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yeyinde · 1 year ago

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lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

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thisgirlnamedblusy · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! So, I was totally stalking your account the other day (please don’t ask why, lmao), and I came across that one-shot you wrote for your last fandom. It got me thinking—could you write something like that, but with Donna?

I changed it a bit, but it’s still kinda the same. It’s about the reader having an identical twin who’s basically better than her at everything and way more popular. Like, people in the village are obsessed with her.

Somehow, Donna meets the reader, and they start getting closer, which is a big deal because, for the first time, the reader feels special—Donna, the powerful lord, likes **her** and not her sister!

Then, there’s this moment where Donna finally tries to ask the reader out, but she’s SO stressed that she doesn't even notice she’s talking to reader's twin instead! The reader overhears the whole thing, and when Donna realizes what’s happened, she goes into full-on damage control mode.

If this isn’t your thing or you think it sounds boring, PLEASE , just ignore this!

LOVE U xx

Yessss!!!! Thank you for... Stalking my account? I'm joking, thanks for your support, and for your request!!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :))))

Identical, but different

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Donna being Donna

Word count: 7,925

Summary: You want to be more than just "her sister"

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!!

You never liked going out on errands, and you knew exactly why.

“Hey, Ivana! Ivana!” a voice called out a name that wasn’t yours, but you knew the words were directed at you.

Rolling your eyes, you turned around, seeing a young villager running up to you.

“Ivana, listen, I want to…” the boy said hurriedly, placing an unpleasant hand on your shoulder.

You pushed it away, growling in annoyance.

“I’m not Ivana,” you said, repeating the phrase that, every time you left your house, you were forced to repeat over and over again. “I’m (Y/N)”

“Oh, wow. Sorry,” the boy said, scratching the back of his neck nervously and embarrassedly. “Um, hey, could you give this to your sister?” he asked, handing you a piece of paper with horrible handwriting on it.

A love letter, again?

“Why don't you give it to her?” you asked, taking the envelope in an unpleasant manner and putting it together with the ones that you had obtained on your walk through the village.

“Well... You are her sister...” he stammered, to which you made a face of displeasure and shook your head.

“Yes, I’m her sister, not her errand girl,” you said with a hiss, walking away from the boy.

“Don't forget to tell her that it’s form Marco!” he yelled, making you shrug and hiss a few curses.

Every day was another occasion for contempt to appear in front of you.

Being born in that dark village, under the tutelage of the Black Gods, Mother Miranda, the Lords... None of that could compare to the bad luck you had in your life. Bad luck with your family? Not exactly.

Your parents were hard workers, humble but normal parents after all. That wasn't the problem, just like living in that place wasn't the problem either. The problem was the whim of fate that hung over you at birth.

You could have been an only child, but you weren't. You had a sister, but not just any sister, completely different from you, no. Ivana was your twin sister. Physically you were identical.

But physical resemblance had nothing to do with personality. All the charisma, the ease of talking to people, of attracting attention, seemed to have been sucked out of your body and belonged only to Ivana.

She was popular, everyone in the village knew her, almost adored her (not like Mother Miranda, of course). There was no young villager who didn't notice her stupid smile, one that belonged to you, but that didn't have the same effect.

Always Ivana, always your sister was who stole all the limelight from you. You simply existed, but nothing else. You existed because you were her sister. People talked to you because they mistook you with her. It might seem like a desperate situation, and it was, but you had already gotten used to it.

Well, you weren't really excited about talking to people either. It didn't matter that your silence, your shyness and isolation were caused by a genetic error that made your sister steal all those abilities from you. You never really liked talking to people. You had other hobbies that were more peaceful than making a name for yourself in that sinister place.

Still, every day you left your house was a new torment, a new parade of refusals and corrections. Maybe one day you would play pretend to be Ivana, maybe that way you could get revenge on her. You just rambled. She stole even your courage.

“Hi,” you whispered when you got home, moving towards the kitchen where your mother was waiting for the shopping like every day. “Here you go, mother.”

“Thank you, (Y/N),” the woman said, giving you a tip much smaller than the one they gave your sister.

You didn't want to think about that. You still had hope that your own parents loved you equally.

“Hey, (Y/N),” your sister said, making you close your eyes slowly to give yourself patience. You didn't know exactly why she was that popular. You loved her, but you couldn't help but think that your sister was a bit… Unbearable. “How were the errands?”

“Very well, I love going out to freeze while you sit there,” you said ironically, passing by her. “Oh, now that I remember… Here, this is for you.”

With a sigh you took all the notes out of the pocket of your dress and threw them at her in an unpleasant way.

“Have you met Marco?” your sister asked, reading each of the letters with amusement.

“Yes, and he mistook me for you, just like all those idiots,” you commented, letting yourself fall into an armchair, taking your knife to continue with your greatest hobby, carving wooden figurines, something your grandfather taught you and that, along with reading, helped you to spend the time.

“Don't be jealous,” Ivana mocked, sitting on one arm of the sofa, getting on your nerves. “Look, he says I'm the prettiest girl in the village…”

“That's great. How many girls are there in the village?” you said with irony.

“Mm, it smells like envy,” she murmured, crumpling the letter and throwing it into the fireplace.

“Envy? Please, we are identical,” you said, shaking your head and looking at the fireplace. “Hey, why did you do that?”

“I'm not interested in that boy,” Ivana commented. “Are you with your figurines again?”

“You're not interested? Wasn't he your boyfriend?” you asked, preventing the girl from reaching your wooden work. “Leave me alone.”

“You said it... He was... I think I need to start aiming for a higher level,” she murmured, looking at her nails in a smug manner. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“When are you going to leave your stupid wooden figurines and look for a handsome boy to hook up with?” Ivana asked, making you roll your eyes and snort tiredly.

“I'm not interested,” you whispered, polishing that wooden cat.

“You're weird, huh?” the twin mocked, getting up, making you stare at her.

“Am I weird for not wanting to break the hearts of half the village?” you asked, leaving the cat on a table and getting up in a bad mood.

“That's because you can't, you don't have my charms,” she said with a haughty tone, pointing at herself.

Your patience was at its limit.

“Whatever you say,” you murmured tiredly, glancing sideways at your mother, who seemed attentive to the conversation. “Should I help you, mother?”

“No, honey,” the woman said kindly.

“Are you running away from the conversation? That's because you know I'm right,” Ivana said, crossing her arms in satisfaction.

You had lost your patience at that point. After a whole morning of being mistaken, your mood was rather delicate. With a groan, you got up from the couch and walked towards the door.

“Hey, loser, where are you going?”

“Where you don’t care,” you said abruptly, bumping her with your shoulder as you passed and walking out the door. “Stupid…”

Going out for a walk around the area could be comforting, you always did it. Relaxing with your sister always present, walking through the village was impossible but… If you went further away, where there was no one, at least you could be calm.

Walking through the trees you cursed and mumbled about the bad luck you had to be born with someone, running your hand over the rocks, looking at the sky, where the cawing of the crows also seemed to want to make fun of you.

“Ivana is perfect, isn't she? To hell with her…” you whispered, shaking your head, walking aimlessly without paying attention. “Oh, Ivana, it's nice to see you, Ivana, I'll give you a discount for being you, Ivana… I can't believe it.”

When you got tired of walking in circles, you stopped in a small clearing that wasn’t familiar to you, siting at an old tree’s feet, along with some of those branches that fell due to the passage of time.

“Ivana is the best, the prettiest, the smartest,” you mocked with an amused expression, picking up a piece of branch and taking out your knife.

“Look at me: I'm stupid Ivana, the one who can't keep a boyfriend for more than one night, the best in the whole world… Damn it.”

Between grunts you began to carve a small wooden figure hoping that time would pass faster. After all, you would have to go home sooner or later.

