren, Eren… 
When Eren leaned down to press kisses to your neck, you reached your hands to play with his hair again. “I… missed you… too.”
“Tell me what you want,” He breathed heavily into the space under your ear when he heard you struggle around the words. 
You whined in response, tilting your head back.
He laughed lowly. “I know you know how to use your words, pretty girl.” 
The pet name caused a moan to escape your throat, and soon you were clenching around nothing. Your mind was far away, head in the clouds, from being with him like this again. “You…” 
“Where?” He pulled away from your neck, his lips plump. “Where do you want me?” 
“Eren…” You frowned, eyes half-lidded as you looked at him. Eren’s eyes retraced your expression, his hands brushing stray strands from your face. 
A cheeky grin spread across his cheeks. “You’re so damn cute.” 
“Everywhere,” You finalised, leaning up to capture his lips with yours. 
Eren got the message and wrapped his large hands under your thighs to pick you up. Your legs remained around him as he expertly approached the bed without looking. 
“Gotten a lot of practice at that?” You joked, breathless. 
But, Eren shook his head and kissed your cheek. “There’s only ever been you.” 
The thought brought heat to your ears, cheeks, and body, and soon, you were burning. “Me too.” 
“Fuck,” He half-laughed, half-groaned, laying you on the bed. Eren gave you a crazy grin before he opened his mouth, biting your shoulder. You tried to push him away, giggling, but you never forgot his strength. He went down your body, pulling your dress down your legs as he went, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your stomach. Gripping the sheets, you arched, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the feverish marks they leave. But before he reached your underwear, he sat back his heels and pulled his shirt over his head by the back collar—like he always did. 
There was nothing to be shy about, you’d done this a thousand times with him, but you placed a hand on your torso nonetheless. When Eren noticed this, he furrowed his eyebrows. 
“Nuh, uh, no being shy around me,” he whispered and picked your hand up, holding it as he leaned over you. You quickly spread your legs to make room for him between them, and he wasted no time filling the space, tucking his other arm underneath your shoulders and lifting you up so your chests were flush. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and will ever see, understand? Us not being together doesn’t change that.” 
You sighed, tears springing in the corners of your eyes. Maybe it was the moment or the weeks of not speaking to the one man you trusted with your life, but you couldn’t help the words that tumbled out next. 
“I love you,” You mumbled, lifting your free hand up to fun through his hair, pulling the rest out of the bun. 
Eren smiled a tender smile you knew all too well, which he reserved for you during moments like this. “And I love you. I’m gonna show you how much, okay? Will you let me do that?” Eren’s voice was soft and warm, your skin ablaze, and your heart grew tenfold. 
You nodded, searching his eyes with your own. All you saw was tenderness, infatuation, and everything you had grown accustomed to in the last 4 years. You pressed your lips against him in a quick peck in response to his original question. 
Eren laid your body back onto the bed, trailing his hand down your side and into your underwear. You gasped at the coldness of his fingers as they dragged through your slit. 
“So wet, baby,” Two of his fingers started rubbing circles around your clit, making you arch into him. “Miss me?” 
“I thought we’d already established that, Jaeger… shit,” You squeezed your eyes shut when he pushed two fingers into you. 
“Don’t get sassy with me. You know how that goes,” Eren smirked, watching you fall apart from just his fingers. 
“Eren, don’t—oh fuck,” You moaned as soon as you felt his fingers go precisely where they needed to, his thumb on your clit. He knew you inside out, and you knew he was getting off on that thought. 
Pure white pleasure set fire to your insides as you climaxed, though the embarrassment of cumming so hard on just his fingers never came. Because it always ended like this. 
You looked down at your hips, where his hand was inside your underwear, and nearly blacked out from the sheer familiarity of your first time with him. “Take those off right now. We are not repeating our first time.” 
Eren barked a laugh, shaking his head as he pulled them down your legs. “I thought it’d be cute,” He mumbled. 
“Get up here,” You scolded, but the demand was lazy and playful, making Eren want you more (if possible).
He climbed up your body again, his pants and briefs on the floor, as his cock rested against your stomach when he kissed you. There was no time to be wasted, not when you’d waited months for this to feel him again. You always knew you would hold him again. 
Eren sat up, and you wrapped your hand around his cock, lazily pumping him a few times. He was hot and heavy in your fist, and the feeling was delicious. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” You giggled. 
His eyes found your core, where you were dripping onto his dark sheets and clenching nothing, and the sight made Eren moan and screw his eyes closed. “It’s just you… fuck Y/n.” 
And then you took your hand off him, and Eren’s jaw fell open, looking down at you.
“C’mon,” He whined, and you shook your head, laying back on his bed. 
“Fuck me, Eren.” 
At your crude words, Eren bit his bottom lip to stop his smile. “Yes, ma’am.” 
