#[this is the au that was absolutely needed] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blank-potato · 3 days ago

Text

my kid's better than your kid

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.” “Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat. “Absolutely not! This is about accountability.” “There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket. “Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—” He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.” You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.” Or You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, hair pulling, mirror sex, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, breeding kink, sexual overstimulation, John Walker is a biter, No Superhero AU!, slow burn, enemies to lovers, dead spouse (I killed off his wife oop), John being a good dad, Ava Starr cameo

A/N: I feel like John would be one of those dads who's coaching from the sidelines at their kids' game, so I wrote this. I'm also obsessed with him right now so expect more fics

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Some might call you intense or insane.

A little crazy, definitely.

There’s a fire in you, always has been, and when it comes to your daughter, you didn’t play around. Every aspect of her life was important to you, especially her Saturday morning soccer games.

Though you didn’t know what intense was until you saw that dickhead across the field. Blonde hair, a trimmed beard, built like he probably hits the gym four times a week. His biceps flexed under his white shirt every time he threw his arms up at the ref, which, to be fair, was often.

If he weren’t so obnoxious, you might even find him hot, but you totally don’t find him hot. He was pumped up, red in the face, and just as invested in the game as you were. Pacing like a coach who got fired but still showed up anyway. He was shouting directions, clapping like his kid was about to be scouted, and cheering like it was the World Cup and not just a rec league game on a patchy field behind a middle school.

He was showing you up, so you started cheering louder for your kid. Because if this is a competition, you're damn well not losing it.

“That’s it, Lily! Give ‘em hell!” You shout, your daughter just smiles at you and goes back to playing, used to your competitive nature.

The man takes notice of you and looks at you like he isn’t also acting like a lunatic before cheering even louder. That rubbed you the wrong way. What gave him the right to look at you like you were the problem?

Then it happens.

You watch as your daughter gets slide-tackled for no reason.

And the ref? Doing fuck all about it.

“What was that call, ref?” you shout, already on your feet.

“I—” the ref starts, backing up as you approach.

You trudge towards him, angry but trying to maintain a look of composed fury, like you weren't two seconds from setting the field on fire.

The ref was used to your antics, and now every time he saw you storming towards him, he’d be sure that he’d be going home with a headache.

“No yellow or red card? She got slide-tackled,” you bark.

“It’s—”

“She didn’t even have the ball!” you snap, the words ripping out of you like they’ve been waiting. You’re so fired up, so high on rage and love and disbelief, you swear you could take flight.

“It was an accident, so there’s no need for that,” a voice cuts in, calm and condescending in the worst possible way.

You turn, and it’s him, the guy from across the field. The look on his face, the matter-of-fact tone, the casual smugness oozing off him like cologne. You hate him instantly. It was that easy.

“I’m guessing that was your son that ran over my daughter,” you say, each word clipped like you’re trying not to launch them at his face.

“Ran over?” he snorts. “Talk about an exaggeration.”

“It’s soccer, these things happen. You don’t have to throw a tantrum just because your kid's team is down two,” he adds, smirking like he thinks this is witty banter and not a declaration of war.

You scoff, hands on hips, already stepping into his space. The ref backs off like a man realising he’s standing between two charging bulls. This wasn’t a sideline spat; this was two planets colliding, and he wanted no part of the fallout.

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”

“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.

“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”

“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”

He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”

You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“That’s it! Take this off the field,” the ref finally blurts, hands up, voice cracking. “The kids have a match to play!”

You exhale sharply and hard through your nose, fists clenched at your sides. You try to calm yourself down, jaw tight, heart pounding. You sit and look out at your daughter, brushing grass off her knees and already back in position.

She's tougher than you give her credit, but that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to put that guy’s head in the ground.

After the game, her team, the Honeybees, lost after a few missed goals and lots of questionable calls, but your daughter was still laughing with her friends, unfazed in the way only kids can be.

You, however, were still stewing in quiet indignation when you spotted the world’s biggest jackass, in your humble, entirely accurate opinion, making his way toward you.

“Oh. It’s you,” you say, arms crossed automatically.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your loss,” he says, all fake sincerity, like he wasn’t two seconds away from being shoved into a juice box cooler.

“How mature.”

“I try,” he replies with that same maddening, self-satisfied grin.

You narrow your eyes, ready for whatever condescending nonsense he might say next. If he says “good effort”, you’re swinging. Choosing not to let him fuck with you, you tell him what’s what.

“Your team only won because of the ref’s bad calls,” you say, arms still crossed, tone sharp enough to slice fruit.

“Oh really?” he replies, lifting an eyebrow like he’s genuinely amused. Like this is his idea of foreplay.

“Yeah. My kid was dynamite out there.”

“So was mine,” he says back instantly.

“I mean, sure, but my kid has the most assists on her team,” you say, trying to keep your cool, even as your voice edges higher.

“Assists,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “Not goals.”

You blink at him. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says with mock innocence, hands raised like he’s never been petty in his life.

You press your lips together, biting your tongue so hard it might bruise. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to, but it slips out anyway.

“My kid can out-pass, out-hustle, and outplay any other kid on that field.”

He grins like he’s been waiting for this.

“Well, my kid can run circles around your kid while tying his cleats.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Alright then, my kid was able to run a full field drill without missing a pass when she was five.”

“Well, mine could do cone drills backwards while coaching his teammate through theirs.”

Your eye twitches at that and he delights in seeing you so bothered.

“Lily has a killer left foot and once scored a hat trick with a stomach bug.”

“And Tommy is a human wall on defence.”

“Oh, please. Lily once did a bicycle kick and landed on her feet. What’s Tommy got?” You say, crossing your arms.

“Perfect attendance and a clean penalty record.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘clean penalty record’ but you keep it moving.

“Lily brings orange slices for the whole team.”

“Tommy brings strategy diagrams and pep talks.”

You pause, blinking. “Are we… bragging about how nice our kids are now?”

“Seems like it.”

You both go quiet for a beat, then he adds with a smirk, “Still doesn’t mean your kid’s better. I think you should admit to defeat.”

You step forward, just enough to make a point. “I’ll admit defeat when the Honeybees start losing because of their own mistakes, not because your future linebacker throws elbows like he’s in a bar fight.”

He actually laughs, and it’s a little too charming for your liking. Before you can wrestle with what that means, you hear a voice.

“Dad!” his son calls from across the field, waving dramatically. “Hurry up, you promised we’d get ice cream!”

He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with that same smug glint in his eye.

“Again, enjoy your loss,” he says, already turning. “And get used to it. The season’s still young.”

You narrow your eyes. “Until next time, Captain Suburbia.”

He chuckles and starts to walk away, but pauses, turns back with a smirk plastered on his face.

“John,” he says. “My name is John.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“From?” Your friend, Ava, says as she looks around for the apparent danger.

“John.”

Ever since that day, you were livid with the dickhead you knew as John Walker. You had never hated someone so much from just one meeting. You never wanted to see him again, but you did while shopping.

Ava takes a peek, “Oh, the hot soccer dad? Which one is he?”

You never described him as hot but Ava figured from the way you were kidding your mind over him, you thought he was.

“Blonde, beard, tall and wearing a blue shirt.”

Ava sees him in the fruit and veg aisle and hums in approval, “Is he single? He’s right up your alley, no?”

You nudge her arm. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn't see him with anyone at the game…” You say your voice drifting off before you're back to your senses. “Whether or not he's single is irrelevant! He’s a complete asshole.”

“Just because he's an asshole doesn’t mean he’s not good in bed.”

The death glare you give her is intense and could be considered lethal, but she laughs it off.

“Let’s be honest, if you weren’t attracted to him, you wouldn’t be so riled up.”

“Oh, please, I’m not into evil blonde men.”

Is he hot? Yes. But his evilness outweighs the hotness.

“Well, the evil blonde man is coming your way.”

You look towards the end of the aisle to see that Ava was right, so you immediately duck down behind a tower of soup cans.

“Please come out from over there,” Ava whispers but you protest, hoping you can camouflage yourself and become one with the cans.

Ten seconds pass, and you hear your name in that familiar voice and know you’ve been caught.

“Oh. Hi.”

Your attempt at being nonchalant is honestly pitiful, but not more pitiful than him knowing you were hiding from him.

“Don’t mind me, go back to whatever this is,” He says, gesturing to your hunched-over, goblin-like stance. He reaches over you and grabs a can off the shelf, walking off without another word.

“See? No need to panic. He was perfectly civil,” Ava chimes in.

“Only because he caught me in a state of weakness. He has the upper hand, and he’s already plotting against me. I can feel it.”

“He’s a soccer dad, not a supervillain,” Ava sighs, helping you off the floor, concerned about the effect he was having on you, but then again, she was always concerned about you. You regularly lose your mind at your daughter’s soccer games so she has just cause.

“I need to grab the wine, I’ll meet you at the checkout,” Ava says, and you nod, letting her walk off.

You had to circle back around to get the limited edition coffee you had become obsessed with anyway. You get to the aisle and your eyes widen when you realise that there’s only one left. Your hand flies to grab it, you can already imagine it in your trolley, and it looks good. It looks happy, like it's ready to be at home in your pantry.

But at the same time, another hand wraps around it, the hand belonging to John, because fate was still playing in your face.

“You.”

You thought you were done with him for the day. Clearly, the universe had other plans.

John raises an eyebrow, not letting go. “Come on. Be a gentleman and give it to me,” You say, trying to force a smile.

Your grip tightens, so does his.

“I don’t think so,” he says smoothly, as if he weren’t just on the verge of sparking a full-blown aisle standoff. “It’s the last one.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to go across town for another,” You say, your eyebrows knitting together.

“Cry about it.”

You tug on it a little, but he doesn’t budge. The item wobbles dangerously between your hands.

“Are you even trying?” he asks. He was so good at being a smug bastard, you wonder if he was born like this or if he honed this craft. You open your mouth to really let him have it, but you don’t even get the chance.

Without another word, he snatches it clean from your hand in one smooth move, drops it into his trolley like he just won Olympic gold, and starts walking away, whistling.

You stand there, mildly offended but mostly impressed.

“Oh no, you did not just—” you march after him.

“Too slow, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Better luck next time.”

“I hope it’s expired!” you shout after him.

You stop walking and watch as he struts off with your coffee like he was the King of Aisle Seven, you were planning his downfall in at least three different ways.

And two of them involved shopping carts.

After the grocery store incident, you were looking forward to having a reprieve from John Walker. But it was like fate or something more evil was forcing the two of you together. You have a PTA meeting the next night, and who do you see there but John, who was now becoming a permanent fixture in your life.

You sigh and sit beside the only empty seat, which was next to him.

“Let’s not even speak,” You suggest you say as soon as your butt hits the seat.

“Fine with me,” John replies as he crosses his arms, looking away from you.

You sit there tapping your foot. It was almost painful being silent when everyone else was having conversations. Especially when you were next to a thief. You didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him properly for swiping your coffee.

You finally break, “What you did yesterday was shitty.”

“And I thought we weren’t going to speak.”

“I’ll be sick if I don’t call out injustice when I see it.”

John laughs, and you want to strangle him. “You’re still thinking about that? I’m constantly on your mind, aren’t I?”

You shift in your seat, feeling the heat climbing up the back of your neck. How dare he even suggest that? Yes, you were thinking about him, but only about all the ways you wanted to destroy him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap under your breath.

The meeting starts before he can muster up a comeback. You catch yourself zoning out as the agenda drags on, filled with tedious updates about the bake sale and a desperate plea for chaperones for the 3rd-grade trip to Lake Maribelle.

You swing your leg absentmindedly and accidentally bump his shin. It’s genuinely an accident.

“Did you just kick me?” he whispers.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t taking up half the space with your big—”

“You’re unbelievable—” He interrupts, turning his body to face you.

“Gangly legs, then you wouldn’t have gotten hit,” You whisper your sentence over his.

Your whispered bickering is only interrupted by the teacher at the front calling both your names.

“You’ll help chaperone the trip to Lake Maribelle?”

With all those expectant eyes on you, how could either of you say no?

“Yeah…”

“Of course…”

You both reply sheepishly at the same time.

“Great, I’ll sign the two of you up.”

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Stepping onto the bus, you watch as Lily disappears to go sit with her friend, leaving you with a slight pang of loneliness. You head to the front and slump into your seat, next to who else but John, because you can’t even be surprised. You really needed to start arriving at places earlier to avoid sitting next to him, but here you were.

It’s a four-hour ride, and you can already feel your exhaustion creeping in. You try to keep yourself alert, but your eyes are heavy. Before you know it, your head tilts to the side, falling onto his shoulder.

John glances down at you, noticing how tired you look. He’s always been perceptive like that. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to give you more space. But when he feels you drift further, he gently shifts, adjusting his posture. His shoulder feels like a small slice of comfort amidst the exhaustion.

He lets you use his shoulder the whole ride. You looked quite peaceful when you weren’t trying to rip his head off, quite beautiful too. John catches the thought and tosses it out. He couldn’t be caught slipping, you were his mortal enemy after all.

The bus reaches the camp, and suddenly, it jerks to a stop. Your head flies forward, but before you can react, John’s hand shoots out, catching your forehead in the palm of his hand just in time.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed but too tired to really care.

He just hums in response, his fingers lightly grazing your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “Quick reflexes.”