“Are you Ivana? You're so pretty Ivana…” you continued to murmur, shaping that little figure that looked more and more like a deer. “I'm sick. Oh, Ivana, it's you, isn't it? Of course it's you, you're so beautiful… Oh, it's (Y/N), wow, what a disappointment… Always the same, damn it… I hate you … I'm not damn Ivana… Do I have to cut my hair so you can stop confusing each other? Stupid…”

“Oh, you're Ivana, aren't you?” a different voice said, one you hadn't noticed. It was a mocking voice that you identified with a treacherous subconscious, or a stupid villager.

Either option was irritating enough to make you get up from the tree and turn around furiously.

“Do I have to put a sign on my forehead? I'm not Ivana!” you shrieked with your eyes closed, squeezing the figurine in your hands.

“Wow, what a bad mood you have…” the same voice said.

You opened your eyes sighing, ready to tell another villager to go to hell, but when you did, your face paled.

It wasn't a villager. It wasn't even a human being. A sinister doll stood in front of you, laughing amusedly. You didn't need to think about who it could be, you knew perfectly well: the Angie doll, inseparable companion of one of the four Lords, Donna Beneviento.

The lady in black stood behind the doll with a cold and stoic pose while the puppet laughed amused by your carelessness.

You immediately lowered your head at the sight of the dark lady, your body shaking in terror.

“Lady Beneviento,” you murmured in fear, knowing you were completely defenseless. “I’m sorry, I…”

“What are you doing here?” the doll asked, causing you to look away from the lady and stare frightened at the puppet. “You’re in our territory, stupid.”

“R-Really? Oh, I…,” you said in fear, looking around.

You were definitely angry that day. You hadn’t even realized where your irrational anger had taken you.

“Don’t you know you can’t come here?” the doll insisted, pointing at you with her finger in amusement. “Ivana?”

“I-I'm not Ivana,” you said, ignoring the anger that came over you when she said that name. “I'm (Y/N), her sister…”

“Oh, her sister, I didn't know she had a sister,” Angie said with her hands on her hips. “Well, I actually knew, but I'd never seen you. Ha, I thought I was seeing double...”

“W-We're twins,” you said, still scared, looking up to see the lady, who seemed to be watching you in silence.

“Twins, how cool,” the doll said, getting a little closer to you, fixing her porcelain gaze on the small wooden deer. “What's this?” she asked, snatching the half-made figurine from you.

You made a timid gesture to take it back, but when you felt the lady's gaze on yours, you stopped.

“It's…. It's…” you stammered, controlling the incipient trembling of your legs. “It's a wooden deer.”

“Oh, a deer… Did you make it?” the curious puppet asked, pretending to play with the figurine.

You nodded nervously, clasping your hands in front of your body.

“I, I like to make wooden figurines, I, I carve them myself,” you explained in a small voice.

Angie looked at you and turned around, approaching her owner.

“Look, Donna, look, look,” she said excitedly, handing the lady the deer.

She picked it up slowly, making you notice her hands, which immediately caught your attention. After all, that black veil didn't allow you to see anything.

“Mm,” you thought you heard a murmur coming from the black fabric, but you were so scared that you didn't even pay attention while the doll maker calmly observed the figurine.

She was dangerous, very dangerous. She was a disturbed woman who had no mercy on anyone who came snooping around, someone like you.

“Hey, silly, are you looking for a job?” the doll asked, observing your work of art alongside the lady.

You froze when the lady in black extended her hand to kindly return the figurine to you. You had no answer to that question.

“Um…” you stammered, avoiding making contact with that hand that seemed so soft. “Job?”

“Uh-huh, my Donna is quite the doll artist,” Angie said, pointing at the lady in black, who moved her hand, returning it to the side of her waist. “Maybe your skills as a wood artist could be useful.”

“My skills?” you asked curiously, pointing at yourself. “Uh, actually this, this is a hobby. I'm not a carpenter or something like that.”

“That doesn't matter to us, you have talent, girl,” Angie said, walking around you like a carrion bird. “I assure you that my Donna values talent very much…”

“Oh, I…” you stammered again, scratching the back of your neck. “I-I don't know what to say…”

“Well, don't say anything, silly,” Angie laughed, being picked up from the ground by her owner, who began to walk away from you, passing by your side like a ghost, one that smelled of lavender… “Anyway, think about it, come to our mansion tomorrow so we can get to know each other better, okay?”

“I-I… W-Well, okay,” you said confused, nodding, while the lady turned her head to look at you for the last time, continuing her way towards the wooden bridge.

That encounter with a Lord was strange, but the strangest thing of all was being able to get out of that place alive. You had heard so many rumors about the lady in black that you didn't know if you could believe them.

You survived, and on top of that... You had a unique job opportunity. You, the scorned sister, had been chosen by Donna Beneviento herself.

You should feel special, but what you had was fear, fear of what could happen to you. The job offer was, however, tempting and on the way home, you could not stop thinking about it.

It wasn’t something you could keep quiet and, during the meal, you told your family what had happened.

“What do you mean?” your father asked after a few seconds of deathly silence. “You say that Beneviento wants you to work for her?”

“Yes, father,” you said, lowering your head, drinking a glass of water. “It seems that she needs help with her dolls.”

“Wait, are you telling me that a Lord has taken an interest in you?” your sister asked, her eyes wide. The trouble of going into the forest was worth just to see her face.

“Yes, it seems that my figurines are not a waste of time,” you said with a haughty tone, making your sister frown.

“(Y/N)…” your father sighed. “I hope you're not thinking of accepting that offer.”

You shrugged.

“I don't know, it could be a good job,” you whispered indecisively, picking up a piece of bread.

“A good job? That woman is insane, do you hear me? I won't let my daughter risk her life like that,” the man said, pointing at you sternly. “No.”

“But, father…” you protested with a sad look. “She didn't seem so… Insane to me…”

“Seriously, why you?” your sister added, envy oozing from every pore.

“No… No wa…” your father repeated, interrupted by your mother's hand.

“Vlad… Wait a moment,” the woman said in a cautious tone. “Maybe it's a good opportunity. That horrible woman is a Lord. She’s rich…”

“My daughter isn't worth all the money in the world, Ingrid,” your father said, crossing his arms.

You couldn't help but smile. At least for your family you were something else than Ivana's sister.

“Think about it Vlad, if (Y/N) works for Beneviento, we'll be protected in some way, besides, we have a lot of debts… It could be the miracle we're waiting for,” your mother commented, making the whole family look at you.

“Well… What do you say, (Y/N)?” the man asked, pointing at you with his fork. “Do you want to work for that crazy woman?”

Again, you shrugged, nodding slowly.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” you whispered, eating calmly.

Your sister snorted, crossing her arms.

“I can’t believe it, you?” she protested with a nasty look.

“What’s wrong, Ivana?” you said with an evil smile. “Are you jealous?”

The next day, after enjoying your sister’s protests, you decided to accept, walking, this time with a sure course towards the lady’s mansion. Internally you meditated on your options.

Well, your parents needed money and… Your sister was jealous. There was no harm in trying your luck with that woman. Maybe she wasn't as horrible as everyone thought. You certainly didn't think so.

“Okay…” you muttered, entering through a red door that led to an elevator. Just getting there made you feel lucky. You wondered if you could go back.

When you finally reached the the mansion, your eyes widened in awe at the sight. A splendid waterfall rose to the side of the old house, one you had only seen in photographs.

“It's great,” you said with a smile, pleased by the beauty of the place, by feeling that, somehow, you weren't in danger.

But your face changed when you saw a figure walking towards the house, one that looked suspiciously like you.

“It can't be…” you muttered, walking faster and shaking your head. “Hey, you! What the hell are you doing here?” you asked annoyed, pulling your twin sister's arm.

She smiled at you arrogantly.