He hovered over you, his hair brushing your cheeks as he looked down to guide himself into you. He ran his cock through your folds a few times, causing you to jolt, before he sunk the tip into you. 
The stretch was like coming home after a long time away, burning with slight pain before the pleasure took over. You welcomed him back into you. Circling your arms around his neck, you buried your hands in his dark locks, pulling the way you knew he loved. 
“Jesus,” Eren cursed lowly when he bottomed out; the sensation of you around him was one he’d never forget. “You good?” 
“Yeah, baby,” You squeezed his sides with your knees, dragging your nails softly along his scalp. He didn’t move for a beat, eyes trained on your nose's scrunch and relieved smile. 
“Good girl,” He whispered, pecking your lips as he rocked in and out of you. Your hands pulled at his hair harder than before, and he groaned into your lips, your mouths touching but not kissing. “You’re so tight, fuck.”
And when he picked up his pace, you cried out into his mouth, the feeling and sound of his body on top of yours familiar and obscene. Above you, Eren made the pretty sounds you’d once begged to hear again. And soon, perhaps too soon, your stomach twisted into a coil again, his thrusts becoming too much when he continually hit that one spot like he always did. His voice became rough and desperate, panting your name before the volume increased. 
Words tumbled out of his mouth sloppily, curses and jumbled questions, and your name. His usual deep groans turned to whimpers, and the sound made you reach your high faster. 
“Close?’” Eren asked, running a hand down your body to find your clit, fingers slippery as they circled quick. 
“Mmhm, yeah,” You mumbled, nodding sporadically and arching your body to mould to his, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. 
And then, the coil in your stomach snapped, and the white-hot flash that burned you from inside set you ablaze. Your body opened up for him, and Eren chased to meet you at the top, his movements becoming sloppy as he fucked you through your high. You’re too sensitive, warm, and wet, but Eren came inside, filling you fully.
He groaned deep into your ear, shuddering, and at that moment, you vowed to never let him go again.
After your activities last night, Eren gave you his favourite t-shirt and wrapped you up nice and tight in his sheets. You kissed him repeatedly, making promises under the blanket of night, the moon your witness. Never again would you leave, not when you knew him like you did, when you’d spent four years of your life moulding to each other. You cried, Eren cried, you laughed, he held you, you flicked his forehead, he tickled you. It was like you’d never said the words that caused the downward spiral of your life in the first place. 
Reaching over to grab your phone off the bedside table, your notifications were filled with messages on messages from your group chat with Hitch and Annie, and… Reiner?
07:24 Hitch: Where are you?????? Answer pls!!!!
07:59 Annie: Y/n istg 
08:50 You: Sorry I was asleep
08:50 Hitch: Thank god 
08:51 Hitch: We’re gonna facetime rn 
You groaned and turned your head toward a sleeping Eren. His hair was all over the place, his face innocent and soft, his skin golden and back bare. He was all you could ever want and more.
You slowly lifted the charcoal grey duvet to swing your legs out and sat up. Your entire body ached, and your legs shook as you stood up. Stifling a laugh of embarrassment, you tiptoed out of his room, careful of the one creaking floorboard he’d warned you about the night before.
It wasn’t until you got to the living room that your phone vibrated with an incoming group Facetime. 
“Hi,” You said tiredly, trying to block as much background as possible; they knew your apartment better than you did. 
“Good morning,” Hitch glared through the screen. Annie said nothing. 
“What happened to your neck? Hm?” The brunette asked, her voice accusatory. 
You moved toward the couch, sitting on the lush black leather, tucking a pillow behind your back. “Oh, I tripped and fell—”
“Yeah, into Eren’s bed,” Annie cut you off. 
Hitch muffled a laugh, and you stared at her in disbelief. 
Your mouth opened and closed with no sound. “No?” You visibly cringed when the usual statement came out as a question. 
“Y/n!” Hitch yelled, a smile taking over her false scold. Annie rolled her eyes with a hint of a smirk. Then, all that could be heard was laughter. 
“Well, at least you’re okay. I mean, it’s just Eren,” Hitch giggled. You smiled at her, grateful for your friends. 
“Oh! Reiner texted me too,” You suddenly remembered seeing his name on your lock screen. 
“Reiner?” The confusion in Hitch’s voice matched the thoughts in your mind. Why would Reiner text you privately?
You clicked around your phone until you opened Reiner’s message. 
02:49 Reiner: i’m happy for u and all, but pls stfu
But you couldn't find it in yourself to care, even after the realisation that all your friends knew you'd slept together washed over you. Because all you cared about was him.
Blah, blah, blah… Eren, Eren, Eren…
a/n: prologue
671 notes · View notes
blu-ish · 2 months
Note
Ok so how do you think Shadow reacted when Sonic wasn’t in his arms when he arrived back in green hill
(Sonic prime)
... (Here's my idea as a sample mini-fic cuz I have no self-control.)