Hoping off the bus, you notice the camp leaders waiting to greet the kids. You stand off to the side ensuring everyone gets off the bus when you notice one of the teachers, Miss. Lucas, sidling up next to John, laughing a little too loudly at something he barely said. Your eyes narrow without even realising it, and your fist subconsciously tightens. It’s like a sudden surge of irritation hits you.

The worst part is that you don’t even know why you're so bothered. You’re pretty sure it's just your general distaste for him as a person, and anything he does seems to irritate you. That felt like the easiest explanation. No need to dig deeper into that nagging feeling in your chest, like someone’s poking it with a stick. You shake it off, willing yourself to focus on something else, anything else.

After you get the kids all settled in for the first activity, though, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion. You’re winded in a way you don’t remember being before. You try to shake it off, but it’s clear that you’ve reached your limit for the day. This trip wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, and now, even a simple walk feels like you’ve run a marathon.

You take a deep breath, looking around for a moment to regain your composure. There's no need to make a bigger deal out of it. Just power through, you tell yourself. But it’s harder than you expected, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just the physical exhaustion that's weighing on you.

But at least John was out of sight. You didn’t have to see him on the nature walk or the obstacle course, but you’d have to supervise the canoeing together. You make it out there first, sitting on the dock as the kids are getting in the canoes with the instructors. A smile tugs at your lips as you see how excited Lily is, her face lighting up as she waits for her turn, then spotting you in the crowd. She waves enthusiastically, and you wave back, your heart swelling just a little at the sight of her so happy.

“Nice day out,” John says, looking out at the water. You’re shaken to your core. Not just because you didn’t hear him walk up, but because of what he said. What was this? A normal conversation starter?

You open your mouth to respond, but you're cut off by Miss. Lucas' syrupy voice slicing through the moment like a dull butter knife.

“It really is, and John, you really should wear sunglasses. With how blue your eyes are, the way the sun hits them is just distracting,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her overly straightened hair.

It’s laced with flirtation and just enough condescension to make your skin crawl.

You roll your eyes — hard.

John notices.

“What? You don’t like the sun?” he asks, amused now, that sharp gaze flicking to you like he already knows he’s poking the bear.

“I like the sun,” you answer evenly.

“Then what were you rolling your eyes at, huh?”

You’re so tempted to say exactly what’s on your mind. To call out Miss. Lucas’s thinly veiled thirst trap of a compliment, but you catch yourself. The last thing you need is her holding some petty grudge against Lily over adult nonsense.

So instead, you force a too-sweet smile and say, “None of your business.”

He chuckles, clearly entertained.

Miss. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s still lingering like a wasp at a picnic.

John tilts his head, a grin still playing at his lips. “Touchy.”

Stepping into your space, he does that thing, that infuriating thing, where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to break any rules.

You guys just couldn’t seem to be near each other without someone stepping over the invisible line.

“And you’re observant,” you shoot back, voice low. “Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.”

His brow lifts. “Is that right?”

“You know what? I’m sorry, I'm being rude. Let me ask you this,” you say, your voice sweet and dangerous all at once, “Do you like water?”

“What kind of question is—?”

Splash.

He never finishes.

You shove him clean off the dock, and he crashes into the freezing lake with a satisfying crash. A few heads turn at the sound, followed by laughter, mostly from the kids.

John surfaces, sputtering, slicking his hair back with both hands as he glares up at you like a betrayed golden retriever.

“It’s freezing!” he shouts.

“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Is it? I had no idea.”

He blinks the water from his eyes, slow and deliberate, before gripping the edge of the dock with both hands and pulling himself up in one smooth, effortless motion.

It’s… a problem.

You might hate the man, scratch that, you definitely hate the man, but God help you, he had the audacity to look good doing literally anything. The sunlight caught the drops of water rolling down his arms, his shirt plastered to the ridges of his abs and the degenerate part of your brain wanting to see them with his shirt off.

His hair dripped, tousled and messy in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. It was like watching someone climb out of a cologne commercial.

You bite your lip instinctively, then immediately cover it up with a cough and a scowl.

He strides toward you, soaking wet, every squelching footstep a declaration of petty war. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his eyes as he stops in front of you.

“You’re lucky,” he says, water still dripping from his sleeves, “that one of us knows how to act like an adult.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips twitching despite yourself. “You sure it’s you?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, then turns and walks down the dock toward the cabins, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and a hundred silent thoughts you’re too proud to say out loud.

You watch him go and tell yourself it’s because you want to see if there’s the off chance he falls in.

Definitely not because of the view.

You’re watching your back the rest of the day, fully expecting some form of petty revenge. A frog in your shoe, a cold fish under your pillow, maybe even your toothbrush mysteriously tasting like lake water. But nothing happens.

No pranks. No payback.

You’re in the clear.

Now, sitting by the campfire, the sky a hazy lavender above the treeline, things feel… calm. The kids are running wild around the open field, fireflies blinking to life as marshmallows roast and someone strums a guitar softly in the distance.

“Hi,” a small voice says beside you.

You turn and see Tommy, John’s son, standing there with a hesitant smile.

“Hey, having fun?” you ask, shifting to make room.

He nods and sits next to you, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The nature walk was pretty cool, and me and my friends loved the obstacle course. And the canoeing was fun too… even though you pushed my dad in the lake.”

You groan lightly, a hand going to your face. “Yeah, about that…”

The guilt hits, a pang of embarrassment. You knew your behaviour was juvenile. Funny, sure, but maybe not your finest moment, especially in front of the kids.

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was pretty funny,” Tommy admits, “And I know you and my dad have problems.”

You feel even more ashamed that it was bleeding into your kids' lives too.

“My dad can be a lot,” he says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “But he’s just… I don’t know. He tries really hard. Especially for me.”

It helped you understand John a little better. The bluster, the sarcasm, the stubborn streak a mile wide… It wasn’t just pride or ego. It was effort. The kind that comes from someone trying to do right, even if it comes out messy. You could appreciate that because you were the same way.

And if he’d raised such a polite kid, then he couldn’t be all bad. Not even close.

“Have you seen him, by the way?” Tommy asks.

“Not lately,” you say, then gesture toward the table behind you. “But you can have some marshmallows while you wait, if you want.”

“Sure!” he says, lighting up as he grabs a stick and starts roasting.

John comes back to see something he wasn't expecting. The bane of his existence, laughing with his son and roasting marshmallows. Tommy didn’t warm up to most people that easily, so when he sees him lighting up with you, his opinion of you shifts. Maybe you weren’t an evil witch.

You still got a bucket of freezing lake water poured over you the next morning, though.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You’re out running errands, finally—blissfully—alone. Lily’s spending the weekend at your parents' place, which meant you had time to catch your breath, clean without stepping on glitter, and maybe finally recover from the whirlwind that was the school trip.

You understood John better. You still thought he was annoyingly smug, sure, but maybe not completely irredeemable.

But you weren’t getting ahead of yourself. He was still the same cocky asshole you met yelling across a soccer field... right?

Just as you’re mulling that over, tongue in cheek, deciding if you’d imagined all the softness, you feel your car begin to slow down.

“What the—?”

You frown, tapping the gas. Nothing. A few panicked beeps. Then a sputter.

You manage to pull off to the side of the road just as the engine completely gives out, your car coasting to a reluctant stop.

“No, no, no!” you shout, slamming your palms against the steering wheel.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when you finally had a few hours of peace and you were this close to getting Thai food and going home to binge terrible reality TV.

With a heavy sigh, you get out and open the bonnet, even though you have no idea what you’re looking for. Wires? Steam? A glowing red light labeled you’re screwed?

You’re standing there, staring blankly into the guts of your car, when you hear it, a car slowing down behind you and parking behind you.

You barely glance back, already waving them off. “Thanks, I’m good—”

But then you hear a too-familiar voice say, “Well, that doesn’t look promising.”

Of course.

You turn around slowly.

And there he is.

John Walker, ladies and gentlemen.

“Need a hand?” he asks, already strolling over like he’s been waiting his whole life to rescue you.

“I uh…” You start becasure you’re so tempted to say “I got this” but the moment your eyes look back at whatever the fuck is going on in your car, you sigh.

“Do you have a toolbox?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, it’s in the boot,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it.

Then he came back, popped the hood, and casually peeled his shirt off with a warning: “Don’t read into anything. I just don’t want grease on my shirt.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t say anything, but that sure as hell didn’t stop you from watching. Because damn. The man was all broad shoulders, and strong arms that had no business looking that good twisting bolts.

You could’ve watched him work all day.

“Try starting it,” he called, interrupting your horny thoughts.

You slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. It’s a miracle.

“Thank you, seriously.”

He leaned over the hood, smug smile fully loaded. “No problem. That should get you moving, but you definitely need to take this to a garage. I can come with you, if you want.”

Seeing the way your face contorts, he follows up with an explanation before you start berating him again.

“You’ll need a ride home after, won’t you?”

“Oh, true… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I mean as long as I'm not keeping you from Tommy, am I?” You say as you watch him put his shirt back on.

“No, he's at his grandparents’ place.”

“Oh same with Lily,” You admit.

“Guess we have some errands to run together then.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You arrive back home in his car and say “Home sweet home,” because you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking baout. Ever since you watched him fix your car, haggle down the price of your repair with the mechanic and drive you home, you’d been in a bit of a daze. A ‘John Walker is the perfect man’ daze to be exact.

“Do you ... wanna come in?” You say, the words escaping you, but what you didn’t expect was his reply.

“Sure.”

You welcome him in, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as John casually walks around your house.

It was clean, for once and cosy too, filled with little signs of your life with Lily. Pictures lined the walls: school plays, messy birthday parties, soccer games. Her drawings were stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

“This you?” John asks, voice tinged with amusement.

You turn to see him holding a framed photo from the shelf, a younger you, maybe around Lily’s age, standing proudly in a baseball uniform, cap askew and a dirt-smudged grin on your face.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yeah. I peaked in Little League.”

He chuckles, eyes still on the photo. “You look like you were about to take someone out at home plate.”

“I probably did.”

He glances over at you, that familiar smirk on his face. “Not much has changed then.”

You snort. “Are you calling me aggressive?”

“I’m saying I’d definitely want you on my team,” he replies, setting the photo down gently. “You were a force to be reckoned with, no doubt,” he says with a chuckle.

“Always.”

“Are there more?” he asks, leaning a little closer with that annoyingly charming glint in his eye.

You cross your arms, sitting back a little as you narrow your eyes. “Nuh uh. We are not going through my baby pictures.”

“Yes, we are.”

And five minutes later, you were both on the couch with a photo album spread across your lap.

“You even look like a soccer ball in this one,” he teases, pointing to a photo of you in a puffy striped onesie.

“I bet you were an ugly baby,” you fire back, sticking your tongue out at him.

“I’ll have you know I was adorable. Practically a Gerber baby.”

He flips a page and pauses. “Is this you or Lily?”

“That’s Lily,” you say, your smile softening.

“She looks just like you.”

“I like to call her my twin,” you laugh. “And she hates it.”

Time ticks by, and you barely even notice it. The room has dimmed with the setting sun, shadows creeping in, and a warmth building low in your stomach. You’ve been flipping through photo albums for what must’ve been hours, laughing and teasing each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then you hear it, John’s stomach growling, loud and unmistakable. You glance at him, and he’s already giving you a sheepish smile. Clearly, you’re both thinking the same thing.

“I was going to order Thai,” you say casually. “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”

He hesitates for only a second. “I’d like that.”

Later, the two of you are curled up on the couch, takeout containers spread between you, Real Housewives playing in the background. The chaotic drama on screen contrasts with the quiet ease between you.

It had been so long since you’d just relaxed like this with someone—someone who wasn’t Ava or Lily. And it felt good. Easy. Right.

“I have a suggestion, feel free to say no.”

“Hit me,” John says, leaning back against the couch, one arm draped over the cushion behind you.

You bite back a grin. “I have a bottle of whiskey that’s begging to be opened. Wanna throw on some music and help me put it out of its misery?”

He lifts an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Why not?”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You shouldn’t drink around him. At this point, you were touchy and honestly just saying shit for the sake of saying shit. You’re not too drunk but definitely tipsy enough to say whatever comes to your mind.

“I haven’t seen Tommy’s mom around. Did you guys split up?” you blurt out, half-curious, half-dreading the answer. You feel a drop in the atmosphere as his hands seem to tighten on the glass.

“Sorry, you don’t need to answer. That was weird of me to ask…” You're trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.

“Oh no, it’s okay, she uh,” he says quietly. “She passed a few years ago.”

You pause, your posture softening. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “Still tough without her, but we manage.”

He glances down, like he’s trying to ground himself before continuing.

“I’d like to say I was a good husband, but I was always away in the army. I could’ve been better before she…” He trails off, eyes now solely focused on the liquid swirling in his glass.

You stay quiet, wanting to listen rather than rush in.

“When I came back from my last tour, she was already sick. But for a while, we were okay. We were happy. Then she got worse. It was hard seeing her like that when she was so full of life before I left. I felt like I had missed so much, and when she…” He pauses again, his voice catching in his throat like he was being choked.

“Tommy’s the only thing that kept me going after. I’m always scared I’ll mess things up with him and miss the important stuff. That I already am.”

He exhales sharply, almost laughing at himself. “Shit. Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” you say gently, shaking your head. “And I can tell you’re a good dad. Anyone can. He's such a sweet kid and he adores you.”

He looks at you then, and for once, there’s no smirk, no one-liner. Just quiet gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says. “That means more than you know.”