“I see that punctuality is not your strong point, huh?” she mocked, breaking away from your grip and walking towards the entrance of the mansion. “I'm here looking for work, (Y/N)”

“What? You have to be kidding,” you said indignantly, pulling her arm again. “Go away, Ivana, this job is mine.”

“Oh, please…” the girl sighed, rolling her eyes. “Don't be naive, you're good for nothing.”

“Well, it turns out that Lady Beneviento needs my talent for wood carving, one you don't have,” you said mockingly, climbing the stairs with your twin, who laughed ironically.

“Don't talk nonsense, you're useless, (Y/N), I can do many more things,” she said satisfied, putting on her dress before knocking on the door, something you prevented by grabbing her wrist.

“What things? Are you planning to seduce this woman too?” you asked unpleasantly.

“Please, I'm not into women, that would be you,” Ivana said sarcastically, releasing herself from your hand and bringing her fist closer to the door again.

“You're unbearable,” you growled, kicking the ground, furious. “This job is mine, Beneviento wanted me, not you. Can't you let me be the protagonist for once?”

“You? Protagonist? Don't make me laugh,” your sister mocked, crossing her arms.

“I really want to pull your hair...” you threatened, approaching her with a dark look.

“You are so vulgar, and you want to work for a Lord?”

“I'm going to…” you growled, reaching out your arms towards your sister, who struggled with you until, with an ominous creak, the door opened.

“Well, well, well…” Angie the doll hummed, in the arms of the lady in black.

Comically, the two sisters separated, adopting a formal and respectful pose.

“Look Donna, has anyone ordered a two for one?” the doll mocked, laughing amusedly while pointing at you effusively.

“Lady Beneviento,” you and Ivana said at the same time, with a frown.

“Am I seeing double?” the puppet mocked again, shaking her head.

“Lady Beneviento,” your sister said, taking a step forward and extending her hand towards the lady, who lowered her gaze but didn’t return the greeting. “Um, I have come looking for work.”

“You?” the doll asked, with a suspicious tone. “(Y/N)?”

“No, no, (Y/N) is this one,” Ivana said mockingly, pointing at you while you kept your head down. “I’m her sister and it is wrong for me to say it, but… I’m better than her for this job.”

“Shut up,” you hissed in an angry whisper, glancing sideways at the lady in black. Unfortunately, you couldn't know where that mysterious woman was looking.

“Oh…” the doll murmured. “Do you also carve wood?”

“No, my lady, but I… Well, I have other talents,” your unbearable sister said.

The lady sighed loudly, but made a gesture for both of you to enter the house.

As expected, your sister's charisma made her not want to keep quiet, making kind comments about everything in the mansion, she even had the audacity to comment on the beauty of the portrait hanging on the wall of the stairs, one that you also noticed, but you didn't say anything.

The two of you sat on a sofa following the vague and silent instructions of the lady in black, who did the same on an armchair located in front of you.

“I think that color suits the house well, and it has a beautiful floor and…” Ivana said tirelessly while you simply lowered your head, occasionally looking at the stoic lady, who, you couldn't be sure, but you thought was looking at you.

“Hey, shut up,” Angie protested, making your sister close her mouth immediately with a cocky smile. “Let's see… You are Ivana, right?”

“Yes, my lady,” your sister said, blinking petulantly.

“And you (Y/N),” Angie repeated, pointing at you.

Your response was an elegant nod.

“Well, I already know what (Y/N) knows how to do, but you… I've heard a lot of things about you in the village,” Angie said, speaking in a slightly strange way, as if she wasn't really the doll.

The woman didn't speak, she just looked at you.

“It's an honor, my lady,” Ivana said, bowing ridiculously. “Yes, I'm quite well-known in the village.”

“Uh-huh, okay, why do you want to work for us?” the puppet asked.

“It would be an honor for me to serve you, my lady,” Ivana said, making you look at her with a disgusted face.

“What can you do?” Angie asked again, without looking at you, the complete opposite of her owner, or so you thought.

“Well, among my many talents… I know how to cook…” the girl began petulantly, placing herself in an informal posture.

You didn't move, you simply maintained that mysterious look.

“My Donna also cooks, what else?” Angie said, her tone seeming impatient. “We don't need cooks.”

“I'm very good at washing clothes,” your twin continued.

“That's good, hey, haven't you heard of washing machines? You should try them,” Angie mocked, making you unable to contain a smile.

“I-I can also… I can…” your sister stammered, revealing with her voice that she was starting to get nervous. “I'm very good at conversation.”

“Oh, did you hear that, Donna? She likes to talk,” Angie said, looking at the lady who did the same with a serene pose. “What do you say, Donna? Oh, of course, you don't like to talk…”

“Um, um… I can, I can be your maid, my lady, I'll do anything you ask me to,”

Was that a desperate request? Your discreet smile widened.

“We don't need a maid, silly, why don't you try the castle? Surely there you are useful,” the doll said.

You suppressed an amused laugh, glancing sideways at your trembling sister.

“Get out of my house,” a hoarse, unknown voice said, one that came out from the black veil, which had a soft and melodic accent. It was Donna, you were sure.

You, thinking she was talking to you, lowered your head with sadness in your gaze, getting up from the sofa.

“Yes, get out, you're bothering me,” your sister emphasized with a satisfied smile.

“No, not you, (Y/N),” the hoarse voice spoke again.

You stopped with a cautious look.

“You stupid fool!” Angie shrieked, pointing at your sister. “Didn't you hear my Donna? We don't need a fool like you, you're useless.”

“What?” Ivana asked with a frown.

“Go away, go away, come on, out, out,” the doll insisted, gesturing with her hands while your sister, scared, looking at you with fiery eyes, ran towards the exit.

“Sit down,” the dark voice spoke again and the hand of the lady in black moved towards the sofa.

You, amused watching your sister leave the mansion, obeyed, calmer. A moment of silence tensed the atmosphere. There was no one else the lady could be looking at, there was only you.

“Your sister can't be quiet, right?” the lady asked, with that very special voice, with an almost inaudible whisper.

You smiled kindly, shaking your head.

“Yes, she's an idi... I mean, she's, she's... Like that,” you said, swallowing the insult. She was a Lord, after all.

“She's an idiot, you can say it,” Angie said, amused, getting off her owner's lap and sitting on the couch next to you. “We don't like idiots...” she whispered in your ear.

You smiled again, lowering your head when you felt those invisible eyes looking at you again.

“Do I scare you, (Y/N)?” the lady asked, making you briefly look up and shake your head, lying shamelessly.

“No,” you said with a sleepy, broken voice, playing with your hands and wishing to carve wood to release the stress. The Lord tilted her head slowly, searching for the truth with that simple gesture. “Well, a, a bit... I've never been that close to... One of you.”

“So, what do you think? Is it as horrible as you expected?” Beneviento asked again, running a hand over her knee, as if she were nervous too, which was impossible, of course.

“Not really,” you said in a sincere tone, smiling at the ridiculousness of your perfect sister. “You’re the… First one who doesn’t… Who doesn’t think my sister is… Well, great.”

“She’s not great,” she said in a sharp voice. “You have a talent I need. She’s just a stupida…”

“Oh, well, I…” you said, scratching your head, blushing at the compliment, which was unusual if it wasn’t accompanied by: Oh, you’re Ivana, aren’t you? “It’s, it’s a hobby.”

“A hobby that I find very useful,” she murmured, gesturing to Angie and getting up from the sofa with a tired sigh. “Come.”

You stood nervously on the couch, your legs deciding they didn't want to move. You were terribly nervous. No one had ever paid you so much attention, much less... Someone like her.

“Didn't you hear me, girl?” Donna asked impatiently, turning around to look at you, making her veil dance hypnotically. “Come here.”