He couldn't help the panic that sunk deep within his broken heart. He failed. After everything, and he was still unable to save one of the only people who genuinely cared about him. That was Shadows most rational thought at the moment anyways. Almost tempted to let out a pitiful laugh at the irony of it all.
The hedgehog felt stupid, naive, and absolutely pathetic. Just like before.
What did he think would happen?
His grip loosened after he feels the almost ghostly appearance of the chaos emerald in his quills, the one he'd spent hours scouring for in the past. He doesn't even remember why...
The emerald looked way to much like his eyes, eye's he'd never get to see again.
As much as Shadow was willing to give into the pain, the urge to scream his lunges out, he remembered the mountain-- the prism.
What if...?
Hope burns like a small uncertain ember in his heart, one where the slightest breeze would extinguish it forever. Shadow races up the mountain, emerald in hand, unsure of what he might see--or what he wanted to see. Who he wished to see.
Ruby meets emerald green, and Shadow can breathe again.
...
Shadow tries to ignore the emotional whiplash he had just experienced. He really does. But, he can't help but occasionally stare- no, examine the cobalt hedgehog who sat next to him.
He's here.
He's alive.
His gloved hand twitches, unbeknownst to its owner, it slowly inches its way closer to the hero. Stopping at an invisible barrier, Shadow clears his throat.
"I hope you've at least tried to learn something from all of this."
Sonic's laughter almost makes the agent jump, almost.
"Yeah, yeah. No more smashing super colorful rocks for me, that's for sure!" Sonic played the events they both just endured like another adventure, just another day for Sonic T. Hedgehog. Or so he assumed the blue hedgehog was trying to do.
"I think that would be for the best. For everyone." Shadow concluded, gripping the grass below him a little harder then he meant too. An action that didn't go unnoticed by the hedgehog next to him.
"I'm really gonna miss everyone though, seems kinda silly after everything but..." Sonic sighed, "I'm really glad the guy I ended up getting stuck with was you, Shads."
Turning to face the hedgehog fully. Shadow scanned Sonics face for any indication of sarcasm, only to be met by the most brightest smile he'd ever seen. The warm hues of the sunset didn't help either.
He'd seen Sonic smile, the guy seemed to do it whenever he could. But now, this... felt different, personal. It didn't feel unpleasant either. That scared him, not like he'd ever admit that though.
"And what exactly does that mean?" The darker hedgehog ignored the flush that was most likely on his face right now. Narrowing his brow at the other. He could unpack what he was feeling, later.
"Does grumpy want a list?" Sonic replied playfully. Since when did he start to lean on his side? The blue hero continued, listing his reasons on his fingers.
"Not to mention you've saved my life, more than once, all in practically the same day."
"You saved mine as well, that makes us even." Shadow reminded. It was getting harder and harder to keep eye contact with Sonic. He crossed his arms in mild frustration at himself more than anything.
"We had a bonding moment! You cradled me in your arms, dude!" Sonic exclaimed, moving in even closer somehow to wrap an arm around the flustered hybird.
His mind going blank to find a proper response, he resorted to grumbling. Sonics laughter filled the air again, taking another breath out of Shadows in the process.
"Anyone would've done the same, your life was in immediate danger, I was simply the fastest mode of transportation, simple."
"But it wasn't just anyone Shads... it was you." Shadow had rarely heard the hedgehog sound so serious, but gentle at the same time. As if he was talking to a frightened woodland creature, one that was only mere moments away from fleeing.
He didn't know when they started looking at each others eyes, he also came to the conclusion that Sonics eyes--while similar, shined way brighter than his emerald.
It was Sonics turn to clear his throat, accompanied by a chuckle. "So, yeah... thanks."
What Sonic wasn't expecting was dark arms wrapping themselves around his back. Bringing him close to his rival. Or the soft patch of white fur to tickle so much.
"Don't get used to it.." Was all Shadow said, burying his face unapologetically into his peach shoulder.
"Wouldn't dream of it." Sonic smiled, hugging Shadow tight. The pair stayed like that until the night covered them in a blanket of stars.
It was good to be home.
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bonny-kookoo · 6 months
Text
Jungkook
𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫: Teaser Drabble 🎃
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Jungkook isn't used to doing things like this anymore. But maybe you can help him with that.
Tags/Warnings: Aged up!Jungkook, Younger!Reader, Age Gap (9 years, MC is way above the legal age!!), mature romance, major fluff, some angst, hints at past car accident, suggestive at the end
Length: short
There is no taglist for this fic.
-> Masterlist
A/N: this is a teaser drabble, set in the midst of the story. The exact spot in the timeline will be revealed at a later date.
⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──💜── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅
"Oh thank you- how much do I owe you?" You wonder from the kitchenette you're standing in now after taking the pumpkin he'd bought, while he takes off his shoes, bringing in the other grocery bag he's brought with him to leave on the small plastic table in your kitchen.
He's still wearing is usual work attire, slacks a bit wrinkled from the entire day of wearing them, just like his button up, silver watch heavy on his wrist.
Did he remember to change the batteries in it? You want to ask him, remind him, but wouldn't that be a bit too annoying? Overbearing? You're not sure what exactly you are to him after all. Maybe he'll want to go home right away if you start nagging when he's not even fully entered your small apartment.
So you stay quiet.
"Nothing, don't worry about it." He reassures you as always, hands in his pockets as you turn around to curiously poke your head into the bag, hand digging through the plastic bags of candy. "This is for you too, by the way." He chuckles, watching you take one bag of sour gummy worms out to inspect further. "You mentioned you forgot to buy some."
"Jungkook no, you're spoiling me too much!" You laugh, before you want to cringe. Stop nagging, stop denying his acts of affection- you keep doing it, keep trying to tell him he doesn't have to do it even though you know he knows it himself. He knows way more about life and love than you.
Just let him be, your inner voice scolds you.
"That I do." He simply smiles however as he admits to it, sitting down at the kitchen table, leaning his head on his hand to watch you. He looks tired- you instantly notice things like that, and it worries you sometimes. He mentioned he never had a burnout before, but maybe he just didn't notice because he never sees a doctor for his issues? His headaches are probably still bad.
Just leave him be, your voice scolds you again.
"There's proper groceries in there too, by the way." Jungkook says with his eyes now closed, and you notice that too- beneath all the candy he's bought, there's general groceries as well- and you're a bit embarrassed by it.
You're living your life just fine. It's not as luxurious as his might be, but you've got food in the fridge and a roof over your head, and that's enough for you. But Jungkook has this urge you've come to learn- he feels less lonely when he can share or offer something.
"You know I don't like it when you only eat canned foods and such." He says, before his eyes open-
"Do you wanna go nap?" You wonder, and he simply makes an almost purring noise in denial, furrowing his brows. "I don't want you to go home like that though.." You complain, running your fingers through his hair, over his scalp.
because you're hugging him, or rather his stomach, leaning onto his lap- which is cute, yes, and the position would be arousing under different circumstances- but he instantly helps you up from the cold kitchen floor to sit properly on his thighs this time, head resting in the crook of your neck with a deep sigh, arms wrapped around you.
Your signature scent fills his mind, the warmth of your body begins to seep through the fabrics of clothing separating your skin, and from the way he's holding you he can even faintly hear your pulse beat.
He doesn't care that the plastic chair is uncomfortable as hell.
He melts. He feels like it, at least. You always make him feel like he's weightless.
"Do you want me to stay over?" He wonders softly, tries to flirt, and you giggle.
"But you wanted to carve the pumpkin." He argues softly, eyes open again as he pulls himself together. "Let's do that then." He offers.
"Sure." You shrug. "You're a bit clingy at night, but I'll manage." You tease, earning his hand smacking your butt in return, laughter interrupting the soft moment. You're a lot better at this than he is, and he's reminded of that every time he's with you like this.
Maybe he can ask you to spend Halloween at his house this year? You could decorate, have dinner with Namjoon and the others, give out candy to the neighborhood kids. He's always done that last part, but he's never actually decorated his house with Evelyn. She always complained that it was too much work to do-
And then she'd leave for her party with her friends, every year, leaving him alone with a glass of whiskey and a crappy horror movie running on cable TV.
He doesn't want that. No when he's got you now- someone who doesn't leave him alone.
"We can nap first, and then carve the pumpkin?" You wonder. "Or, if you don't have anything else tomorrow, we can do it then, and just go to bed early today." You shrug.
Jungkook sighs. You shouldn't have to adjust so much to him and his schedule and his lack of energy these days- and most days. You're young, you should have someone to party with, or go on trips and have fun, especially now with the holidays approaching- not go to bed barely after sunset because you're old 'boyfriend' is tired from work. He'll never understand why you do this so willingly.
But, he also wants to be selfish. He's tasted that sense of tranquility you're offering him, and he's hopelessly addicted at this point.
"I don't have any clothes here." He mumbles, sighing as he forces his brain to work again for the moment. "I can come back tomorrow instead, hm?" He wonders, but you look at him unconvinced.
And then he realizes it, in the way your fingers cling to his button up shirt, in the look you give him that's almost one of fear-
"Oh munchkin.." He sighs. "Alright, I'll call a cab then, okay?" He reassures you, remembering your fears when it comes to this whole issue of driving while tired. He still feels bad for it- he'll probably remember your absolutely devastated expression for the rest of his life- and will forever try and make up for the pain he caused you that night. "I won't drive like this, promise."