You both take another drink, the burn lingering in your throat like something you don’t mind holding onto for a while.

“What about you? I noticed there aren’t any pictures of Lily’s dad around,” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s not just making conversation anymore.

“We got divorced ages ago. He was a total disaster.”

You let out a dry laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“We got married too young, had Lily, got divorced two years in and… I honestly can’t even remember the last time he showed up for her. No birthday messages, no calls. Nothing.”

You pause, trying not to let the anger twist your words.

“It’s a shame because she’s so amazing,” you add, staring into your glass. “And her dad doesn't give her the time of day and never has. She deserves so much better than that, and I wish I could be everything for her, but I…”

John’s quiet, listening. Really listening, giving you the space that you gave him.

“It’s hard doing it on your own,” you say, looking up at him. “I know you get that.”

He nods slowly, then offers a small, warm smile. “It’s his loss. She’s a kick-ass kid with a pretty kick-ass mom.”

You laugh, the real kind this time.

“I genuinely thought you were about to fight me the day we met,” he says, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You grin. “I was about to fight you.”

“Very hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and, for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel exhausting to let someone in.

“Okay, Mr. Tight-White-Shirt,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks instantly. “Ah, so you were ogling me that day.”

Damn. You walked right into that one.

“A woman can’t appreciate the male form?” you say, all mock innocence.

John laughs, shaking his head as he takes another drink. The music shifts, a different song now, low and smooth, some classic jazz number that’s always sounded like warmth and memory and late nights.

You perk up instantly. “John, we have to dance.”

He blinks. “What?”

“C’mon!”

Before he can argue, you’re already pulling him to his feet drunkenly. He hesitates for half a second, then relents because, of course, he does. His hands find your waist, cautious at first, and you wrap your arms around his neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t remember the last time I slow danced,” you murmur against his chest.

“Same,” John says quietly. “In all honesty, it was… probably my wedding.”

“Damn, me too,” You let out a low laugh. “Did you go all out?”

“We tried,” he nods. “We had lessons and everything. I remember practising in our tiny apartment, knocking over chairs and swearing a ton.”

She grins. “I bet you were shit.”

John, very much in ‘John’ fashion, gasps. “Correction, I was the shit.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna show you. Get ready to be dipped.”

Your eyes widen as you look up at him, suspicion written all over your face. “No way. You’ll drop me.”

He smirks. “I won’t. Trust me. I’m strong and very capable.”

Before you can protest again, he spins you, just fast enough to make your stomach flip. And you squeal, laughing as you come back into his arms.

“See?” he says, proud as hell. “Didn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”

You’re still laughing, slightly breathless, heart thudding in your chest for reasons that have very little to do with the dancing.

“I hate to say it,” you murmur, “but that was quite smooth.”

“Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”

You look up at him and realise, you’ve never been this close to him, unless you count getting in his face at a soccer match, but this was different. It was a whole new type of tension.

“Whatever…” you say, but it comes out with no bite. Not even close.

Maybe because you’re tipsy, but under the dim lighting of your living room, with the jazz still murmuring in the background and that stupid, crooked smile on his face.

You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek before you even fully realise what you're doing.

“I like your beard,” you blurt out, your thumb lightly grazing the line of it.

He blinks, surprised, not because of what you said, but because of how gently you said it.

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little quieter now.

He’s not able to get another word out before you’re kissing him, soft and tender. His hands cup your face as he kisses you like there’s a magnet pulling you to him. Your hands roaming over each other’s bodies, hands desperate to touch skin. He lifts you off the floor, your lips not breaking contact. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands cup your ass as he walks you over to a wall. Pressing you against it and kissing your neck like he’s trying to consume you. “Oh, John…”

Breathing heavily and looking into each other’s eyes.“Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Your back hits the wall again, but gently this time, his lips brushing over yours before pulling back just enough to ask, “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Go.”

He carries you like it’s effortless, one hand steady beneath your thigh, the other gripping the bannister as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Reaching the top, he kicks the door open with his foot. The room is dim, the late evening light bleeding through the curtains, but neither of you cares. You pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His mouth is on yours again before it hits the ground.

You fall into the bed together, tangled and wild and urgent, but with something else beneath it all. Something tender. Like every kiss and touch is catching up on lost time you didn’t even know you missed.

“Mind if I leave marks?”

“You can,” You gasp out and he goes to work, biting and sucking your skin. In all honesty, your drunk brain needed a memento, a way to remind sober-you that this wasn’t some sex dream.

You feel his strong hands wrap around your wrists, and he squeezes them. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his presence.

“I want you,” John breathes and it sounds so good hearing it. Like you had both finally done away with pretense and given in to what you wanted to do since you met which was rip your clothes off and fuck eachother senseless.

He starts kissing his way down your body, taking his sweet time in making you feel good. Reveling in the way you react to him.

When he reaches your panties, he doesn’t hesitate to tug them off his teeth and the sight of him doing that nearly kills you.

He starts eating you out like a man possessed, his beard tickling your inner thighs. He needs your pussy on his face and he needs it now. As he licks and sucks, driving you insane, your legs start slowly closing, trying to shy away from how good it felt. He catches them, prying them back open.

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod but he wants more than that.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll keep my legs open for you,” You say and you think you’d do the splits on his face if he wanted.

“Good girl,” he smirks before going back to ruining you. It had been too long since you felt like this, but even then, you had never felt like this. You were feverish and sensitive, fighting to keep yourself sane. You never recall feeling like you were dying of happiness when anyone else had gone down on you. Must be the John Walker effect.

The more you struggle and shake, the more pressure he applies. His hand rests on your stomach to hold you in place as he sucks on your clit.

Feeling the pleasure growing, you instantly try to muffle your moans with your fist. He moves his mouth away from your aching core and reaches up with one of his hands, moving your fist away. You look at him with reverence and surprise.

“You don’t need to hide…” He says, his other hand still moving inside you, “I want to hear you.”

You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, this man who had once driven you absolutely insane, who now felt like the only person who could see through all the armour.

“I’m not used to being seen,” you finally whisper.

“I know,” John says, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “But I see you.”

He moves back into position between your legs, and you let him have every moan you have.

“John!”

You finish, back arching, legs trembling and clenching down on his head with your thighs so hard you’re scared you might kill him.

But he doesn't stop, instead going faster. “H-hey!” You moan out as you kick your legs around, which he clearly takes as a challenge.

Wrangling your legs and pinning them over your head, your body now in the shape of a backwards C.

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you up,” John comments and you shiver at how good that sounds.

He gets up on his knees, continuing to lick at your trembling folds as he fingers you even faster, adding a third finger that had you moaning in desperation.

It's like he's set your whole body on fire, the feeling of your lost orgasm threatening to push you straight into another one.

“John, it’s so…” You croak, your eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Think I’m gonna cum again.”

At this point, your voice is hoarse, each touch he’s giving you making you scream and cry out like you’ve never done before.

“Yeah? You wanna be a good girl and cum for me?”

You nod, your eyes gassy with tears, “Wanna be your…your good girl.”

You could feel something coming, as he goes back to sucking on your clit, his fingers massaging your G-spot.

It only takes a few moments before you're letting your body relax and squirt all over his fingers, the pleasure washing over you in waves. You’re too undone to make a noise, breathing heavily and choking on air. There are a few seconds where you think you’ve died.

He unfolds you, and you lie back down on the bed, needing him instantly.

“John,” You whine, reaching out for him, and he’s right there, pulling you into his arms and taking care of you.

“What about you?” You ask. He had just about taken you to heaven and believe me you wanted to return the favour.

“Next time.”

Your heart flutters with the thought of a ‘next time’.

“Okay,” You snuggle against him and fall asleep together in pure bliss.

You wake up in the morning, expecting to feel John’s arms around you. But there's no one there. You sit up and look around, but find nothing. No note explaining where he was and his car's no longer in the driveway.

You came to the conclusion, he woke up, saw you and decided that it was a mistake. It was disappointing but you’re used to being disappointed.

So much for ‘I see you’.

So much for ‘next time’.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

The next couple of days are a blur, it’s back to business as usual. Soccer practice, laundry, answering emails with a fake sense of urgency. To anyone else, it seemed like nothing had changed, but not to your daughter.

“I saw Tommy yesterday,” she says casually as she sets her backpack down.

“Oh? How is he?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.

“Great, but his dad didn’t look too happy…”

Your ears perk up at that. He was also miserable? Good. It was his fault anyway… wasn’t it?

“You don’t look happy either.”

You flinch at how blunt she is. You should’ve known, there was no hiding anything from her. She might only be a kid, but she could read you like a book.

“Lily…” you start, but she cuts you off with the maturity of someone far beyond her years.

“Just be adults and talk to him…”

“It's not that simple,” Your voice is shaky with uncertainty. You're not even sure you'd be able to speak if you were face-to-face with him again.

“Well you need to especially since I’m going over to Tommy’s today.”

“You what?” you say, nearly falling out of your chair.

“You said I could,” she adds quickly. “Last week, before… whatever this is.”

Damn it. She was right. You had completely blanked on that. It was before the whole thing with John went bust.

You were conflicted with how you felt about John, but you wouldn’t let your issues affect her.

“Fine, go get your stuff. We leave in five.”

You drive over to his place, your heart dropping lower and lower as you get closer to his house. Your fingers grip your steering wheel like it’s your lifeline.

“You’re not coming in to say hi?” Lily asks almost incredulously.

“I think it’s best I don’t. I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Have fun!”

Lily doesn’t say anything at first; she just looks at you, brows raised, lips pursed like she’s debating whether or not to push. Was that what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your judging looks? You didn't like it one bit.

But in the end, she sighs, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs her bag. “You two are so dramatic.”

He sees her first, ruffles her hair, then his gaze shifts past her, locking with yours through the windshield. It only lasts a second, but it’s enough. You look away first.

Then you drive off, trying not to think about him.

Hours pass, John is very much on your mind the entire time, and before you know it, you’re back at his house to pick up Lily. Walking your way up the driveway, you feel your nerves creeping in. You hesitate a second before ringing the doorbell.

“Hey,” John greets you, opening the door—and he looks just as good as the last time you saw him, maybe even better.

“Hey yourself,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

There's the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then Tommy appears, greeting you with a wide grin.

“It’s time to go already?” Lily calls from behind him, voice dripping with faux innocence. She was laying it on thick.

Before you can answer, Tommy jumps in. “Can you and Lily stay for dinner?”

“I don’t know…” You start, unsure how to say no politely.

“Dad, convince her. We’re having your famous spagbol,” Tommy adds, eyes hopeful.

You catch the look on his face—so earnest, so excited—and then turn to John. An easy smile creeps onto your face despite yourself.

“Famous, huh?”

John smirks. “It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

By the time dinner is ready, it feels easy with him, dangerously easy. You sit around the table with him and the kids, laughing between bites of spaghetti, the kind of domestic quiet that used to feel foreign now curling around you like a blanket. It felt so right. But still, there’s that persistent whisper in the back of your mind — If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would’ve stayed that night.

Before you can spiral too deep into your own thoughts, Tommy pipes up brightly, “Can Lily and I have a sleepover?”

You glance at John, caught off guard. “Lily and I should really get going, plus Lily doesn’t have anything to change into.”

“I brought clothes and my toothbrush,” Lily says far too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “And why did you do that if you were just supposed to stay for the afternoon?”

Lily and Tommy exchange a look — a guilty, sheepish look that screams we planned this.

John chuckles under his breath, clearly catching on. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, glancing at you. “I could set up a spot for Lily in Tommy’s room.”

“You should stay too!” Tommy adds enthusiastically, eyes shining with innocent matchmaking energy.

“I don’t have any pyjamas to sleep in, Tom,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“You can borrow my dad’s!” he says like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You blink. These kids were really committing to the bit.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude…” You begin, your voice a little quieter, your gaze flicking to John.

“You wouldn’t be,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I have a guest room. It’s yours if you want it.”

His voice is calm, but there’s something soft in it. An invitation. Like he wanted you to stay.

“It’s decided then,” Your daughter interjects before you can try to squirm out of it.

You had been tricked by two 9-year-olds; this was a new low.

The hours drifted by as you sat in the living room, all watching a movie together.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but all you could think about was John. The fact that sitting just a few feet away, but still felt so far away.

Though if you had turned your head to look at him, you would’ve seen him looking back at you. His gaze would tell you everything you wanted to hear, but alas, that isn’t fate’s plan.

The movie ends, and the kids groan when John tells them it’s time for bed. It’s a whirlwind, as they rush around tuckering themselves out. Entering Tommy’s room, you go over to Lily, who’s already in bed, ready for you to tuck her in. You pull the blanket up to Lily’s chin, smoothing her hair like you do most nights, your voice soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

“Remember, be an adult,” Lily says, reminding you not to be a coward, essentially.

“Goodnight, Lil,” You reply before kissing her forehead. Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider her words.

“Goodnight, Mom,” she murmurs, already half-dreaming.

You stand slowly, and as you turn to leave, you notice Tommy looking at you. His eyes are peeking out from under his blanket, lids heavy but alert.

You pause. “Do you want me to tuck you in, too?”

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, like he’s not quite sure he should, but wants to anyway.

You gently and carefully tuck him into his covers like you had with Lily. “There,” you whisper. “Comfy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. “Thanks, Mom.”

You’re shocked hearing him call you ‘Mom’. You glance down at him, already drifting off, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, completely unaware of the weight his words carried.