“Y-Yes, sorry,” you said hastily, getting up and walking next to her, again, in silence, a terrifying one.

After going down an elevator, you walked through a dark basement that gave you chills, until you reached what looked like an old workshop, surely the place where those porcelain dolls were created.

All the children in the village had one, and you were no exception, although your sister's was much more detailed, as always.

“I suppose you're wondering what I want you to do for me,” the lady in black murmured, walking towards a table, where there was an old sewing machine. You nodded with a formal pose.

“Yes, my lady,” you said in a dry, respectful tone, as much as you could.

“Do you see these dolls?” she asked, pointing at the objects, impatiently indicating for you to come a little closer. “Don't just stand there, come closer, girl.”

You walked slowly, taking the porcelain doll the lady offered you and examining it carefully.

“I've known how to make these dolls since I was much younger than you,” the lady began explaining while you played with the doll's clothes. “It's easy for me.”

“I-I see, my lady, it's a magnificent job,” you said with your best smile, giving the doll back to her.

“Save the compliments. If I wanted someone to flatter me, I would call your sister,” she said in a cold tone, leaving the doll in its place.

You swallowed and nodded, regretting your words.

“The thing is simple, (Y/N)… Wood was never my strong point,” the lady whispered, gesturing towards the restless Angie, who climbed into her arms, as if she had hypnotized the doll. “Look at those joints, the details of the fingers…”

You obeyed, craning your head to look at those hands… And also at the wooden fingers.

“It's very well done,” you said, touching the puppet unsteadily, moving its fingers.

“Don't touch it too much, or she will bite you,” the lady said in a dark tone, which made you move your hand away immediately, making something like a nervous laugh come out from behind the veil. “Sorry, it's a joke. Angie won't do anything to you.”

“Oh, okay…” you sighed, playing with your hands.

“Angie was created by my father, and he was good at wood, a talent that, unfortunately, I didn't inherit,” the lady continued, giving life to Angie again and lowering her to the ground. “I would like to recover that part I lost, to make these moving dolls again, and for that, I need you.”

“I understand,” you said pleasantly, nodding.

“Will you be able to help me, or am I wasting my time, (Y/N)?” she asked, crossing her arms in a challenging pose.

“I will do what I can, my lady,” you said elegantly, smiling, knowing that you had gotten the job, one that your sister was not able to achieve, one in which, at last, you would surpass her.

“My lady…” she whispered, with a nervous laugh, indicating for you to sit on a nearby chair. “Don't call me that, you remind me of your sister…”

“Oh, okay,” you said laughing shyly, taking a piece of wood that she handed you. “Lady Beneviento?”

“Donna, it's much shorter,” she said, sighing and sitting next to you. You nodded nervously. “Well, it's not that I doubt you, girl, but I'd like to see what you're capable of. I want a right arm, more or less like Angie's, can you do it?”

And so, by a terrible coincidence, a new part of your life began. A much better one, one in which, finally, you didn't feel inhibited by your sister's abilities.

You had a job. You worked for a Lord, an achievement only reserved for the privileged or well, for any young girl who dared to approach the castle, and who didn't plan on getting married.

The days passed quickly in the old mansion. Silence always accompanied you as you manipulated that wood, always next to the lady in black.

Yes, she could be many things, she could be a sick and dangerous woman, but she didn't show it with you. She wasn't very talkative, quite the opposite of her doll, but she was kind in her own way, grateful for your formality, for every thing you did well, and understanding if you made a mistake.

You certainly felt better than ever. Finally there was someone who preferred you over your sister, something you never thought could happen. The days, weeks, months passed and those little conversations with the doll maker increased little by little, as did your smiles.

Donna was a fascinating, mysterious woman, but completely different from the other Lords. Surely that was what caught your attention, yes, yes, it wasn't at all her sweetness, her melodic and seductive accent, or the beauty of her hands…

Maybe you were a bit confused, maybe that attraction (yes, attraction) you were starting to feel for the lady in black was simply a thank you from your heart for feeling important, for feeling that, for once, your sister wasn’t the protagonist.

“Good job, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, running her slender fingers through the wooden ones you had just polished while you looked at her satisfied. “I can give this little hand a manicure, don't you think?”

“Yes, thank you, Donna,” you said with a smile, sighing at the work that wooden arm took you.

She nodded, making you understand she had heard you and, surprisingly, she brought her hand to the black veil that covered her face, removing it elegantly.

You looked away at first, but you couldn't help but glance at her face out of the corner of your eye, getting very nervous. Donna was, just as you feared, a beautiful woman. You didn't even pay much attention to the scar, which was probably the reason for wanting to hide her face.

Your mouth opened slightly and your gaze became bolder, going straight to the lady, who was searching through an old glass for a suitable brush to paint your creation.

“Che stai guardando?” she asked without looking at you, knowing that you had become petrified, and why.

“Oh, no-nothing,” you said nervously, returning to the table to play with the leftover pieces of wood.

The lady frowned, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, putting the brush back in its place.

“Did you understand me?” she asked curiously, turning to look at you, to confirm the beauty you had noticed. “Do you know Italian?”

“Um, yes, no, um, I don't know,” you stammered, turning abruptly to look at the table again. “It's just that... I, I've read a lot of books...”

“Do you like to read?” she asked, taking the brush and smearing it with paint.

“Um, yeah,” you said quietly, playing with a piece of wood, carving it to calm your nerves.

“Mm,” she murmured, concentrating on the arm, not caring too much about you had seen her face. She didn’t really have to. One bad word and you would end up at the bottom of the waterfall. “Your sister likes to read too?”

“My sister?” you asked with a mocking smile. “I doubt she even knows what a book is,” you said, forgetting about the beauty next to you.

Donna laughed softly, but kept her face serious.

“Excuse me for asking, but… Why do you hate your sister?” she asked in a soft voice, curious but distracted at the same time.

“I don't hate her,” you said sighing, shaking your head. “She's my sister and I love her, but it's just that… Ugh, she was always the most… Popular… Everyone approaches her, sucks up to her, wants to flirt with her… It seems like I’m nothing but her shadow.”

“There's no one who doesn't know her,” the lady commented, painting in a disinterested way. “But I don't understand why. She's stupid.”

“Yeah, well…” you said amused, rolling your eyes. “But even if she's stupid, I don't know how she does it, but she has a natural talent for people, she has a lot of charisma, and joy and... Well, everything I lack... She's like a double... Or rather, I'm her sinister double...”

“Mm, so you think that being popular makes you a better person,” she commented distractedly, making you reflect.

“Yes, no, I don't know,” you said, nodding and suddenly shaking your head, not sure of your answer.

“Do you think she's better because people want to flirt with her?” Donna asked again, making you blush.

“W-Well, that doesn't matter too much to me, we don't have the same interests,” you said with a shy voice, not wanting to reveal an important fact about yourself, one that you didn't know how Lady Beneviento would take it.

“Mm, that's obvious,” she murmured without looking at you, making you startle.

“Why do you say so?”

“You're not scared of my face,” she said in a darker voice, controlling an incipient tremor in her hands.

“The-there's nothing to be scared of,” you said, nervous, uncomfortable.

The lady stopped painting, smiling strangely.

“Surely your sister would run away terrified,” she murmured, sighing sadly, something that caught your attention.

“No way,” you said amused with a gesture of your hand. “No matter what she thought, she would surely try to seduce you to take some of your fortune. She always does the same with everyone.”

“Seduce me?” the lady asked amused, letting the wooden arm go and turning to look at you.

“Yes, I think so,” you said, looking away. “She would do anything to gain fame...”

“Even seduce a monster like me,” she said in a different tone, pressing her lips together.

A bad choice of words.