"Thank you." You say. "I'm sorry-" you start, but he shakes his head.
"None of that. I forgot the impact it had on you, so I should apologize." He tells you. "If we take a thirty-minute nap right now, I'll be up and ready to carve the pumpkin tonight, how does that sound?" He asks, and you nod.
"If that's what you wanna do." You accept, and he leans in to press a kiss right onto your cheek.
"Of course." He chuckles, helping you stand up before he stands as well, moving however to cage you in against the low kitchen counter, face so close to yours he's already got it angled perfectly to catch your lips in his next move. "But I think you'll need to tire me out a little before I can sleep well later."
"You're exhausted, old man, you'll sleep just fine." You giggle, and at that, he grips your hips, gaze having sharpened at the challenge you poke him with, another need now rising inside of him as he watches your fingers undo his tie- his own, larger hands taking over to just pull it off quicker, the dark grey item probably useful later.
"I'll show you an old man, you brat."
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underdark-dreams · 6 months
Note
ok, I'm too cowardly to actually reply to your post about Rolan/ Dammon headcannons/ prompts but here are a few:
Rolan:
-He finally gets to be hero, he saves Tav from some scenario and when Tav is thanking him he has no idea what to do with himself.
-Cal and Lia being siblings and absolutely embarrassing him anytime Tav is around. (Sharing embarrassing but endearing stories from when they were younger, hinting at his feelings for Tav, making kissy faces from behind Tav when he's trying to have a conversation.)
-Also, I just have a feeling that he's a jealous green monster whenever someone who isn't any one the companions try and talk to Tav.. especially if its another wizard.
Dammon:
-Him trying to muster up the courage to ask Tav out when he has his shop in Baulders Gate.
-Dammon would 100% be the type who wants to court someone the 'proper' way, but could be convinced otherwise.
-He seems like he would act like a love sick puppy when he's in love.
Thank you for this delicious bouquet of ideas!! 🖤 Twirling my hair over these!! I do want to save a few for fics, but I couldn’t look at this in my inbox any longer without writing out some headcanons:
Rolan 
[Cal & Lia embarrassing him around Tav]
The three of them have a super close bond underneath all the bickering. So the absolute second Rolan catches feelings, Cal & Lia smell blood in the water
Honestly they probably catch it before Rolan admits him to himself
When Lia starts to drop hints or Cal asks if he’s gotten up the nerve to kiss them yet, Rolan is like "what? stop being stupid"
But then he turns away & checks in with himself for a second & he's like "oh fuck"
Rolan makes an effort to only interact with Tav far away from his home, his workplace, the general vicinity of his neighborhood in Baldur’s Gate—basically avoiding anywhere they might run into his sister or brother. They already make him nervous enough
But once they start getting closer he also really wants to bring them home, so at some point, he’ll suck it up and face this potential trainwreck head-on
His siblings make light conversation over dinner about what Tav’s been doing or working on lately. Lia’s like “oh yeah Rolan mentioned that, you know he talks about you a lot, like all the time”
Tav’s hand silently taking his under the table is the only thing that could distract Rolan from snapping back
Somehow, Rolan is even more embarrassed when his siblings start genuinely reminiscing and telling Tav stories about the three of them growing up in Elturel
He’ll chime in if Tav asks him a question, but otherwise he’s pretty quiet. Rolan doesn’t want them to think about him as a refugee or an orphan
In his mind, he still thinks he needs to be powerful and significant in order to truly deserve Tav’s affection
If Rolan paid any attention, he’d realize that Cal and Lia talking up what a stubborn, protective big brother he’s always been is putting stars in Tav’s eyes
[Jealousy]
He’s so fucking jealous and it drives him crazy
Rolan likes controlling the narrative, keeping any vulnerability under control & well hidden from others, etc.