You swallow and manage a quiet, “Goodnight,” brushing his hair back gently before slipping out of the room. What you don’t know is that on the other side of the hallway, just out of sight, John is standing perfectly still.

He’d heard it too.

He didn’t know how to respond to it either, wasn’t sure what it meant or what came next, but for now, he was just… happy. Happy that his son felt safe with you.

Later that night, you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling of the guest room, your thoughts louder than the quiet hum of the house. The shadows shift with the streetlight outside, but your mind stays frozen. You were wearing his shirt, and he was on your mind. It smelled like him, and you could imagine his arms around you. You bury your face in it, wishing that he was with you and not in a room down the hallway.

You needed to confront what happened that night. You hadn’t talked about it since. It lingered like static between you, unspoken but never forgotten. And you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter, not when it meant everything.

You needed to know if he wanted you when you’re both sober.

So, gathering every ounce of courage, you throw off the blanket, slide quietly out of bed, and make your way down the hall to his room. The floor feels colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just your nerves.

You stop in front of his door.

Raise your fist.

And then… freeze.

You stand there for what feels like forever, five minutes, at least, your knuckles hovering midair. Your heart pounds loud enough to fill the silence, your thoughts racing. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if that night was just a mistake?

Suddenly, the door swings open, and it startles the living hell out of you — your fist, already midair, connects squarely with his face.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as John stumbles back, one hand instantly flying to his nose.

“Shit,” he groans, squinting in pain and trying to blink away the surprise. “You can throw quite a punch.”

“Oh my god, John. Holy fuck. I am so, so sorry,” you ramble, panic surging through you as you hover uselessly in front of him. “Let me get ice, I’ll fix it… just, don’t die.”

You spin around and scuttle off toward the kitchen, trying to keep your footsteps light even though your heart’s thudding like a drum solo. The freezer is a disaster. No ice trays. Who doesn’t have ice trays?

You spot something. Grab it.

Moments later, you return with a sheepish expression and a frozen bag clutched in your hand.

“I couldn’t find an ice tray,” you mutter, pressing the bag gently to his face, “so I got peas.”

You sit down with him on the bed, holding the bag of peas to his nose. “That won’t bruise or anything, right?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Worried about my handsome face, are you?” John jokes, and you’re just glad he has a sense of humour about it.

You groan and drop your forehead onto his shoulder, mortified. “This was not how I pictured this going.”

His hand gently touches the small of your back. “You were coming to talk to me, right? About… us?”

You nod against him. “Yeah. Before I assaulted you.”

“Let’s start there,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes with a crooked smile. “Because I was kinda hoping we’d finally talk about it too.”

“Really? It didn’t feel like that since you ran,” you say, voice low. You were trying not to sound hurt, but you were. He weighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and moves his bag of peas off his face to look at you.

“You’re right to be mad. I just… I panicked when I woke up next to you.”

“You were regretful,” you say, attempting to finish his sentence. His eyes widen, and his mouth parts like he’s about to protest.

“No, no—that’s not it at all. I was scared. That if you saw me when you woke up, you’d think it was a mistake.”

He takes a breath, shuffling closer. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re such a pain in the ass, always calling me out and keeping me on my toes. But also kind, and funny, and you make me feel so… alive.”

His hand lifts gently, your cheek resting against his palm. It feels perfect, like this is what fate had in store all along.

“I'm an idiot for running but I do like you. I’m falling for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, heart racing. “I’m falling for you, too, John Walker.”

Pulling him in, your hands still cold and wet from holding the bag of peas, but he doesn’t care. You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you stop, everything might collapse around you.

The two of you pull your clothes off each other's bodies but there's no rush. Each layer that comes off brings you that much closer together.

Now completely naked you sit in front of him and you can see why he has all that confidence. His fingers tangle in your hair and he's about to kiss you when you stop him.

“Will they hear?”

“There's a couple rooms between us, they won't hear as long as you're not too loud.”

“We both know that's going to be a challenge,”You say, recalling the way you were hollering when he ate you out. Your surprised that none of your neighbours issued a noise complaint.

“You need to try or I'll have to find something to gag you with,” John suggests, his voice low and sultry.

“Don't threaten me with a good time.”

He pressures you back into the bed and bites your neck hard enough to leave a big mark.

“You better hope no one asks about that.”

“Let them ask, you can explain to them exactly what I did to you.”

The marks don't stop there. By the time he's done you look like you've been attacked by a wild animal. Hickeys and love bites littered all over your skin, each one a testament of John's desire for you.

“Need you inside me,” You pant out already guiding him towards you with your legs.

He looks down at you with hooded eyes the anticipation eating you alive before he wraps his arms around you and crarryignyou off the bed.

“Where are we—?” You start but don't finish as you notice he's plopped you down right in front of a mirror.

It's the perfect solution for when someone wants to fuck you from behind and see you fall apart of their cock. Thank everything for whoever invented mirrors.

He lightly kicks your feet apart, hands gliding up your body before resting on your boobs.

You getting back against him, trying to feel him and needing him to fuck the daylights out of you. It had been long enough and you were tired of waiting.

“Impatient, aren't you?”

“I just need you. Don't make me suffer,” You pout, the mirror capturing the needy look in your eyes.

“Well, who am I to say no to you?” He says before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in.

Anticipating the screen you were about to let out, he covers your mouth with his hand. Only the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the room.

“Look at yourself, look at how quickly you feel apart for me,” John whispers against your ear. And he was right. You were a complete mess after only a few thrusts, eyes watery as your neck arches into him.

“So good,” You manage to get out without screaming. He grabs you by the hair, exposing your neck too him as he gives you a few more hickeys for good measure. Rocking your hips into you as he paints your neck with his lips.

Suddenly, your hips are being lifted into the air as he wraps his arms around you as if getting ready to suplex you. The way he starts fucking you is just as disorientating as a suplex would be. He's hitting your sensitive spot dead on turning your legs to jelly as they dangle in the air.

He's manhandling like you're a doll and you love it, especially when you can see it all happening in the mirror. The way his veins on his arms were popping with effort as he milks his cock with your pussy like you're a fleshlight.

“That's it, breed me, John.”

Hearing you say that only made him double his efforts.

“Is that what you want? Want me to get you pregnant?” John says, his fingers gripping your hips, clearly excited at the prospect. You nod desperately like you need to have it or you'll die.

You gasp, whimper, cry and reaching out for anything to keep you quiet.

“N-need you to fill me up,” You stutter out, “Need your cum in me.”

Then you're given a brief break when he pulls you back from the mirror, tossing you back into the bed. But two seconds don't even pass before he's feeding his cock back into your needy hole.

“J-john!”

You squeal a little too loudly and never you know it his hand is on your chin guiding your own panties in your mouth.

“Such a pretty sight,” John says as he cages you, fingers intertwining as he pins you against the bed.

You know you won't be able to keep going much longer. Wrecked doesn't even begin to describe what you were and your orgasm was about to knock you into a whole new dimension.

Feeling his cock twitch, you lock your legs around his waist and he finishes deep inside of you which triggers your own orgasm. His hot cum fills you up, painting your fluttering walls as he effectively breeds you.

The both of you lay there catching your breath as your orgasms pulse through you. This was what life was about; having sex with hot single dads.

You come back to your senses, just barely and have an evil idea.

Seeing the opportunity fate had presented you for payback, you flip your positions climbing on top of him and riding him into overstimulation. A strangled cry that was supposed to be your name falling from his lips.

“Baby…” John whimpers as his body tenses up, abs contracting lines he's already about to cum again.

You could get used to having him at your mercy, bottom lip trembling as he tries to keep it together.

“I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me and only me.” You pulling him to your lips by his hair. He groans but he's into it, he'd let you have your way with him just as much as you let him have his way with you.

“Only you,” He replies and you believe it.

Your hand away from his hair, letting John's head hit the mattress, before going in and leaving your own string of love bites. He bites his lip, all but writhing under your soft touch.

“Someone might see those.”

“Then you can explain to them what I did,” You say throwing his words back in his face.

You keep fucking until you tire yourselves out, your bodies sticky and heaving. It was as good as you imagined it would be and you're kicking yourself for not giving in earlier.

John's hand rests on your thigh tracing little patterns as you play with his hair when he asks a very pertinent question.

“Are you on birth control?”

Your eyes widen when you realise you are in fact not on birth control. With the downright sad lack of sex you were having before John walked into your life there was no reason to be on it.

“No”, You gulp,“We'll talk about it in the morning?”

John hums in agreement and holds you against his chest in a vice grip that screams “You're mine.”

In the morning, you’re happy to feel John’s arms still wrapped around you, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Peaceful.

“Who wants pancakes?” you call out, later in the kitchen, sliding a golden stack onto the table with a grin.

You have a slow, sweet morning breakfast—the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas, laughing over spilt flour and slightly burnt edges.

“Oh! Let me go get the syrup. Can you show me where it is, Tommy?” you ask.

Tommy nods enthusiastically, hopping up and heading toward the pantry with you, eager to help you find it.

Back at the table, Lily narrows her eyes at John, clearly sizing him up. Then, dead serious, she delivers:

“If you hurt my mom, you die. Understood?”

John blinks, caught off guard for a second, but then a slow smile tugs at his lips. He knew exactly where she got that intensity from.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Lily says, her expression finally softening. “You make great spagbol so I'd hate to have to kill you.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

It’s been a few months since you and John started dating — the kind of comfortable, lived-in months where you had keys to each other's places, regularly took the kids out together, and fell asleep on the couch on each other.

Unlocking the door, John and Tommy step inside, and they’re immediately hit with the scent of burnt toast, a low hum of music, and the unmistakable energy of mild chaos. They were here to pick you and Lily up to carpool to the Saturday morning game, but it looked like they’d walked into a warzone, and at least it smelled like pancakes.

“Morning!” Tommy calls out as he looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

“Oh hi, guys,” you pant out from somewhere in the kitchen, out of breath and flustered. He doesn’t need to be able to see you to know you’re going through it.

Lily’s sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping orange juice like she’s been through this before. Tommy runs over and sits beside Lily, swiping a pancake off her plate.

“Mom’s having a meltdown,” she says, totally unbothered. “It’s pretty intense. She yelled at the coffee machine.”

John raises an eyebrow and walks to the kitchen, and there you are, wearing one sock and a hoodie that you actually stole from John, batter on your cheek, surrounded by open containers and the remnants of pancake making.

“It’s so good to see you,” You cry as you practically jump into his arms. You let go of him so you can continue your spiral when he stops you.

“Honey, you’re running around like a headless chicken. Let me help,” John offers.

You hesitate, then sigh and reach into the mess on the counter and pull out a hairbrush. “Can you finish braiding Lil’s hair for me? She’s lost her lucky cleats, and I need to find them before we leave.”

“On it.”

He kisses your forehead, warm and steady, before heading into the kitchen.

Lily watches him approach with guarded suspicion. “Please don’t mess this up.”

John grins. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

He ruffles her hair on purpose, just to rile her up, and she bats his hand away with a huff and a laugh.

Meanwhile, you’re darting around the house in full-on panic mom mode — lifting couch cushions, checking under the bed, even inside the fridge for some reason (you never know), until finally, you spot the missing shoes. Inside her toy chest, naturally, buried under a plastic tiara and two mismatched Barbie legs.

You walk back into the dining room to the sound of laughter, Tommy’s head thrown back as John tells some ridiculous story, funny voices and all. Lily’s giggling along too as he finishes tying off the braid with surprising skill.

You lean against the doorframe, heart swelling. It’s loud, it’s messy, but it’s yours. And in that moment, it hits you: this is what happy looks like.

“Found it,” you say, holding the shoes up triumphantly.

John looks up, grinning. “See? I told you everything would come together.”

You smile at him. This is perfect; he’s perfect.

“Are we ready to go?” you call out, grabbing your bag and keys.

They respond in a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Almost!” as shoes squeak across the floor.

Clambering into the car like a small tornado, Tommy buckles in and grins over at Lily. “Losing team’s parent buys ice cream,” he declares.

“Ohhh, bold move,” you say, raising your eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

“Looks like you’re buying ice cream,” John says smugly, sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at you like he already knows today’s outcome.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, smirking as you start the engine.

This was the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention—and all it took was yelling at a hot dad at a soccer game.

Masterlist

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bunnieswithknives · 2 days ago

Note

Oh I have to ask. In your Things That Crawl AU, what does Lyle think. I could see him having similar reactions to Hellen's. We know that even if it wasn't healthy, Lyle was the one who knew Sam the most, longer then anyone else, his constant stalking means he knew what Sam was like and they may have even actually worked together. I personally just can't see Lyle accepting this "New" Sam but I could be totally wrong, I'd love to here about Lyle in your au.

Oh yeah Lyle absolutely does not accept the new Sam

My first thought was that Lyle does what he always does when the going gets tough, and that's try to steal Sam's soul. I don't really like that idea though... cause either it works as both a cop-out and definitive answer to Sam's state of mind, or it doesn't and that's still an answer of some kind, which I don't want.

The alternative is really dependent on the extent of the powers I wanna give Visitor!Sam(? Idk if this is what I wanna call it but we're going with it for now) and how fucked up I want that to go.