“I didn't mean that,” you said regretfully. “I, I just, I mean that, seducing you is not what... Well, I think that... Well, anyone with eyes in their face could see how beautiful you are and... Well, I... Well... I-I better shut up...” you said nervously, red as blood, looking at the old clock, wishing it was time to leave.

“Do you want to seduce me, (Y/N)?” she asked, in a whispery tone, looking at you with a frown.

Your heart couldn't take it anymore.

“Oh, I... I'm not like my sister,” you said avoiding that poisoned dart, avoiding saying what you really thought.

“That's why I like you,” the lady whispered, bringing a soft hand surprisingly to your face, caressing it gently, almost automatically.

Your breathing quickened and your eyes danced nervously, locked on hers, on that bright and beautiful eye as her skin made contact with yours, a sensation you didn't know felt so good (although you shamefully fantasized about it)

“Y-You-You like me…” you stammered, bringing your hand to hers, leaning in the same way as her until the lady, clearing her throat, withdrew, surely embarrassed.

“Yes, um, um… I think, I think you've done enough for today. You can leave,” Donna said, shaking her head and frowning more intensely, gesturing with her hand.

“Okay,” you sighed with an exaggeratedly sad tone.

Nothing was the same after that strange conversation.

You finally admitted that you feel something for the lady in black, that it wasn't the simple illusion of being valued more than your sister. It was something different, a kind of tension, of tense and uncomfortable moments that became routine.

The smiles, the casual contact of your hands with hers became something more and more frequent. You couldn't be more in love, but neither of you ever mentioned it.

There was never any talk of those subtle caresses or those glances. You didn't dare to say what you thought, and neither did she. It was better this way after all, you could be misinterpreting things.

“That's it... Slowly...” the lady said, on one of those days when you weren't working with wood, but you were learning to sew instead, thanks to her advice. The smile was always in the lady's eye, and on your cheeks, the red color settled as definitive.

“Like this?” you asked, showing her the piece of fabric. She nodded amused, without stopping to look at you. “Good, now I know how to sew.”

“Yes,” she said, with a wider smile. “It's not complicated, (Y/N), it's a matter of practice.”

“I see…” you sighed, going over those clumsy seams.

Silence returned to the old workshop.

“(Y/N)… I, I've been thinking,” Donna murmured, moving away from that comfortable proximity, playing with her hands while you continued sewing. “Maybe it seems hasty but… I have, I have to tell you something.”

You looked at her with wide eyes as she grabbed one of your hands. She was sweating, shaking visibly. She seemed terribly nervous.

“Okay…” you sighed, dazzled by her soft caresses.

“I…”

“Hey, you two!” Angie's shrieks interrupted that tense moment, that moment you had been waiting for so long.

“Angie, this is not a right time,” the lady growled, having seen her attempt frustrated.

“What were you doing?” the doll asked in a mocking tone, dragging out her words. “Well, whatever, there's a knock at the door, Donna.”

“I'm not expecting anyone,” she said, frowning again. “Who is it?”

“What do I know?” the doll answered, shrugging.

“Cazzo… Dov’è il mio velo…?” the lady murmured nervously, searching for something on the table.

You put a hand on her shoulder and stood up with a smile.

“I'm coming, don't worry,” you said in a kind voice, making her nod with a weak smile.

“Thank you”

When you got to the door, your smile instantly vanished.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, crossing your arms when you saw your clone, your sister, dressed the same way as you with an almost furious look.

“It turns out that thanks to you I have become the new errand girl,” Ivana said with a cocky tone.

You raised your eyebrows, with a triumphant smile.

“It's a pain, huh?” you mocked. “I've been like that for years.”

“Yes, whatever you say…” your sister said, making an unpleasant gesture with her hand. “Mother gave me this for you.”

“Oh, cookies…” you said with a tender smile.

“Yes, she says she wants Lady Beneviento to try them,” Ivana commented, looking at her nails with disinterest.

“Okay, thanks,” you said, entering the house and closing the door, something you couldn't do, since your sister prevented it.

“Hey, you ungrateful witch, don't you know how much it cost me to get here?” she rebuked you, with a finger on your chest.

“What do I care?”

“You could give me a glass of water, at least,” Ivana protested, lowering her gaze.

“Ugh, fine,” you said sighing and shaking your head. “Stay there and, don't, touch, anything.”

“Whatever you say,” the young woman said, crossing her arms as you went up the stairs.

Grumbling and mumbling you went up to the bathroom on the top floor. You would go down to the kitchen for no reason. Your sister would do nothing but snoop around.

“Oh, there you are,” a familiar voice caught your attention, along with the unmistakable sound of heels.

You leaned over the railing, watching as the lady in black dangerously approached your sister, her face covered.

“Mm?” your twin murmured, blinking in disbelief when the brunette uncovered her face again. She seemed very, very nervous.

You wanted to intervene, but you didn't, you stayed glued to the railing with the glass in your hand, shaking more and more.

“Who was it?” Donna asked, getting a little closer to Ivana. “W-Well, it, it doesn't matter…”

“Um, I…” your twin stammered, surely surprised to see her face.

“W-Wait, let, let me tell you something…” the lady interrupted, moving her hand to reach your sister's, joining it with hers, interlacing their fingers. Ivana didn't move; she remained open-mouthed.

“Um, um…”

“I know it's crazy and I know your answer will probably break my heart, but I can't keep quiet about what I feel, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, making a great effort to speak.

You fidgeted nervously on the railing, a smile appearing on your face, a smile that hid the evidence of what was happening downstairs.

“I… I've, I've been alone all my life until… Until you showed up and… With you I feel, I feel like I wouldn't want to be alone again…” the lady continued, squeezing your sister's hand tighter. “I-I'm, I'm in love with you.”

Your jaw dropped at the same time as your sister's. You couldn't believe it, it was the happiest day of your life, was it?

“Y-You don't have to answer me now, but, but I would like, I would like...” the lady said, still nervous at the lack of response from the stunned Ivana. “I would like you to help me discover what love is... Together, next to you... What...? What do you say?” she whispered, caressing your sister's hair, her face pale from those words.

She gently pulled her, lightly placing her lips on your twin's, kissing her slowly.

That was too much for you.

Your hand became weak, dropping the glass on the floor, breaking it into a thousand pieces with an unpleasant sound that attracted the attention of the two women.

“Donna!” you shouted, rushing down the stairs. “Donna, wait, that's not...”

“W-W-What?” the lady stammered, blinking in confusion and letting your sister's waist go.

“Hey, I'm not (Y/N)…” Ivana said amused. “But if you share you money with me I'll be whoever you want…”

“What? You? You?” Donna said nervously, running a hand through her hair and breathing heavily, pointing at one of you each time. “You, you're not… You…”

“Donna, she's my sister,” you said, arriving at the hall in a hurry and pushing your twin away. “Are you an idiot? What are you up to?”

“Hey, hey, I didn't do anything,” Ivana protested amused and nervous. “It was her… Boy, (Y/N) you were so quiet about that.”

You growled, looking at the lady in black, who had a lost look on her face while her body suffered nervous spasms.

“You're…. You're… (Y/N)…” Donna stammered, unable to control her anxiety. “You… You're, you're…”

“Did I miss something?” your sister asked, frowning.

“Oh, you stupid moron…” you muttered, putting your hands on the brunette's shoulders.

Donna was unable to look at you.

“No… No!” she shrieked furiously, pushing you away as she ran off, kicking all the furniture in her path.

“Hey, wait!” you shrieked, chasing her.

“Sis, you're such a flirter,” Ivana mocked, laughing amused. “Who would have thought that a Lord was so stupid as to be interested in you?”

“Shut up,” you hissed as you held the brunette, who struggled against your grip, sobbing. “Donna…”

The lady apparently calmed down, looking at your sister with a furious eye and pushing you away again, walking hurriedly towards her.