Falling in love with Tav creates a big complication in the way he usually operates
Once he’s master of Ramazith’s Tower, he has a certain amount of social obligations—hosting members of the wizarding community, professional gatherings, etc
And Tav is an integral part of his life now, so they'll always be involved to some extent
Midway through the evening, Rolan glances across the room and sees one of his colleagues talking much closer than he'd like to his beloved. As he watches, their hand actually reaches out to touch Tav’s elbow
Whatever he's doing or whoever he's conversing with is abandoned without ceremony
Rolan does that thing where he casually walks up to join the conversation and places a hand on the small of Tav's back, just resting there with a slight smile as he pretends to listen. But he’s staking his claim
In his head the gesture means step the fuck back, this person is with me. It’s honestly about as subtle as a sledgehammer
After they're finally alone again he'll probably want to fuck Tav on his desk or against one of the bookstacks in the Tower
Capturing them for himself and hearing them moan his name and making sure they know they’re his
Dammon
[Working up the courage to ask Tav out]
He’s been really glad their paths have converged here and there along the way, but nothing could make him prouder than when Tav comes to visit the Forge of Nine Hells in the city
Dammon is completely in his element in Baldur’s Gate
He’s pretty modest and down-to-earth, but he feels a swell of pride when Tav finally sees him running a proper forge. It’s how he always hoped they’d see him
And is it just his imagination, or does he see them…often? Almost every day they’re dropping by for one reason or the other, and they seem to linger to chat and watch him work
The hints that they’re interested are all Dammon needs to start working up his courage to make a move
He's alone and tied to his work most of the day, which gives his mind ample time to run through different options
Getting the timing right drives him a little crazy. So often Tav is in a hurry, or with their companions, or he's got a rush commission that he has to get finished
When he finally finds the moment, he’ll probably come right out with it & ask them out for a drink. He wants something simple where they can talk, plus smithing is thirsty work
When Tav agrees with a smile, Dammon drops everything, his leather apron snagging as he pulls it over his horns in his haste to get going
Gathers his courage and puts an arm around their shoulders as they walk
With anyone else Dammon would be self-conscious about how he smells like iron and smoke and sweat all the time. But if anyone can look past it it’s Tav, with everything they’ve been through
A feeling that's confirmed when they lean further into him with a laugh
[Being totally lovesick over Tav]
The definition of devoted
He would 100% be that type of boyfriend who likes to be always touching Tav when they’re close
Prefers to rest his hand on their hip while they’re side by side, maybe on the curve of their ass if he can get away with it. The contrast against the doting look in his eye is classic Dammon—sweet and hot 
It's not a possessiveness thing, and he'd tone it down if Tav asked, he's just super into them & touching them feels natural
Just in general, he loves telling Tav yes and has a very hard time telling them no
At the end of the day, Dammon likes to pull Tav down to sit on his lap and talk about their days. He might stroke their hair or rub their back while he listens, just helping his love relax at the end of a long day
Dammon’s used to being a single bachelor and taking care of himself, but he discovers that he adores when Tav does little things to dote on him or pamper him
One night he comes home with the usual soot stains on his skin and ache in his shoulders to find that Tav has drawn him a warm, pleasant-smelling bath. Ignoring any mild protests, Tav insists on helping him peel off his sweaty layers and sink in, then loosens his knot of hair to gently lather and wash his locks. The feel of Tav’s fingers and nails massaging his scalp is the most loving, tender thing. Dammon feels like he could fall asleep right right there in the water under their hands
He calls Tav all kinds of pet names: darling, love, dearest, gorgeous, sometimes angel if he's feeling especially whipped
Dammon is one to say "I love you' freely and often, but hearing Tav say it back never fails to make him sigh with happiness
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isaegi · 6 months
Text
CRAVINGS
feat. gojo satoru x reader (gn)
includes: canon divergence (au), pining gojo teehee, fluff, strangers (gojo is a persistent customer at your workplace, absolutely does NOT let up) to hinted luvers mwahaha, JUST SO FLUFFY GOJOS SO DNJAUDSHUFAEK :((
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A/N: absolutely have to share this drabble/headcanon idea that has been plaguing my thoughts for the past few weeks with you guys. definitely have thoughts of turning this into a proper fic
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MEET CUTE (but it turns ???) with Gojo Satoru who slowly becomes your diner’s most regular customer— and it all whittles down because of you.
It all starts when Gojo bursts in through the diner's entrance during your closing shift while his best buddy, Geto, is waiting for him in his old man's car. The engine runs loud and persistent, and you can practically feel the base of music from his car thumping from where you stood behind the counter.
Despite there being literally no one else in the restaurant save for a couple of employees cleaning down tables for the night, Gojo still has the audacity to open his mouth and ask, "You guys still open?"
"Gojo, there's 5 minutes until closing." You hear your supervisor, Utahime, grit from behind clenched teeth. Her face most likely contorted into a forced smile, you're sure. "You can come back tomorrow at a more appropriate hour."
"Come on, Utahimeee~" you hear the white-haired male groan, ignoring her quick remark for him not to call her by her first name so casually. "Throw me a bone here; it'll be quick I promise."
"The chefs are already packed up and heading out for the night," she throws over her shoulder, "and I suggest that you and geto go do the same." With that, Utahime's already swiftly turning on her heel to make a sharp beeline toward her office stationed beside the kitchen.
Honestly, you feel kind of bad for the guy. But it seems like this isn't his first incident of walking into the Iori's family business just minutes before closing.
Now it’s just you, that tall— stupidly attractive— stranger and the sound of the door creaking shut behind Utahime that accompanies the silence that hangs in the room that you both share. Despite being turned away, Gojo had yet to turn and head back out into the vacant parking lot— save for his car and Geto who is still waiting for him in it.