POV: The benevolent god has an audio processing disorder and no idea what a human looks like

#The Visitor would absolutely want to undo the damage it did. How it actually goes about that is still what Im figuring out #Because however it decides to do that it will be *fucking unstoppable*#Answering this ask has actually allowed me to settle on it needing to be in physical contact with things to modify them now #as part of its self imposed limitations #Still I gotta figure out how bad I wanna make it overall #Theres no way this thing doesnt eventually end up with a horrific cult that makes it worse #Also keep in mind this thing has mind warping powers. So turning them into something that makes them 'happy' isnt necessarily a good thing #I wonder if it could even comprehend the complexity of that. Things to ponder!#What am I even saying I always take the most horrific rout its not gonna go differently this time #look outside #look outside game #look outside spoilers #things that crawl AU

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siribaes · 2 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 — 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

── .✦ ݁₊ . contents: elijah ‘smoke’ moore x ( black!fem! ) original character. au so no annie my beloved. hella angst. plot-ish? no specific time period but period specific language & references. AAVE. illusions to smut. stoic!smoke. smoke's kinda mean in this one. semi-proofread so excuse the mistakes. minors don’t interact!

the before |

when it started, it was a sexual thing.

dim lighting. bodies packed in like sardines. clouds of cigarette hung above like a thick, storming brewing cloud. an crooning voice was the soundtrack to the absolutely sinful dancing that occurred. hips flushed against fronts— pestle and mortar. bump and grind.

it was truly, divine.

he noticed her first. leaning against a wooden column, after a long pull, blew a puff of smoke into the air. then she appeared— a vision amongst the clear.

on the other side of the room, she might as well have been standing right in front of him, the way the crowd melted away from his view. smoke had tunnel vision, his brain actively rewiring itself, altered chemistry, to note every detail of his mystery girl.

her dress was yellow, a literal sunspot amongst the fray of browns, grays, and other drab shades. she was curvy— just the way smoke liked. a real healthy figure, a full bosom, birthing hips, and a set of calves that smoke could have his way with.

got some meat on her bones.

her face was another story. the swells of her chubby cheeks held a cherubic quality that was rare, angelic even. a button nose, and full lips with a soft cupid’s bow. smoke liked the way her bottom lip was ever-so-slightly bigger than her top ones.

more to kiss on.

her eyes, big and bright held a some trouble in them. smoke liked that. trouble. she would give a run for his money, that he knew. those same lips held a soft smile, as she danced to the music. seeing his mystery girl in motion was magical. she moved in a way that intrigued smoke, he never seen someone move to in such a way. she was in sync with the rhythm and the timbre, yet it wasn’t the mississippi way of low and slow. the mystery girl was fast, moving her feet and limbs with precision. an indication that she wasn’t from here.

tennessee? or maybe the carolinas? further up north?

either way smoke wanted to know. he wanted to know her, her name, where her family’s from, even more intimately, was she shy? or would she let him stick his tongue in her—

all those thoughts were suspended when those same brown eyes smoke had fantasized about were staring back at him.

smoke’s mind might’ve been playing tricks, but he swore he saw a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. she stopped dancing, and stared. she didn’t bother to give smoke the infamous once over he gotten most of his adult life.

you look familiar? which one you is? stack or smoke? you such and such son, huh?

she simply regarded him.

that was different. she was different.

smoke took another pull, letting the cigarette smoke exhale from his nostrils. he gave a moment of brevity before nodding towards her. the mystery girl returned his nod, then in a blink, she vanished.

the abruptness of her departure, made smoke lift off the wooden column. his eyes scanned the crowd, his mystery girl, the sunshine amongst the drab, was gone. there was movement at the entrance-exit but it was too far a way to tell.

smoke cursed himself, instantly the color of the world around him muted. the air became too thick, and the music was suddenly too slow. he needed some air.

the night air was pleasantly crisp, which was rare for this time of year. even the slight breeze the nipped at his neck. it was rare night indeed. the gravely dirt crunched against his shoes. they were oxfords, stack told him, they look nice. he took heed of stack’s advice—smoke never cared much about fashion or how he looked that was his brother’s thing. as he walked towards his car, halfway he stopped. lady luck had shone down on him—there she was, his mystery girl standing by the big oak tree, looking outward to the lake. smoke pivoted, walking towards her.

the gravel-dirt switched to soft grass underneath smoke’s shoes the closer he got. he even slowed his movements not wanting to scare off his mystery girl. she had been flighty once. smoke ventured closer, stopping until he was a some feet behind her. he didn’t speak, instead he noticed how much smaller she was compared to him. it was easily a six-inch difference.

“i love comin’ out here. it’s always so peaceful,”

her voice was smoky and sweet. a gentle rhythm the way she said certain words, there was a unique combination of a drawl, and typewriter’s pace.

“and the way the fireflies float above the water, it’s like they’re dancin’,”

smoke turned and looked. the fireflies flickered there tail bulbs in a musical synchrony, swirling and turning above the water, in constellation like structures. nature’s beauty.

“i’m lila by the way,”

lila. lila. she—no, lila, now stood in front of him, a hand stretched out towards him. he took her hand, the delicate softness of skin contrasted with smoke’s rough callouses. their hands fit like perfect puzzle pieces. his mind wondered—how else they would fit.

“smoke,”

“smoke?”

“yes ma’am,”

lila cocked her head. she eyed smoke, regarding him. then, she giggled.

smoke steeled over. there wasn’t much in this world that smoke didn’t care for, but being laughed at was one of them.

“what’s funny?” smoke gruffed.

“oh,” shock flashed briefly in her eyes, before morphing into a soft, reflective nostalgia as she brought her fingers to her lips. “i ain’t mean nothin’ by it, uh, my cousin, we call him ash…”

oh.

smoke rolled his shoulders, releasing some of the tension that suddenly built up inside. something about lila crackled his nerves. he felt himself growing fidgety. he needed another cigarette.

“you don’t talk much do you?”

now it was smoke’s turn to cock his head.

lila was an observant thing.

“can do more than i could ever say,”

“really,” lila’s lips quirked. eyes glossing over as she did more than just regard him. her gaze raked over smoke’s build, slow and syrupy, like thick molasses. when she finally met his eyes, they were filled a fiery heat, that was just begging to be tamed.

lila stepped closer. her heels brushed against the soft grass as she stood in front of him. her right hand hovered over his chest. a heat sparked between them, sensual—carnal. one move, a single word uttered could ignite a flame. that flame ignited, twice over, lila placed her hand on smoke’s chest. the touch, gentle yet firm, a promise of more. then she spoke—

“what would you do with me?”

words laced want and desire, weaved its way inside of smoke, rooting itself inside of his very being. it drove him.

drove smoke to kiss lila. to grip her fleshy hips. to press lila’s soft body against the rigged bark of the oak tree, sticking stuck his tongue in the softest parts of her. to fuck her within an inch of her life, leaving her throat hoarse from all the moaning and screaming she did.

a sexual thing.

this thing between lila and smoke, quickly became routine. every second tuesday they would meet in the cover of night, and make love fuck.

a sexual thing.

smoke fucked lila everywhere and any which position. cowgirl in the motorcar. doggy in the grass. standing missionary against the trunk of the oak tree. and this one move they were doing up in philadelphia called the seashell. those moments with lila was a private piece of heaven that smoke kept for himself. away from keen eyes and nosy busybodies, even away his brother, for whom he loved dearly, but smoke needed something of his own. this was it.

and with every encounter smoke noticed the little things lila did for him. after the third, or was it the fourth—smoke couldn’t remember but, lila started to dab perfume oil behind her ears and the backs of her thighs. it smelled like jasmine. smoke liked that. she brought rags to wipe himself off with (not that he didn’t have any, sometimes he would run out during rounds. a self proclaim pull-out king, sometimes one just wasn’t enough). a flask filled with cognac and finally, a metal lighter with an engraving of his name.

he remembered the night, exactly.

“i got you somethin’,” lila said. it came out in a huff, she was still catching her breath, smoke had worn her every which way but loose.

they were laying on the grass. full moon's light shining down on them. in the distance the crickets chirped. it was peaceful. lila reached behind her, pulling a small package of parchment paper. she smiled, a gentle one, and handed it to smoke.

"hope you like it,"

he began unwrapping—peeling back the layers neatly folded parchment, with as much care as he could muster. smoke wasn't a careful man, cautious maybe, but careful, no.

smoke's heart panged.

in the paper lay a small sliver lighter. smooth to the touch, it was a marvel of craftsman. something twisted inside him when saw his name—his real one, engraved on the side.

lila sat up on her knees, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"i found it, untouched, in my daddy's old things. he was never much of a smoker like my granddaddy was. so, i was on my way to shop to sell for somethin', then i saw you. well, not you, but stack,"

"you met stack?"

"yeah! he's awful fun and that laugh. i get why all the girls swoon. anyway, we got to talkin' and he told me y'alls birthday was soon. consider it an early birthday gift,"

smoke traced his name. elijah. e-l-i-j-a-h.

no one had ever shown him a kindness like this, ever—emotion hit him like a tidal wave, huge and overwhelming. the deep, achy part, the amplified disesteem— that nipped at the corners of his mind reared its ugly head. immediately, his reflexes kicked in. smoke rose to his feet, zipping his fly, and buckling his belt. he tried to ignore, the look on lila's face as he got himself together.

"smoke? is everything, alright?" she was soft, too, soft. he sensed the disappointment her voice. "talk to me,"

smoke didn't respond as he buttoned his dress-shirt. lila moved in front of him. her bright eyes were dimming.

"do you not like it? i can take back, pawn it maybe. you don't have to keep it,"

"don't be silly," smoke rasped.

"silly?" there was a slight irritation in her voice. " i'm bein' silly? oh, guess when i let you stick your tongue in my cunny, i was bein' silly then too,"

"it wasn't nothin' you ain't want,"

"oh, fuck you, elijah!"

echoes of memories, very unkind ones flooded his brain. his fingers twitched as he wrestled with the top button. on the inside he was a mess of emotions, painful memories of old collided with painful new ones. on the outside, smoke was stoic as stone. unmovable, not shaken in the slightest—that had pissed lila off more as she huffed sliding her heels onto her feet.

"you're a piece of work, y'know that? i got you the damn thing 'cause i cared," lila glared at him as she shifted her dress on her hips. "i never wanted anything from you, smoke. nothing at all," she paused. a wave of a emotion flooded her too. she wiped roughly at a tear the fell from her eye.

"story of my life of my life, i guess. i always fall for the man who can't love me back,"

those words played in his mind, on repeat, on the drive back. it was silent, lila angled her body away from smoke the entire ride. and when the car stopped in front of her house, lila left the car, slamming it behind her. she disappeared into the doorway, not bothering to glance back. why would she? smoke hadn't given her any reason to.

i always fall for the man who can't love me back.

smoke palmed the lighter in his hand. the engine roared as smoke sped off into the night. pain filling his chest, at the realization, lila amongst many before, was but a memory, now.

a painful one.

── .✦ ݁₊ . ݁₊ .✦ ݁──

[ a/n: omgggg hi! i literally wrote this in a day, but i had to join the sinners fan-club, the film was excellent, so if you have the chance definitely go see it in theatres! this is a two-parter, so all the mushy-gushy, reunion smut will be in the next part lol ]

#siribaesfics #elijah smoke moore x oc #elijah smoke moore x black!oc #smoke x oc #elijah smoke moore fanfiction #sinners fanfiction #black fanfiction #poc fanfiction #woc fanfiction

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gukcnt · 1 day ago

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01 | SHADOWS OF OBSESSION ⭒ JJK

“You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands or the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

pairing — criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre — criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, possessive!jungkook, angry!jungkook, graphic violence, blood and gore, unhealthy obsession, both characters have traumatic backgrounds, dark themes, injury, several mentions of blood, medical procedure, mentions of death and murder, emotional manipulation, smoking, isolation and vulnerability, mild sexual tension, dangerous attraction

wc — 5.3k

a/n — I decided to bring back this series because you all adore it so much, and so do I, absolutely love this couple, and I hope you all will show SOB the same love you gave it before. Love you all !! <3

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The city was alive in the night; the air filled with the smell of trash and the metallic scent of blood.

Jungkook leaned against the wall, his black leather jacket clinging to his broad frame, the hard wall grounding him in a world that had never once shown him kindness. A cigarette between his lips, he exhaled, blowing the smoke out lazily. In his thirty years of life, he has always found himself involved in things related to violence.

Tattoos all over his neck, chest, and arms—all of them a story of his scars, betrayal, and a revenge that ran through his veins. His dark, messy hair fell over his dark eyes that flickered with a cold sharpness.

He was orphaned at ten, raised in the city, and being a street kid has taught him to steal, fight, and survive before he even learned anything about the world itself. The streets were like his mother, who taught him harsh and unforgiving things, also teaching him that trust was a trap and love a lie that blinded people. He had seen several people get betrayed due to their kindness, and such harsh experiences have taken away his own childhood and innocence.

The memory clung to him: when he was sixteen, he had taken his first life—a rival gang member who decided to come at him with a knife. He still felt the spray of blood on his hands and the feel of a dying man’s throat, the way his own heart had pounded not with fear but with power.

Now, years later, his name was a whisper of fear in everyone’s mouth, his frame moving like a shadow through the city, a criminal now who lives for himself and no one else, his heart long gone and made of stone now due to his hope being taken away. Redemption wasn’t something he believed in at all; he thought it was a lie. All he had in his life was his revenge, which burned every time he got a new scar or got into a fight for blood.