“Hey, hey, hey, I didn't mean…” your sister said, running away from the doll maker, who was chasing her furiously. “Hey, I'm sorry…”

A dull thud silenced your twin's complaints. Angie, who had slipped among you, hit your sister with a piece of wood, leaving her unconscious.

“Right in the head,” the doll said, laughing sinisterly.

“Stronza…” Donna growled, approaching you twin’s unconscious body. “How dare you to fool me!?”

“Hey, Donna, wait, wait, leave her alone,” you said, grabbing her shoulders again. “It's not her fault, wait, please…”

“(Y/N)…” the lady sighed, changing from anger to sadness. “What have I done?”

“Eh, eh, it's okay…” you said, glancing at your sister. Of course, she was still alive. “You got confused, it's normal.”

“I, I made a fool of myself… (Y/N)…” she sobbed, throwing herself into the shelter of your arms as she lowered herself to the floor, burying her head in your chest. “I'm sorry!”

“Shhh, Donna…” you said in a comforting whisper, caressing her hair, kneeling. “I've heard everything…”

“I'm sorry…” she sobbed again, clinging to your dress. “You don't know how much I…”

Her apologies were silenced by a kiss, one from your lips, a bold, brave one, the first of your life, but not the last. It was a sudden and disastrous kiss, but it served to silence the sobs of the lady in black, who slowly pushed you away, calmer.

“Those things you said...” you murmured smiling, wiping away the tears of the brunette. “Do you really have feelings for me?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, (Y/N), I... I, I love you...”

“You know what? I've been wanting to hear you say it for so long, that I don't care that you said it to my sister,” you joked softly, cradling the sobbing lady in your arms.

“Cazzo...” she lamented again, burying her head further into her chest.

“I'm going to take my sister home and... When, when I get back I want us to... Well, talk about this... Maybe over dinner?”

#donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader #re8 donna #re8 village #oneshot #requests

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complementaryhalves · 7 months ago

Text

i wrote my first f1 rpf fic and it's landoscar fluff

1.6k, fluff without plot, mutual pining, napping together | ao3 link | full text under cut

“That looks comfy,” Lando says with his usual calm cheer as he enters the lounge area on the second floor of their hospitality building.

No ‘hello’s, no ‘how’s it going’s, but Oscar doesn’t find it rude. As someone who’s always hated small talk, he likes that they’re comfortable enough with each other that they don’t need all that extra fluff.

He raises his eyes from the e-reader he’s got propped up on his chest and realises he’s slid into a position that’s admittedly uncharacteristically slouchy for him—his head wedged in the corner between the back cushions and the armrest, his body draped half across the sofa, and his legs, crossed in a figure four, pressed against the coffee table so he doesn’t slide further down.

“It is,” he says, his dry tone offset by the small smirk that automatically curls his lips whenever his teammate is around.

“Let's see,” Lando responds, matching his tone and expression, as he walks towards the loveseat Oscar is occupying.

Oscar might argue that all the other seats in the room are free and Lando doesn’t really need to encroach on his personal space, but he won’t. Instead, he starts moving to make space for him.

“No, no, stay,” Lando says, gesturing to him to wait.

Oscar slightly frowns, confused about how Lando is planning to fit in the small space remaining on the sofa, but still obeys and stops moving.

With his usual floppy grace, Lando falls heavily in the space next to Oscar, and then, in a swift movement, turns sideways to throw his legs over the armrest and lie his head down on Oscar’s belly.

Oscar inhales sharply and produces a little half-hearted ‘ow’ at the sudden pressure, trying very hard to ignore the way it makes his stomach somersault.

“Sorry,” Lando chirps, throwing a gleaming glance and insincere grin up at him, and Oscar really hopes he can’t see the flush on his cheeks from that angle.

They stare at each other for a moment, Oscar still frowning at Lando’s insufferably cute puppy eyes, but Oscar’s annoyance at his inability to deny his teammate anything is not strong enough to actually make him push him away. Ironically, this time, the little grating voice at the back of his mind that frequently mocks him for his stupid crush is drowned out by his racing heart, so it stings less than usual.

So, even as he shakes his head, not so much at Lando as at how pathetically pliant he is when it comes to giving in to Lando’s whims, he shrugs and sighs and relaxes again, letting the weight of Lando’s head fully sink into his abs. At that, Lando, too, visibly untenses, and Oscar privately appreciates how his teammate is not as thoughtless as he may seem. He knows he would have definitely moved if Oscar had been uncomfortable with the contact, and he can see in his softened expression that Lando is glad—happy and relieved—that he let him stay.

As if there was ever a time Oscar didn’t want Lando around, Oscar silently scoffs at the both of them, no matter how annoying he could get.

With another small sigh, he tries to breathe those thoughts away and get back to his book, while Lando pulls out his phone. It’s hard at the beginning, as he keeps getting distracted by Lando, his long fingers tapping fast on the screen as he responds to the messages he’s probably been ignoring for days or the changes on his face as he scrolls through various social media apps. Eventually, however, Lando pops in his earbuds and opens Youtube, so Oscar moves the e-reader so that he can’t see Lando’s phone and can finally focus back on reading, even with all the little movements and noises Lando makes as he reacts to whatever he’s watching.

Caught up in his novel, Oscar doesn’t notice how close his left hand is to Lando’s head, nor how, when he feels the brush of his hair on his fingers, he moves entirely out of instinct to sink his hand into it and start dragging his nails lightly across his scalp, completely forgetting that the warm weight on his belly is his teammate’s head and not some kind of pet.

When he finishes a chapter and briefly snaps out of his focus to check how many more he’s got left, he realises that Lando has been unusually still for a while, so he moves his device to check on him and is struck by a mix of paralyzing horror and heart-melting endearment when he sees him fast asleep, his phone dropped face-down on his chest with his hands abandoned next to it and his head nestled comfortably in Oscar’s shirt, facing upwards and leaning into the hand that Oscar has since fully tangled in his curls.

The only reason he doesn’t panic is that he doesn’t want to wake him up.

So, even as his face flames up with embarrassment, he forces himself to gently let out the breath bottled up in his chest, and then stills, unsure of what to do while a flurry of questions and doubts rages in his mind.

Did he really just unwittingly pet Lando to sleep? Did Lando think he was doing it on purpose? And if he did, why didn’t he stop him? Like sure, they’ve been getting steadily closer, but they’re not that close yet, right? Wouldn’t Lando have been weirded out by that? Though if he was, Oscar knows, he would have definitely said something, even if just to tease him. So, why didn’t he say anything?

Perhaps, Oscar tries to reason, he was simply enjoying it enough that he didn’t care about it being strange. Then, his fear spikes again when he thinks that Lando might have thought it was normal for Oscar to just casually do something like that to a friend. Worst of all, Oscar doesn’t even know whether that’s true or not. There has never been anyone in his life with whom he’s had the same relationship he has with Lando, and honestly, he doesn’t fully know what kind of person he becomes around Lando anymore, after two years of channelling his pining into being more friendly and open and funny and relaxed.

Ever since he joined Mclaren, the flood of papaya orange into his world came with the shifting teal of Lando’s ever-sparkling eyes, the light tan of his skin, the flashing white of his smiles and the warm brown of his curls, the ones Oscar still has wrapped around his fingers the way he often feel himself wrapped around Lando’s.

He didn’t really have any say in the matter. When Lando waltzed into his life, immediately insufferable about finally being the older driver in the team but also effortlessly funny and endlessly thoughtful and unreasonably attractive, Oscar really had no chance to escape the curse of the rookie crush.

Except, this whole mess has lasted far beyond his rookie season.

He feels the full weight of it right now, as he looks down and his heart brims with gooey fondness while he watches Lando sleep and can’t make himself remove his hand from his hair, mostly out of fear of disturbing him but also because he just wants to enjoy this comfortable closeness without having to hide his feelings.