Blue eyes soft with confusion paired with pink, pouty glossed lips graced his face. If Utahime wasn't gonna throw him a bone, you might as well. Besides, the sooner you send him on his way with whatever he came here for, the better. You wouldn't wanna have to stick around for when Utahime comes back into the dining area to chew him out.
"What were you looking for, specifically?" you pipe up from the counter. "If it's anything from the display I'm sure I can just throw it in a to-go container for you."
Gojo flicks his attention away from Utahime's office door to you. You can't quite place your finger on the emotions he's wearing, but the face of pure disbelief is one that automatically strikes you.
"You serious?"
You nod, already shifting your attention away from his starstruck gaze to head toward the dessert display. It's only a small gesture of kindness that you'll be contributing, nothing too grand. So, it's no biggie. "As long as word doesn't get back to her, it should be fine."
Just hand him whatever and send him on his way. It'll be a one-time thing.
"Tell on you to her?" Gojo joins you on the other side of the display case, eyeing you through the glass when you bend down to unlock the sliding door. "I could never."
You drag your eyes away from the display up to his face, only to find that he's already staring at you. Okay, cool! You bite down a yelp and suppress the strangled noise with a cough. "So, which one would you like?"
Again, Gojo's face is unreadable, but you watch how his eyes trail along your face, drinking you in. Almost as if he were to blink, you'd disappear right before his very eyes. And with how close he is you can really see it. Really take in how pretty this man is.
After what feels like forever in a matter of mere seconds, Gojo's gaze finally flits down to your hand awkwardly hovering over a sad-looking piece of purin. "I'll take that one," he says, nodding his head toward the custard.
You blink. "Oh—" You clear your throat. Out of all the different pastries on the shelves, he chooses that one? "Okay..."
You reach for one of the plastic containers stationed under the display counter and peel the packaging open. Grabbing one of the tongs, you reach for the purin and slowly yet surely make your way to plop its contents into the container for this man.
Everything was going peachy until the moment a part of the custard grazed the thumb of where you were holding the container— effectively ruining a bit of its circular shape.
"Shit." You curse, immediately flicking away the caramel that grazed your finger. You pray and hope and pray to whatever higher power that he wasn't watching this whole ordeal go down. You shoot him a quick glance to confirm your suspicions.
He's still watching you.
You ignore his breathless chuckle at you, and in turn you choose to watch as he reaches for his back pocket for his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"
"Don't worry about it. It would've been tossed anyway," you assure, waving your hands to further drive home the point to him that there was no need to pay. You loved Utahime, but you absolutely did not want her grilling you tomorrow as to why your till was off, despite you dropping the entirety of your money the night prior.
"How about I—"
"By the time I step out here Gojo you better be gone! We're! Closed!" You hear your supervisor shout from the back.
The sigh Gojo heaves is one riddled with exhaustion and disappointment. Yet, he doesn't let the easy smile resting on his lips slip for a second.
"Thank you," he breathes, he lifts his hand— the one holding his dessert— and shakes it for emphasis as to what he was thanking you for. Still facing you Gojo takes a step back, "See you again, yeah?"
And he stands there. Waiting with his head tilted to the side, hand still pressed against the entrance door's handle.
You freeze like a deer caught in headlights. He's fucking waiting for you to respond. "Oh, uhm," you feel your face warm under the intensity of his gaze. "I guess?" What are the chances that you do see him again though?
Satisfied with your answer, Gojo nods. He backs out of the restaurant, humming an incessant tune under his breath as he trots back to his car.
Ever since that day— much to Utahime's utter confusion and exasperation— Gojo has been making more frequent visits to the diner. And with his visits came questions of where you were, if you still worked there, how you've been. So on and so forth.
Despite you telling him numerous times, that there's no need for him to pay back the favour, gojo still swings by. He still drops in and sits right in your section. Still acts like he doesn't no what's "good" from the menu and what's not. And still asks you for your recommendations whenever you do wind up having to take his order.
Coworkers of yours giggle, blush and squeal over to you whenever they are also encountered with the remarkable beauty and divinity that is Gojo Satoru. Their hushed whispers whenever they see him walk past the diner's doors. Their dejected whines when they realize he's walking out of their sections and slipping into the booth toward the back. Slipping his lanky, lean body into your section's booth.
It's like he can't let you out of his sight for long, because he craves the occurrence of running into you too much. He keeps coming back in hopes to be more familiar with you, and you with him.
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HOPING THIS HEADCANON GOT YALL CRAZY LIKE I... HE'S SOFKJSDSRFKL :')) he deserves anything and everything. so this will most certainly be expanded on in a fuller fic with much more depth and nuance &lt;333
just had to get this word vomit out! i hope u enjoyed :))) please let me know ur thoughts!