Tonight, that need burned further. His latest deal with a rival has gone to shit, a betrayal that left him with a bullet in his arm and a fresh urge to use his own knife to dig into someone’s flesh. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed his hand to the wound. The pain was dull, something he was used to from years ago. But the blood loss was fucking with him—his head was hurting and his vision blurred. He clenched his jaw tightly, with a glare.

“Fucking cowards,” he rasped, voice dripping with venom, “you think you can bury me?”

He flicked his cigarette to the ground; the alley he was in stank, and even though his mind was fogging, he scanned the area sharply, high on alert. His enemies were out there searching for him.

“Come on then,” he sneered, his eyes dark, “I’m right fucking here.”

But his body was betraying him. His knees buckled, and he had to grip the wall for support. Blood dripped even faster now, pooling on the dirty ground. He needed to move and find a place to treat his wound. His hands tightened around the knife in his pocket that was always there, always supporting him at rough times more than anyone ever did.

“I’m not dying tonight,” he growled, “not until I have buried every one of you.”

۶ৎ

Across the city, your calm world couldn’t have been more different. At twenty-two, you were a medical student; that’s why your life is a mix of late-night study sessions with textbooks and your own thoughts. Your tiny apartment was a haven for you. Its walls were cream-colored, with curtains that swayed with the breeze. Your bookshelf was full of several novels and medical books. You were shy, an introvert, your voice a soft murmur, only rising when you had no choice. Your world was gentle, fragile, nothing compared to the brutality of Jungkook’s life.

You were orphaned at fifteen, and you have learned to live life alone, your heart bruised, but it kept you going. Your parents died from a car crash, with no other family of yours to lean on. You filled the ache and emptiness in your heart with dreams of becoming a doctor. You wanted to heal; fix others' wounds even when your own still ached.

You were innocent in a way Jungkook could never grasp, your eyes always bright with hope and your heart too soft and open despite all it endured. You shied away from the crowds and found peace in books over people and blushed or felt embarrassed at even the smallest attention. Your days were always simple, following through the same routine: classes, study, and nothing more.

Tonight you were walking home after class, tired to the bone. Your backpack is heavy against your shoulders, stuffed with books and notes. Your mind was already thinking of your bed and cozy blankets. The street was still, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and a distant traffic noise.

Your heart felt light, with a rare flicker of happiness—the exam went well today, which you had been preparing for an entire week, a small win in your life.

You hummed softly, your steps quickening as you neared your apartment. Your hand digging in your bag to bring out your keys

“Almost home,” you murmured, a habit from years of talking to yourself. The thought of sinking into your warm blankets, forgetting about the world, brought you peace.

Then, a shadow moved, almost subtly but enough to make your heart jump. You froze, fingers clutching the keys tight. Your eyes darted to the alley across the street, and there he was. A tall, broad man, his muscles bulging from how tightly his jacket hugged him. His right hand gripped his left arm; blood dripped slowly, staining his hand in the process as well. The sight hit you, with the air carrying the sharp smell of blood.

You gasped silently, a trembling sound slipping out before you could stop it as you felt fear gripping your chest. The man still hasn’t noticed you yet. Your heart pounded loudly, your legs screaming to run to bolt for your apartment and lock the door before the man can even get a small glance of you. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a nightmare.

A whimper lodged in your throat as the man slowly lifted his head, his eyes—dark with a mix of something wild—locked onto yours, and it was like you were caught by a predator. You couldn’t breathe, your body no longer your own, just from his simple stare. He was danger in human form, and every instinct screamed for you to flee.

But then you saw it—the sway of his body as blood oozed out from his fingers, and the sight twisted something inside you, a small flicker of sympathy in between your fear. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was dying.

Your mind was a mess. Run. Lock the door. Call the cops. He will kill you. But another voice spoke inside you: he’s bleeding out, you can help him, and you’re almost a doctor.

You breathed shakily as your hands shook. You decided to take a hesitant step forward and then another, each one a battle against the fear in your heart. You stopped several feet away, close enough to see the way his chest heaved with shallow breaths, sweat beading his forehead, but far enough to run if he lunged. The distance was nothing close to a shield, useless against a man like him.

“Hey,” you called with a trembling voice, barely heard in the night’s silence, “you’re hurt. Badly. You need help.”

His head snapped up with narrowed eyes, and he scoffed with a low growl, sending a shiver down your spine. “Mind your fucking business, girl,” he rasped, his voice thick with pain and venom.

“Go home and play with your dolls.” The words stung as heat crept up your neck. You weren’t a child, but his tone made you feel small, like a little mouse.

Normally, you’d shrink from rudeness, but the blood—God, the blood—held you there. It was starting to pool at his feet until all you could smell was the metallic scent and a hint of cigarette smoke. He was hurting, and you couldn’t walk away. Not from this

“I’m a medical student,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even though it trembled slightly, “you’ve been shot. You’re losing too much blood. You’ll die without help.”

His lips quirked as his eyes flickered with something sharp and amusement, “You think I give a shit about dying, little girl?” He said, his voice amused, “I’ve been dead for years. Walk away before you join me.”

His threat made your breath catch as your nails dug into your palms. His words were not just a warning but a promise, and you believed him. He could snap you like a stick, and no one would know.

But you saw the tremor in him, the way his fingers slipped, blood flowing faster, and it kept you rooted to your spot. You were shaking, but you couldn’t leave him, not when you could help him. Your knowledge and hands could stop the life draining out of him.

“I live right here,” you said, pointing towards your apartment, your voice firm in a way you never thought was possible. “I have supplies. I can stitch you up and stop the bleeding. Please… let me help you.”

He stared at you with his heavy gaze, almost like he was stripping you open and bare. His black eyes were pulling you in, and you almost thought he’d grab you and end you right there. You held his stare despite your heart pulsing loudly and goosebumps erupting all over your arm.

Then he laughed, a harsh mocking sound that filled the night, bitter and broken, like he was laughing at the absurdity of you.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said, shaking his head. “Stupid or suicidal, I can’t decide. Fine, princess. Lead the way, but don’t cry when you regret it.”

The words were a dare that caused you dread at the pit of your stomach. You nodded, barely, and with a shakiness you turned towards your door, your keys trembling as you unlocked it. His large presence was behind you, and you wondered if you’d just invited death into your home.

۶ৎ

Your hands shook as you opened the door of your apartment. The air inside was warm, mixing with the scent of the lavender candle you’d left burning. His heavy boots hit the floor with each step. You flicked on the light, your room a soft world of light colors and pink pillows, a stark contrast to the man standing in its center. His blood started dripping onto your rug, staining it.

“Sit,” you whispered, pointing to the soft couch.

Your heart was racing, and you wondered if he could hear how hard your heart was pounding or if he could smell the fear and stubbornness inside you. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he obeyed and sank down onto the couch with a grunt as blood smeared the couch. You winced, your tidy instincts pricking, even now.

You hurried to your bedroom. Your medical kit was under your bed, packed with tools—antiseptic, bandages, and other items all neatly arranged. Your hands shook as you pulled it out, carrying it back to the living room.

Your mind was screaming that you were crazy to let this man inside your house—this bleeding, dangerous stranger. You, the girl who flinched at loud voices and who loved to stay alone, were ignoring every instinct to help him.

He watched you return, his gaze heavy, tracking all your movements as you tried your best not to meet his eyes because you were already trembling. You knelt before him, the rug under your knees, and set the kit on the table. The air was thick and silent. You opened the kit as your fingers moved carefully, bringing out bandages, tweezers, and other necessary things.

“Why the hell do you have all this?” He asked, his voice as always carrying that mocking edge but with a hint of curiosity, “Are you some kind of wannabe surgeon, playing doctor in your pretty little apartment?”

You kept your eyes on the tools, your cheeks pinking at his words as you nibbled your bottom lip, a nervous habit that caused Jungkook’s nostrils to flare instinctively.

“I’m a medical student.” You uttered quietly, even though it wavered slightly, “I need those for practice and to learn.”

He snorted, “Of course you are. Little Miss Perfect saving lives with her pink things. You think you’re going to fix the world, don’t you?”

Your fingers paused, his words cut deeper than you realized, hitting the hope you held that was the dream of healing a world you barely knew. You didn’t answer, focusing on his wound, his skin warm and rough.

The bullet had torn through his shoulder, leaving his flesh raw and bloody. You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting as you wondered, how did he end up in such a situation? Was he a victim, or did he do something to get shot? Your inner thoughts hinted at the second option. You shook your head, setting the thoughts aside, focusing on his wound, your training kicking in.

The room felt smaller as you worked; the walls felt like they were pressing in. You cleaned his wound, wiping away the blood, which revealed the damage. You grabbed the tweezers, your hands steady despite your chest pulsating, and leaned closer with a shallow breath. His arm was all muscle, veins bulging under his inked skin, and your lips parted unknowingly.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet yet dark, making your skin prickle, “helping someone like me. You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done. You’re too soft, too…”

He paused before talking again, “Innocent, and the world’s going to eat you alive, and you’re out here patching monsters.”

The tweezers hovered above his wound, his words sinking in. You lifted your head, locking eyes with him. His irises were nearly black, burning with an intensity that stole your breath.

“Maybe it will,” you whispered, “but I can’t just walk away when someone is bleeding like this, not when I can help.”

He laughed bitterly, “You’re going to regret that, sweetheart. Kindness like yours doesn’t ever end well. You think you’re saving me, but you are just calling danger your way.”

The words hurt, but you pushed them aside, focusing on his wound. You dug the tweezers into his flesh, searching for the bullet. He didn’t flinch, his face remaining blank; his lack of reaction surprised you. A reminder of how different he was, how hardened by a life you couldn’t imagine

His eyes never left you, watching your trembling fingers, the flush on your cheeks, and the way your lips parted as you focused. It was as if he was memorizing you, his gaze burning through you as a knot tightened in your stomach.

The candlelight painted his face with a soft glow, catching all the sharp angles and a faint stubble that you can see now that you are so close to him.

You found the bullet, small and glinting, and pulled it out as more blood oozed out. You quickly put pressure on the wound to stop the blood flow, and the contact sent a spark through you, sharp and unsettling. His arm was warm, and you pulled back quickly, your cheeks warming.

“You’re shaking,” he said lowly with a growl, “scared of me, aren’t you? You should be”

You swallowed, your throat dry, and focused on stitching his wound. “I’m not scared,” you whispered, knowing very well that you were lying. “I just… want to help.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make you jump, “you’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes and the way you’re shaking. You don’t even know me, and yet here you are letting me bleed all over your little apartment. Why? What’s wrong with you?”

Tears brimmed your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see. “Nothing wrong with me,” your voice cracked. “I just believe in helping people. Even someone like you.”

“People like me?” He leaned closer, his face just a few inches away from yours, his breath fanning against your lips, smelling of cigarettes and something so uniquely him. “You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands or the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

Your heart pounded; his words terrified and hurt you even more, but you refused to pull away, your own confidence shocking you. You met his gaze with wide, glistening eyes, “But I’d rather be naive and help than hurt someone.”

He went quiet after that, his eyes searching yours, his own mind full of confusion because he wasn’t used to such innocence and fragility. Then he leaned back, with a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

You finished the stitches, your fingers quick despite your racing thoughts, and wrapped his arms in a bandage. Your hands lingered too long, his heat soaking through you, and you pulled back with a racing heart.

You stood, legs shaky, and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen. When you handed it to him, your fingers brushed his, rough and calloused, and you nearly dropped the glass, a gasp escaping.

“You need to rest,” you said, avoiding his eyes, your voice barely audible. “Moving too much will tear the stitches. You’ll bleed again.”

He didn’t answer, just stared, his expression unreadable as his fingers curled around the glass. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and pressing into you. You mumbled something about getting a blanket, your voice tripping. You fled to your bedroom with pink cheeks, your heart pounding. The door clicked shut, but it did nothing to block out his eyes or his voice, the way he’d filled your space with a threat you couldn’t name.

۶ৎ

The first light of dawn crept through your curtains. The air was heavy with the lingering smell of antiseptic and blood, a reminder of the stranger who’d invaded your quiet world. You lie in bed, your body still, breath shallow, thinking any sudden movement will bring the man back from the darkness. Sleep didn’t come to you easily last night; your heart was pounding the entire night, caught between fear and a strange warmth you couldn’t place, something that made your skin prickle.

His rough touch felt like it still lingered on your fingers, his dark, almost black eyes still haunted you, those eyes that seemed to see through you, into you, almost unraveling secrets you didn’t know you kept.

You clutched the sheets tightly; it grounds you against your thoughts. Your mind replayed his low mocking voice that made your stomach twist. “Kindness gets you killed, little girl.” The words echoed, and you wondered if he was right that your softness is a weakness that will eventually get you into danger.

Finally, you couldn’t stay in bed any longer. You swung your legs over, your bare feet hitting the floor. Your faded baby blue sleep shirt clung to your frame. You crept towards the living room, each step slow and cautious, your heart pulsating so loudly that you were sure it would betray you if he was still here.

The living room glowed softly in the morning light. Your eyes darted to the couch, and breath caught in your throat. It was empty. The stranger was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, leaving no traces of him, almost like he was a part of your dream you’d woken up from. The only proof of his presence is the blood-soaked rug and the blanket you’d given him; it was folded neatly, as if he’d meant to erase his presence himself.

You stood frozen, your fingers twisting your shirt in order to ground yourself. The silence was too loud, and you should’ve been relieved—he was gone, you were safe. But a strange ache settled in your chest, something unnamable. It wasn’t just fear, not entirely. It was the ghost of his presence, the way he’d filled your little space with danger and threat, leaving you both shaken and alive.