Before Oscar can examine his emotions any deeper, he’s distracted by Lando, who stirs in his sleep and turns slightly toward the backrest before snuggling his face closer against Oscar’s abs and hand with a little whine. Trying hard to ignore the affection straining the seams of his heart and the low heat pooling in his gut, Oscar focuses on plucking Lando’s phone from his chest, as gently as he can despite his trembling hands, before it can slide down and startle him awake. He checks the time on it and sees that they still have more than an hour until their dinner reservation at the hotel. Maybe he can take a nap as well, since he sure wouldn’t be able to read anymore.

Fuck it, he thinks as he sets Lando’s phone on the armrest together with his e-reader.

Careful not to jostle Lando, he shifts his weight to find a comfortable position for his head to rest against the cushions without straining his neck. Once he’s found it, he takes a deep, shaky breath to release the muscles he didn’t even realise he was tensing, and lets his hands fall, his left still sunk in Lando’s hair, gently scratching at his scalp again, and his right on Lando’s chest, next to Lando’s own.

If Lando says something when they wake, he’ll swear he didn’t do it on purpose, and if Lando knows he’s lying, he’s now pretty sure he won’t be annoying about it, not if he wants Oscar to give him more head scritches in the future.

That thought, more warmth and closeness in his future with Lando, together with his teammate’s slow breathing and the comforting press of his body, finally manages to soothe the remnants of panic in Oscar’s mind, and gently lull him to sleep.

***

A little while later, when Lando stirs awake, he shields himself from the glare of the overhead lights by turning his face into his pillow, and it takes him a few seconds longer than it should have to realise, from its strange texture and warmth and gentle rhythmic movement, that it’s not a pillow at all.

Startled, he looks up, and his heart skips one beat when he sees Oscar, another when he feels the hand resting on his head, and a third when he sees their fingers interlaced over his chest.

Fuck.

He’s napped in some weird places before, and woken up in embarassing situations many many times, but this one is definitely in the top three of both rankings.

Floored, he stares at his sleeping teammate, half of him cringing hard at the entire situation he’s in, while the other privately swoons over how cute Oscar is when he sleeps.

Lying there, unable to decide what his next action should be, he’s forced to acknowledge that the delightful contentedness he felt upon waking was entirely Oscar’s doing, which is weird but not impossibly so, and, much more strangely, that all this physical contact is giving him some warm fuzzy feelings, fluttering somewhere between his heart and his stomach, that he’s very not ready to confront.

Well, shit, he thinks. Dinner will be awkward as hell.

#my fics #misanthropymuse #formula one #formula 1 rpf #f1 #f1 rpf #landoscar #twinklaren #oscar piastri #lando norris #lando x oscar #481 #op81 #ln4 #cecilia writes

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danoberry · 2 years ago

Text

★ i’m so sick (joby taylor x reader) SMUT 18+

description: joby finds your vibrator and has you put on a show.

content: SMUT 18+!!!, hella overstim, slight masochism, dumbification, squirting, cum play, voyeurism, degradation, just overall filthy

pronouns: you/yours (female reader)

wc: 2.5k

afab genitalia

AN:

woah two posts in like three days? i’m on a roll! wrote this one on a whim because i got a good idea, and stayed up all night working! enjoy!!!

You’re tired— so fucking tired as you lie on Joby’s bed. You’ve had a long day at work, and he knows this. It’s only 5pm, but as the blinds cast a shadow over your body, the lamp outside of the apartment illuminates your body in stripes of shadow and light. Joby stands over the sink, washing his face with hot water, groaning from the warmth of the water while he holds his hands to his face. He found something of yours before you got home. He’s stalling to tell you… it’s for your own good.

Joby slyly walks out of the bathroom, but you can’t see him yet, with your face buried in a pillow that smells like body odor and cigarettes. He opens his drawer nonchalantly.

“Baby?” He calls out.

“Hm?” You groan.

“I found something of yours today.”

“Oh you did? What was it?” Your voice is muffled.

“Turn around and I’ll show you.”

“But baby,” you whine, “I’m tired!”

Suddenly, you hear a buzz humming from the other side of the room. Surely he isn’t shaving. You turn over and Joby stands there, mockingly in awe of what he has in his hands. He’s looking it up and down. He’s touching the top and watching his fingertip shake. He found your vibrator.

Your eyes widen and you sit up.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Your nightstand.”

You scoff nervously. “What were you doing in my nightstand?”

“I was looking for some chapstick… but I found this pretty thing instead! When do you have time to use this?” He continues to run his fingertips against the top of the pink, vibrating toy.

“Joby I— I use it when you’re away. Turn it off, it’s gonna go dead. Just put it up and forget about it.”

“Forget about it?” He asks. “You want me to forget about it? You’re so desperate you can’t even wait for me to fuck you? You have to use this cheap shit?”

“Joby seriously it’s not that big of a deal—“

He throws the vibrating toy onto the bed next to you and it vibrates against your thigh. You pick it up to turn it off, but Joby doesn’t approve.

“Uh-uh, babydoll,” he tuts.

“What?” You scoff, impatience bubbling as he gets cockier. Joby pulls a chair from the table and flips it around, straddling it. He leans his forearms on the top of the back of the chair and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Well, if you want to be a whore and use a cheap piece of plastic to fuck yourself, you can go ahead and show me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me—“

“Nope. I wanna see how you fuck yourself when I’m not here.”

You hesitate with your mouth agape, he raises his eyebrows, smirking patronizingly.

“Show me baby.”

Your cunt begins to clench around nothing as he speaks to you in such a degrading way. You’re quite angry with him, sure, but fuck is he turning you on. You argue one last time for full effect, “Joby come on, this is so stupid!”

He stares at you like you’re ignorant, not muttering a word. You huff a whine and grab the vibrator, dragging it along your clothed thighs, trailing to your cunt that was already clenching around nothing.

You leave it at its lowest setting, pressing it gently on your clothed clit. You mewl at the feeling and grab one of your tits from under your shirt, squeezing it. You pull the vibrator away from your clit and use your hands to take off your shirt, and then your bra, your pants, and soon, you’re sat with nothing on but a thong. You fail to see Joby’s reactions. He licks his lips and palms at his growing erection while he’s watching you strip for him across the room.

You grab the vibrator again and hum when you press it back to your clit, grinding yourself onto the toy and whining quietly.

“Oh- fuck Joby,” you whisper. He watches silently, entertained and aroused by the way your body moves against your toy. The way your back arches when you press just a little too hard, the way you shake your core around the vibrator when it isn’t giving you enough. He’s fascinated. He’s fucked you plenty of times and he’s seen you like this, under him before, but something about watching you from afar— really studying you, it’s making him weak.

You turn up the setting on the vibrator, whining more and more as slick falls down your weeping hole, getting on the mattress. You press harder on your clit and moan out, gasping. A knot forms in your stomach, and you press harder on your bud, letting your orgasm crash over you, and quickly setting the toy aside to catch your breath.

Joby watches as you do this and wants to come over and put it right back on your clit himself, to send you into overstimulation by his doing, but he doesn’t give into his fantasy so quickly. Firstly, he stands up and walks over to you and sits next to your tired body that’s panting, staring up at the ceiling. Joby kisses your forehead, but he feels anything but remorse for what he’ll order you to do.

“Did I tell you you could stop?” He asks you, like you’re a baby.

“Oh, Joby!” you whine loudly.

“I didn’t, did I?”

“No…”

“Correct!” he taunts. “Come here.”

You sit up and crawl in between his legs, laying against his chest. He grabs the vibrator and turns it onto the highest setting, not hesitating to hold it against your clit. The feeling shocks you immediately and you whine out against his shoulder.

“Ah- I- Oh, Joby! It’s too much! It’s s’much Joby!”