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ghouljams · 6 months
Note
I finished the medieval Ghost drawing and I drew what I imagined the Royal Crest to look like. The chainmail wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Fun to draw 10/10 would recommend.
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Let's fucking goooo, that's my MAN!!! I could stare at this for fucking hours, I'm going to stare at it for hours, thank you. Also the crest?? The Crest???? So good.
God!!! The hand on the leg(too far up to be proper I see u Ghost) and the way he's sort of bowing to her like I can feel the emotion in my teeth I want to eat this. Have some fic.
"You're wearing your helm," you keep your voice low, hardly moving your head to speak to the knight behind you. This is one of those tedious things you have to do sometimes. You stand with your seated parents as they hear the people's complaints, and try not to think about how you would handle things. You're supposed to be pretty, not smart. Although you are smart, and you do have ideas, you're expected to keep them to yourself.
"Didn't want to show you up," Ghost jokes, voice as monotone as ever. You smile a little to yourself.
"If you're so much prettier than me, you can take over being the show pony," you joke back.
"And rob the kingdom of seeing you all dressed up? Wouldn't dream of it," you can hear the slight chuckle in his voice, it's a comfort. Having Ghost nearby is always a comfort. He has such a way of calming you, keeping you from pulling to far into yourself. He treats you like a person, not a princess, when you need him to.
"I'd quite enjoy seeing you in a dress, something to emphasize your waist maybe?" Although finding something to fit his broad shoulders might be a bit more tricky. All that swinging a sword around has certainly built him a nice physique. It's silly, but the thought makes your placid princess smile a little more genuine.
"What do you know about my waist?" He asks, you can still hear his amusement in his tone. That's good, you'd hate to offend him.
"Only what I've seen of it," you hum.
"Sneaking peaks are we?" He clicks his tongue and the sound reverberates through your bones, you feel it like he's physically touched you the way it slides down your spine, "Naughty girl."
You tell yourself he's only joking, but that doesn't dull your reaction. Heat blooms over your cheeks, you swallow the feeling that wells in your chest, and wet your lips. Does he know he can take you apart with just those two words? That the depth in his tone, the growl in his voice, makes you want to melt where you stand?
You turn to tell him you absolutely were not sneaking peaks, and that even if you did happen to it would only have been while you were on the road together. Which you hardly think counts considering there's hardly any privacy when camping anyway. You catch your mother's glare at the first twitch from you. You keep your eyes forward and do your best not to pout.
"If you stand there nice and pretty like a good girl I'll tell you why I'm wearing my helm," Ghost never whispers, but he speaks so that his voice doesn't carry. You watch your mother for any sign that she's listening, and she hardly bats an eye. You suppose you're both far enough back, and her attention is far enough forward, to grant you some level of privacy. You give the barest hint of a nod for your knight, and he lets out a breath.
"Good," Maybe one word is all he needs, you like the way he says it, the way it brushes over your skin. He's quiet for a long while. Two people get up to air their grievances before he speaks again. It's long enough that you almost want to ask, to jog his memory. If you didn't know better you might squirm.
"Wanted to make sure I wasn't caught staring," He tells you finally.
"What are you looking at?" You smile to hide the quick twitch in your brows. It's not like Ghost to be distracted doing his duties, you wonder what-
"You're clever, what do you think I'm looking at?" His voice is so thick you wonder how he was able to speak at all. You take stock of the room, the throng of people and servants. His eyes should be everywhere, there's only one place they truly shouldn't be. On you.
You can feel them, the weight of his gaze as it travels over you. You can feel where it settles: your waist, your hips, your chest, your neck, your lips. You let out a breath and know his eyes have settled on the movement of it. How are you supposed to survive the rest of this interminable function with his eyes on you like this?
"I am clever aren't I," You tell him, knowing the way he hums in assent will do nothing to stop the heat that follows his gaze.
"You are."
It's strange how you can have so many eyes on you and never feel their pressure, but knowing your knight is watching makes you almost self conscious. You can feel every brush of your skirt, every shift in your posture that your breath brings, every little twitch in your body magnified under Ghost's watchful eye. You haven't wanted to fidget since you were a child, and yet here you are. Your skin crawling, your bones begging to move, if for no other reason than to give Ghost something to look at, some reason to watch you.
Suddenly you're not standing for your parents, or out of duty to your position, you're standing for him. And that's so much different isn't it? You can't move, can't directly speak to Ghost, and though your fingers ache to touch him neither of you would dare. What pleasure does he get from this?
More so, how is it so pleasant for you?
You wonder if he looks at you often, if he likes what he sees. You wonder if he has favorite dresses, favorite jewelry, if he ever hopes you'll wear something again. You wonder if he has favorite parts of you, if he likes your eyes as much as you like his, if he thinks about your hands as often as you do his. You hope he does. You hope he looks at you and thinks of you sweetly.
It's all either of you gets.
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