“Who are you?” you croaked, your voice breaking the quietness. The question hung there, unanswered. Why was he shot? Was he a criminal or a murderer? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, goosebumps erupting.

You’d been reckless, letting him in without a second thought. Your need to help had blinded you to notice the danger. And yet the memory of his intimidating presence, dark eyes, and inked skin made your cheeks flame. You let out a shaky breath, pressing your hands to your face, wanting it to go away, but it stayed against your will.

You sank onto the couch; it was still warm from where he’d been, his scent lingering—cigarette and something darkly masculine like him that made your pulse quicken.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself. “He could’ve killed you. He could’ve…” Your words trailed off, imagining his hands, calloused and tattooed, around your throat. But instead of fear, the thought sent a strange warmth pooling in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it.

You stood, needing to move, to shake off his spell. You paced the living room frantically. The blood on the rug is a constant reminder of his presence. You grabbed a sponge and cold water from the kitchen and scrubbed the stain. Your movements were desperate, your breaths coming out in shaky gasps.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you chanted, tears pricking your eyes. You didn’t know if you were crying for your naivety or for the stranger and the way his absence left you feeling hollow.

When the stain was as faded as possible, you sat back on the floor, your chest heaving with your pants. The room felt too big, too empty. You hugged yourself, seeking comfort.

“He’s gone,” you whispered, as if saying it out loud would make it real, erase the memory of him, the gravel of his voice, and his intense eyes. “He’s gone, you’re fine, you’re fine.”

But you weren’t fine. You felt exposed, like he’d peeled all your layers and seen the soft, trembling thing beneath. You stood up on shaky legs, moved to the window, and pulled back the curtains. The street was quiet, no sight of him, gone with the night. But everything in your place proved that he’d been real, that you’d touched the edge of something dangerous and lived.

“Why did I do it?” You whimpered, “Why didn’t I just walk away?” You pressed your forehead to the glass, your breath fogging it. You’d always been the good girl, the one who helped and believed in healing. But now that belief felt like a curse that could’ve cost you everything, even your own life. And yet, the thought of him bleeding alone, dying—it twisted something inside you, something that said that you’d do it again, even now.

You turned away from the window, body restless with an energy you didn’t understand. You needed to study and focus, reclaiming the quiet life you are so used to. But your eyes caught the blanket and the rug again. He was gone, but he’d left a mark, a question that burned your chest. Who was he? And why, despite everything, did you hope to see him again?

۶ৎ

Jungkook’s world was full of edge, a place full of spilled blood and betrayal, where trust was a debt paid in bodies. But you—you were a soft, maddening intrusion he couldn’t cut away. He tried to push you away in his chaotic life, to forget your memory under the weight of his revenge. He hunted his enemies through the city, his gun heavy and a knife in his pocket.

But no matter how many bodies he killed, your face lingered—your wide, innocent eyes, the way your hands trembled as you stitched his wound. It drove him crazy, a memory he couldn’t break, pushing him deeper into his own darkness.

He soon started watching you, not by choice but by need, like a starving man drawn to you. The city at night would hide him as he stood across from your apartment, a cigarette between his lips. He would lean against a lamppost, exhaling smoke. His muscles would twist as well, his tattoos itching as if they felt your presence as well and how they affected him.

Your routine became his obsession. At 7:30 am, you’d leave the apartment, backpack over one shoulder. Your hair, often loose, as you tucked it behind your ear, a habit of yours that Jungkook learned. He memorized the way you paused while walking, your lips moving slightly as you talked to yourself; he noticed even the simplest detail.

By 8, you were at the university, getting into the lecture halls where he couldn’t follow, though he pictured you there, bent over a notebook, with a pen or pencil between your lips when you were in deep concentration, that act of yours that tightened his jaw and always boiled his blood enough to kill a man.

Evenings, you would always visit the library. He’d linger outside watching you read with your head down, pink lips moving as you read the words, that tongue peeking out sometimes when you licked your lips, his cigarette crumbled in his tight fist at the sight

Other times, you’d stretch, your sweater riding up to reveal a small bit of the soft skin of your waist. It was a reminder of your vulnerability, how fragile you were, and it made his blood boil with a mix of protectiveness and possession. He hated it—hated you for being so breakable and unaware of the constant danger around you, the one that was stalking you.

Fridays were his favorite. You’d stop at the campus café, walking in. You always ordered the same thing; he memorized that as well—iced tea and a strawberry pastry. You would drink the tea contentedly, sitting by the window, hands wrapped around your mug.

Once you licked icing from the cake off your thumb, your tongue quick, Jungkook snarled from where he stood. He wanted to barge in, to wipe that sweetness off your lips himself, to taste the sugar and you on his tongue as well. The thought was sharp and dangerous, and he forced it away, his teeth grinding.

“Why can’t I stop?” he muttered, his voice a growl. “You’re nothing. Just a girl. A fucking distraction.”

But you weren’t. You were like a poison, one he craved even if it would kill him eventually. He learned everything about you. Your favorite books—romance novels and your thick medical textbooks. Your scent—floral lotion, sweet and clean, always clinging to the air in your space along with your clothes and blankets.

The way you blushed, the rare softness of your laughter that angered him wanting to see it often—he craved it even though it felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. How you hummed softly when you cooked, a melody that he always strained to hear even from outside your window. He hated how you made him weak, how you made him want to see you happy, make you smile, and the things he’d sworn off completely from his life.

He was jealous of everything, jealous of anyone you even glanced at, even though it didn’t mean anything. His hands twitched towards his knife, wanting to kill and carve out the flesh of the male professor you had or the guy who helped you carry your bags that day.

You didn’t interact with a lot of people in general, so he held back. During his time of stalking, he realized exactly how much self-control he had else he would have been on a killing spree of any males who even dared to breathe near you, and that included items you wore or touched; yes, he was fuming towards even those, because even such items didn't deserve your touch. He was going crazy, his own possessiveness towards you angering him, but he cannot stop it, even if he wants to.

He also knew that you were alone, no family, your parents dead, and your life was only held by small dreams. It pissed him off at how exposed you were, how easily the world could crush you. He could crush you. The thought was a dark temptation, one he fought every time he saw you.

He watched you from everywhere possible: alleys, rooftops, a presence and a shadow of someone you felt but couldn’t see. You often felt your skin prickle and goosebumps arise all over your body from the feeling of constantly being watched. You’d pause sometimes, your movements pausing, your eyes scanning the darkness, feeling the weight of someone’s stare, brow furrowed

He'd hold his breath, blending into the darkness, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the pull you had on him without realizing.

“Look at me,” he’d rasp quietly, his voice rough with longing and hate. “See me, damn it!”

۶ৎ

One night, he’d learned about your student loans, the debt that kept you up at night, your window open for him to see as you stared at the bills. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, eyes welling with unshed tears.

It was a weakness he couldn’t ignore, a crack to a part of him he’d buried a long time ago. The next day, without thinking, he acted. He left an envelope on your doorstep stuffed with an insane amount of cash, your name written in his sharp handwriting. The bills were blood money from his world. He told himself it was a debt repaid for the night you saved him.

But when he saw you find the money, your eyes wide, fingers trembling as you counted the bills, he felt a twist in his chest, a sick pride, and a hunger to see that look on your face again.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” He hissed, watching you from a distance, the envelope pressed to your chest as tears of gratefulness streamed down your face, “You’re going to ruin me, and I’ll ruin you back.”

He kept doing it, leaving cash when you weren’t home, each stack a claim, tying you to him. He’d watch you use the money, paying your rent and loans. Your eyes are bright with relief but full of confusion.

“Who are you?” You’d whisper to yourself, voice soft and trembling as you clutched the money in your hands. The softness of your voice made his fists clench.

“I’m your fucking shadow, princess,” he wanted to say, the words stuck in his throat, “and you’re mine.”

As time went by, his obsession grew, a beast fed by every glimpse of you. “I don’t need you,” he snarled, his voice loud in the empty alley, “I don’t need anyone.”

But he did. He needed you something fierce, and it was a truth he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much blood he spilled. You were his weakness, his obsession, and he was a man drowning in it, watching you from afar, his soul in a war he couldn’t win.

────

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bubbleggum444 · 1 day ago

Note

hiya I was wondering if you can do a jason todd x wife ex league of assassin reader.

Reader and Jason fight crime together.

Most of time the younger batfamily members like to crash at reader and Jason's apartment to relax after patrol or just for dinner. also reader helped raised and trained Damian during her time at the league.

sorry if this doesn't make sense.

— ❝HIS WIFE❞

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 jason todd x female!reader, wife!reader au, angst comfort n fluff, 2k + wc

𝑠 𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 jason's wife taking care of his adoptive brother + jason being himself

𝑎/𝑛: this was requested as a story of how jason's wife and he fight crime...well...i turned into them comforting damian when he needed it. don't know how i missed the actual request. 🥲 will write the correct one later on.

Before Jason could even comprehend why his younger brother was at his doorstep at three in the morning—in the middle of a raging storm—his lovely wife pushed past him, taking the shivering boy into her arms.

She led Damian to the living room, settling him near the furnace, wrapping blanket after blanket around him, whispering soothing words, and motioning for her husband not to bombard the boy with questions.

Now, Jason had nothing against the little demon visiting. He'd always known—even in his early resurrection days—just how much Damian depended on his wife.

Besides being a complete menace with a rifle, having a nasty right hook, and killer karate skills, Jason’s wife was like a second mother to Damian. Even Talia had doted on her back when she was still in the League.

Damian had practically grown up as her shadow. If he loved his actual mother, then he absolutely adored his figurative one—Jason’s wife.

One thing to note: ___ was infertile. It had been a cruel blow to her self-esteem. She wanted kids. She wanted to be a mom.

No matter how many times she forced a smile and reassured Jason that it was okay, he could see through it. Each time she looked down at another negative test, he knew it wasn’t okay. It hurt her. And it hurt him too.

So when Jason had wished for a miracle—a little bundle of joy for them—he hadn’t expected it to come in the form of his little brother showing up for the nth time that week.

"Dami… What happened?" His wife’s soft voice pulled Jason from his thoughts. He glanced down at the younger hero.

"Just… my… Dad's been tough on me. I'm sorry for… being an inconvenience…"

Oh. That actually hurt. A lot.

Jason felt a sharp sting in his chest. He knew how tough Bruce could be—how tough he had been on him. Even if Bruce’s intentions were good, the effects often lasted longer in ways that weren’t always for the better.

His wife's eyes met his, silently pleading. Jason just nodded. That was all the permission she needed to scoop the eight-year-old into her arms and take him to the bathroom for a bath.

"So… Wayne’s been tough on you, Dami?" she asked gently as she washed his hair. He only nodded, his small hands gripping his knees, his tears held back but obvious.

"Did he yell?" she asked, carefully choosing her words.

Damian shook his head. No. She sighed in relief.

"You can sleep here, okay? And—and you can stay as long as you need until you feel ready to go back to your dad. That sound good, dear?"

Another nod.

After the bath and drying his hair, she tucked him into her and Jason’s bed. That earned her a disapproving glance from Jason, but she ignored it. It wasn’t like he was actually mad.

Jason sighed, climbing into bed. He barely had time to relax before he felt his little brother cling to him.

Damian was rarely vulnerable—especially with him.

So, even though Jason had planned for a peaceful night alone with his wife, he didn’t mind. Not this time. Because somehow, Damian being there felt like exactly what his wife needed to get through this hard time.

Whether Damian was helping them, or they were helping him, Jason didn’t know. But he was grateful for it.

___ turned off the lights and slid into bed, pulling the covers over them. And that was that. Damian, squished between them, seeking their warmth, and the two of them accepting it without hesitation.

Though… Jason figured he should get something off his chest too. Y’know, keep the sentiment going.

"I farted."

"GROSS—"

"JASON—"

➽──────────────❥

𝑏𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑔𝑢𝑚444©

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 <𝟑

#𝑔𝑔𝑢𝑚𝑖'𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𓇢𓆸 #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc x reader #x reader #dcu #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd dc #damian al ghul #damian wayne #fluff #comfort

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

Text

Shut Up and Drive Part 1

Hello and welcome to the little fic that been stewing in my mind off and on since I joined this fandom and have finally starting writing it.

This story was born out of the rogue thought of 'how did Eddie know Steve could drive the RV fast enough to get them the hell out of Dodge?' and the idea that bored rich kids in a small rural town absolutely would go out street racing on the weekends and you have this.

It's technically canon adjacent as you'll see as we lead up to the RV scene, still drifts (I'm punny ;) ) into AU territory later on.

Summary: Eddie does what he needs to to keep the lights on and that means dealing to stupid rich kids with more money than sense. He prefers parties because it's indoors and he's able to slip out the back. But from March until October is when he makes his best money. Because that's when bored, little rich kids race each other for money. And at the end of the season, pink slips. Eddie hates all the leaders of each of the three fractions, Cruise and her Pink Ladies, Titan and his Drift Dynasty, but the one that really grinds his gears is stupid pretty boy King and his even stupider named Asphalt Assassins.

Or in which Carol, Tommy, and Steve all head a street racer crew without the others knowing and no one knowing Steve=King. They're stupid kids, all right?

When you live in the middle Bumfuck Nowhere you have very limited options on what to do for fun on the weekends. There’s a movie at the Hawk, the arcade, or if you’re lucky some rich kid will throw a party and invite you.

Or if you’re among the sacred few, you go out street racing. A couple Saturdays a month during the warm months of the year, a group of kids with more money than sense will pick one of the many backroads and race.

Usually they play for money, make bets, that sort of thing. But the weekend before Halloween, they race for pink slips. For the car themselves.

Eddie is always kept in the know because he provides a service these rich kids need. Drugs. Weed is common as is Speed for obvious reasons. Someone else provides the booze, thank god, but Eddie does really well on these nights. He always comes home with enough to keep the lights on and get real food for a week.

He was at the first drag meet of year and after three years of this, he still didn’t know the real name of the “The King”. The best racer and MC. He was a vision in cropped tops and cut off jeans barely long enough to cover his ass. He wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, even at night.

The dude never raced the same car twice; having won so many his first year, they were forced to only have the finale race for pink slips.

He was also the biggest pain in the ass, according to Eddie. He never smoked weed, did any of the harder drugs, nor let anything other than water pass his lips. He had the biggest and deepest pockets but he never bought anything from Eddie. And that stinginess rubbed him the wrong way.

This was going to be the year he made the King fall from his Ivory tower to partake of his goods.

He pulled up to the spot behind the Hess Farm. There was talk that the old man was thinking of selling, so the Dragsters with their three factions, The Asphalt Assassins, The Pink Ladies, and The Drift Dynasty had decided to use it one last time before it was sold to someone with actual fucking hearing.

The King was already there with the rest of the Asphalt Assassins. They had all taken on their King’s disguise of cut off shorts, crop tops, sunglasses and baseball caps. Though their shorts weren’t nearly as short as their leader’s. The King was the only one who wore white, the rest wore black.

Suddenly there was a roar behind him and turned to see the second best team, The Pink Ladies, complete with their pink jackets, high heels, and bandannas over their faces. Their leader Cruise wore a pink tribly with a black band. She looked like Sandy at the end of “Grease” only all in pink.

Then the final faction roared up to the field. The Drift Dynasty. All the members were kids of racers who had raced back in the 50s. Even the two girls. These racers wore red hoodies and black sunglasses. For fuck’s sake they even had their handles printed on the back of the hoodies like sports jerseys. Their leader, Titan was a hard-nosed asshole and Eddie just might hate him more then the King.

Eddie took a brief moment to scan the horizon for cops and then he hopped out of the van. He walked past the other two racing teams as if they didn’t exist. Because as far as he was concerned they would hit him up at any time during the night and he would make bank off of them. No his attention was solely on King.

“Your majesty,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I’ve come to peddle my wares.”

King snorted. He was currently leaning against metallic purple Dodge Charger, cooler than the frigid night air. Not that he looked like he felt it. He was in his signature Daisy Duke’s and crop top. Sure he had leather jacket on, but it was draped so that it was falling off his shoulders. It looked artful and God did it make Eddie’s blood boil.

“Just announcing my arrival,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. He opened the lunch box and presented it to King. “Anything that tantalizes your majesty?”

King shook his head. “Nothing you have will ever pass these lips, so you best take your ‘wares’ elsewhere, man.”

“I’ll find something that will,” Eddie murmured with a knowing smirk. “Just wait.”

“Keep dreamin’, you dork,” King said, shaking his head fondly. “Go on, your real customers are waiting.”

Eddie straightened up and turned to the crowd. “I’ll be at my van and you know the prices. Anything you want. Until I run out.” He lopped back to his van to watch the races.

The first race was always the most exciting. It was a three-way race between the leaders. The King didn’t always win, but Titan always lost. Rumor had that Titan was the son of the best racer in the game twenty years ago and was always throwing money at the best upgrades money could buy.

Not that it did Titan any good.

He had no instinct on when to use the tools available to him. He boost too early and burn out before the finish line or he would drift when he should slide. Shit like that. Unlike the King. Whose instinct was called a second sense. But Cruise was the one who could keep up with him. She had style and something to prove.

She had gone up to Titan asking for a chance to drive but he laughed in her face. He sure as hell wasn’t laughing every time she passed him.

Cruise leaned against her bright pink Camero, waiting for the men to decide to join her. Titan stepped out of his suped up black and grey Mustang and Eddie shook his head. The oversized hoodie looked ridiculous on the dude’s short frame.

The King strolled over to join them and the hunger in Titan and Cruise’s glances could not be covered by their sunglasses.

“You bet get in your ride, King,” Titan sneered. “Don’t want you freezing off those assets, now do we?”

“Like you could get my engine running, Titan,” King bitched back. “Pick a lane and stick to it, asshole.” He shook Cruise’s hand. “I look forward to racing you this year.”

“It’s always a pleasure, King,” Cruise purred. “Maybe this is the year I get you to step into my ride.”

King looked up and down and Eddie wanted to gag. Hetros are the worst.

“Maybe it will be,” King said with a smirk and then pulled her close to her ear and whispered something, Eddie couldn’t hear.

But when Cruise stepped back, her whole posture was awkward and embarrassed. Which really made him wonder what King told her.

King smirked and stepped back, too. He looked over at Titan. “You actually going to put your money where you mouth is this season or are you going to go crying back to Daddy, like you and the rest of the Dynasty do every year.”

Titan bristled and would have launched himself at King if a couple of his cronies hadn’t held him back.

King crossed his arms in front of his chest, popping one hip. “You want to bring it, Titan? Show me in your car, not your fists.”

Titan brushed his cronies off and straightened his clothes. “One day, King, you’ll lose your crown just like that loser Steve Harrington.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as King grabbed Titan’s shirt and hauled him until their faces were close together. Eddie wasn’t even sure he saw King grab the other guy it was that fast.

“You can’t even insult me without bringing someone else into your shit,” King snarled. “Put up or shut up.” Then he pushed Titan away from him and turned on his heel, striding away from the crowd and to the car he would be racing.

Eddie licked his lips. He wasn’t a car guy, sure he knew his way around an engine but he couldn’t tell you the difference between a Mustang and a Camero. But the car King got into was a sleek black thing that light seemed to bend around. Fuck, Eddie wouldn’t mind taking that baby out for a little spin. It certainly got his engine running.

King rolled up to the starting line, Titan and Cruise pulling along side him. One of the Pink Ladies held a white handkerchief in the air as the rest of the Dragsters made bets on who would win the opening race.

The engines revved as the crowd cheered. The flag went down and they were off the line, muscling for rank.

There was a clear winner, as King edged out ahead and stayed there as Cruise and Titan fought hard for second place.

And in a move that had Eddie cackling so hard he fell out of his van, was Titan coming in second. Cruise got out of her car and cursing threw her hat on the ground, fists clenched in rage.

Whatever King had said to her before the race had gotten into her head and caused her to lose the race. It was glorious to watch. King liked to pull that shit. He’d whisper something in his opponent’s ear and he would get into their head. King always won those races.

The night continued as normal, Eddie doling out the drugs and charging two to three times his normal rates to really rake it in. When someone would complain, Eddie would call it the party tax. It wasn’t his fault they were too stupid to buy during the week, they got what they got and if they kept complaining he would stop selling at these little races and woo-boy wouldn’t that upset the masses.

They would pay the cost and then make sure to pre-buy during the week. Only if they were assholes and skinflints. There weren’t many, but there were a few. Titan was one of these. Eddie had figured out the names of the pre-buyers and their little personas so he could make sure and change them even more when they came crawling to him to get another hit when they blew through the stash they had.

But for Titan, or Tommy Hagan? He would quadruple his prices to at least put a dent in the money Daddy gave him for suping up his car. Because even though Titan never won against King, against almost anyone else, that decked out Mustang of his was not street legal in any sense of the phrase.

Finally he sold his last baggie of weed and forced to close up shop. He checked the crowd and counted numbers, satisfied that everyone was boozing and drugging it up, he stowed the cash in his hiding spot in his steering column and then grabbed a beer.

Eddie raised it to signal that he had closed shop and after this beer he was going home. It was a safety measure to make sure he didn’t get jumped for the cash. If everyone saw him leave then there would be no one to jump him.

He felt a prickling on the back of his neck like someone was watching him. He turned around, but the only person behind him was King sprawled out on the hood of his car and it was hard to tell where his eyes were with those ridiculous shades.

King must have caught him staring because he suddenly smirked and jumped to his feet. Eddie gulped as King made his way over.

“You enjoying the show, Munson?” King asked, licking the top row of his teeth slowly.

“Not much of sports fan of any stripe, Your Majesty,” Eddie said with a dramatic bow, “racing included. I’m here to make money and nothing else. I prefer parties because at least I don’t freeze my ass off, even if the music is better.”

King raised his eyebrow. “It’s too late for your ass, dude. It’s a lost cause.”

“Well not all of us are born your assets,” Eddie said with dimpled smile. “I would rather not lose the rest of mine.”

King burst out laughing. “You’re something else.” He shook his head and walked over to one of the Pink Ladies to flirt with her.

Eddie shook his head and drank his beer, suddenly in a hurry to leave. Because there was no way King was flirting with him, right?

Because there was no world in which any of these rich toffs where interested in him for anything that what he sold them.

Okay, so King never bought from him and as far as he knew, whoever the guy was during the week, didn’t either. So it was possible that whoever he was might be interested in a handjob or a blowjob in the back of his van.

King’s laugh, pulled him out of his thoughts and Eddie looked over. King was leading the girl back to his car. He shook his head. There was no way King was interested in that with him either.

Eddie got into his van and drove off, grateful that the races weren’t every weekend so he wouldn’t have to deal with King more than he had to.

But the fact that King had caught him looking and instead of beating the shit out of him for it, it really felt like he had been flirted with.

Which even if he was interested, there was no way that a have would mix with a have-not. It just didn’t happen outside of movies and books.

But that smirk followed Eddie all the way home.

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #street racing au

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darkthare · 3 days ago

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Your Adder/Janosh art gives me life!!! Hell yeah, happy boys! Janosh with his bear body and hair, and modern!AU Adder with his "bad boy" tattoos and sunglasses and hairstyle...what's not to love!

Save me modern AU save me from the Italian Job

I want Adder to be absolutely covered in tattoos (I got some suggestions which I need to incorporate into a drawing at some point) and Janosh… Janosh my beloved. He deserves to sip margaritas on the beach.

Some random MAU headcanons for you I’ve been kicking around:

1. Adder goes to music festivals and raves a lot and trades Kandi (this is in some of my drawings I THINK??)

2. Janosh can sing/play guitar a bit (he makes up silly songs to get a laugh)

3. They adopted a cat they found in an alleyway and oh my god… they were roommates (what’s the cats name? It’s gotta be dumb and orange)

What do you guys think their lockscreen/home screen pics are? I feel like Adder gives some kinda model/celebrity/athlete energy.

Thanks so much for the ask, I’m glad to spread the good word (the word is Jadder)

#Jadder #mau kcd2 #Kel speaks #i have more thoughts but those are waiting to be thawed out #protect-Daniel-James #thanks again!!

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elodieunderglass · 10 hours ago

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Hi, Elodie —

I have been allowed to fire a number of replica historical firearms and am happy to share my method.

Find your local reenactors (they may only be semi-local) for the period you want or as close as feasible. Go to an event. Meet the reenactors and explain your needs. Someone will almost certainly let you have a go, with blanks obviously, on-site or at a later time in a less-populous place, depending.

They will ABSOLUTELY talk you through the steps, care, and features of their weapon and let you hold it and take photos.

Warning: they will try to recruit you and they’re a ridiculously fun bunch so it might well work.

(In reference to this post - They need to do that thing where actual professionals in certain fields have seminars for writers but with letting historical... – @elodieunderglass on Tumblr)

That's absolutely lovely, thank you so much! Hey @werewolfetone - here's something for you!

I myself am not super interested in firearms! I can shoot tin cans with an air rifle and perceive that as being perfectly sufficient. if I ever write a story with guns in it - just watch out, if you're beer-can-shaped, that's all I can tell you. you'll also be like "what about the gunpowder elodie" and I'll be like "air's good enough for me and it's good enough for you. I don't like percussive noises. AU without gunpowder."

My husband is good at them - firearms, I mean. Percussive noises also, I suppose. Upon moving to America, he took them (firearms) up as a hobby, was adopted by all sorts of deeply odd older men, took some progressively specific tactical courses, and placed unexpectedly highly in some semiprofessional competitions.

I remember conservative older American guys being absolutely bewildered that foreign nationals like Dr Glass technically shouldn't be allowed to, like, purchase their own home-defense cannon or become licensed arms dealers or go on Secret Courses or whatever the hell they kept encouraging him to do. "I'm English, stop arming me," he'd say, but they wouldn't.

when we moved over to resolve our two-body problem, the old man gun friends were so disbelieving that Dr Glass could TRULY permanently returning to Europe that one of them kept and stored his guns for him for years, and only recently sold them on his behalf.

anyway some of them were indeed re-enactors and they would be fully like. hey dr glass would you like to come along. you can be a good guy if he like. and he was like. can you please stop arming the british (me). thanks for your enthusiasm though. thanks.

where was I going with this? thank you.

#dr glass lore reveals #if this sounds absurd it was because it was his personal goal to practice each discipline of the modern pentathlon.#you know.#running swimming fencing pistol shooting and horseback / showjumping.#we got married and went insane together instead.

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rosachae · 17 hours ago

Text

she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos. the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled. “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.”

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him.

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual.

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara.

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably.

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being.

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving.

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants.

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

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