“If you want to act like a helpless little bitch I’m gonna treat you like one.”

You moan while you shuffle your feet and move against his stomach, feeling the erection straining at his pants. You’re barely distracted though, because you’re so overwhelmed by the high pressure he’s emitting against your sensitive bud. You breathe against him— engulfed by body odor and cigarette smoke. You feel your second orgasm impending fast.

“Please, I- I’m- Hmngg- Please!”

You flail against the toy and cry out against his shoulder as your orgasm crashes, to what feels like all over your body. Your legs shake while you yelp, losing feeling in your core for a brief moment. He keeps the vibrator pressed against your cunt, sobbing with cum and clenching hard on nothing.

“Joby it’s too much! Too much! I- ah- hmphh!” You scream against his chest and tears start to form in your eyes, the vibrator constantly hurts your core and stings at your clit. You weep against his body. His dick is rock hard, straining against his pants, and you can feel it while you rub and whine and cry and squirm against him. He simply kisses your head.

“You can handle it.”

The pain settles in fast as another knot snaps in your stomach, and all you can feel is hot. He presses down and lets up repetitively, drilling the vibrator onto your bud. You flail around while you shuffle your feet. Drool pools in your mouth as you scream and moan with your mouth agape. You dig your head against his side, and slobber drips out of your mouth, staining on his white tank top. His dick twitches again and you can hear a groan escape his mouth, quiet yet pronounced.

The pain subsides and turns into pleasure again. You’re melted into an incoherent, babbling mess.

“Job- ah, uh, ff- hmngg, Jo- ah- by!” You’re screaming against him. You can barely breathe. You love it.

“Such a pathetic whore,” He growls into your ear, grinding his erection against your back. “You like that, huh? You like being fucked by this cheap shit? Do I need to stop fucking you so you can use your toy more often? ‘Ah- ah, oh Joby!’— you’re hilarious!”

“‘Need you— you— ah!— in me,” you whine all over him.

He takes the vibrator off of your cunt abruptly and turns it off.

“Do you need my cock,” he asks, “or do you need this?” he waves the toy in front of your face, and presses it to your lip. He throws it next to you. You look up at him against his chest as he stares down at you. Your eyes flutter.

“Both— please,” you’re starting to cry from the lack of contact.

Joby wouldn’t admit this to you, but watching you cry in his lap made him feel a bit remorseful for being such an asshole to you. He doesn’t relent, though, he simply pets your hair and growls again, “Flip over, you dumb bitch.”

You try to move, mewling as you pick your arms up and attempt to face him. You just can’t.

“Aww, is my pretty baby too sore to move?” He taunts.

You nod your head and sniffle. Joby sits up and lays you down in front of him, your pussy inches away from his crotch. He swipes his fingers between your drenched folds, bringing his hands to lips, licking off your slick. He unbuckles his belt and throws it to the side, unbuttoning and unzipping his tight jeans. He pulls down his boxers and his cock springs out immediately. Precum leaks from his bright pink tip, begging to be inside you. He swipes his fingers over your slit again and rubs his cock against your thigh, shoving his slick covered fingers in your mouth, gagging you for a moment. You moan, and he takes his fingers out of your mouth.

“Joby please!” You beg, coughing— spitting.

“God I don’t know how you aren’t embarrassed at yourself. Drooling for my cock. You want my cock?” He mocks your whining, “Huh, yeah?”

“Please,” you beg in a broken sob.

Joby scoffs and laughs at you, bringing his cock away from your thigh and rubbing it against your soaked folds. You moan when his cock touches your swollen clit, and yelp when he finally shoves himself in you, giving you no time to adjust. He takes your legs and wraps them around his hips, fucking into you fast.

He leans over your body, grabbing one of your tits and flipping at your nipple. You’re weak— voice getting sore from screaming and moaning. He fucks in and out of you relentlessly, grunting when your walls spasm around him.

All that he can give you isn’t enough, as much as you try and convince yourself it is. With all of the prior simulation compared to him fucking you, it’s not enough, even if his cock is hitting all of the right places. You look up at him, and he’s squeezing his eyes at the ceiling, swallowing hard as you see his Adam's apple disappear and appear quickly.

You grab the vibrator from your side and quickly flip it onto the highest setting, applying it to your clit and crying out from the double stimulation. Joby snaps his head down when he feels the vibrator hum around you.

“Can’t get enough huh? Fucking slut.”

He leans over you and takes control of the vibrator while he ruts into you at a brutal pace. He uses his thumb against the tip to press down onto you. You’re squirming against him with tears rolling down your face in bliss. Spit is pooling to the side of your face, thrashing back and fourth.

His cock curls deliciously, kissing your cervix when he fucks into you. You’re whining and moaning his name when you look into his eyes and begin to squirt clear liquid onto the lower part of his shirt. He holds the toy against your clit, and it doesn’t stop streaming. You’re moaning with euphoria, and you cum almost immediately around his cock, squirting all over the front of his shirt.

He’s fucking into you harder and riding out your high while you clamp down on him, and the tightness is enough to make him cum as well, but he quickly pulls out and lets the white droplets bead all over your stomach, leaning over and kissing your tits.

Your squirting ends and Joby finally takes the vibrator off of your cunt and turns it off. He’s drenched in your fluid, towering over your body and groaning as he smears his cum all over your stomach with his hand, and grabbing your tits with the stickiness making noises as he takes his hands off of you.

Joby lays down next to you, and you’re moaning out quiet sobs as you’re still coming down from your high.

“Are you okay baby?” He asks with sincerity, the juxtaposition of how he’s acting almost enough to alarm you.

Your eyes flutter, you nod your head slowly. “Legs… hurt s’bad,” you mutter.

“They’re hurting you, princess? Do I need to kiss them better?”

“Mhmm…”

He sits toward your thighs and licks them, tasting your juices and pecking at them. You’re so tired from the countless orgasms you just endured. Your eyes are closing with tiredness. Joby takes his head from your thighs and massages them when he lays back next to you.

“You got me soaked, baby.”

“I know…” You acknowledge quietly.

“Do you need to sleep?”

“Mhm…”

“Go ahead and sleep baby, I’ll get you all cleaned up when you wake up.”

“Thank you Job.”

“Of course, my cockdrunk babydoll.” He chuckles at the name he gives you. You kiss Joby on the cheek and fall asleep with your hand on the back of his neck.

#edward nashton #paul dano #burt fabelman #calvin weir fields x reader #calvin weir fields #danonation #edward nashton smut #edward nashton fic #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton x you #joby taylor #joby taylor smut #joby taylor x reader #paul dano x you #paul dano fanfic #paul dano nation #paul dano riddler #paul dano x reader #danoberry

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gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot · 1 year ago

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Familia mea mea est domus – My family is my home

I loved @mistydeyes medical checkup thingy here and got a little inspired, so thanks for that, hun

Unedited because I wrote this on a whim

Tagging my usuals that asked, just because: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @sofasoap @mmyrrhh

A soft knock on his office's door made Price look up briefly.

''Come in''

The door opened swiftly, even before the last word was uttered, and Riot stepped inside, closing behind her hurriedly. Then, without asking, she all but collapsed on the chair in front of him.

''Oh, good you're here, I need clarification on what this means, my German is a bit rusty...'' Price leaned back in his chair, leaving his fountain pen and looking up again, but the slight grin on his face disappeared when he saw her eyes.

Her haunted, wide eyes.

''Kid''

Riot's blue-gray eyes - no, Christine's - looked straight into his, unblinking, and he noticed that just as she sat down, her right knee had started bouncing wildly.

''I have my physical checkup'' Even her voice sounded lower than normal, strained, controlled. ''In half an hour''

''I know'' Price nodded, still lost about what could have happened. ''What's the matter, kid?''

''Can you come with me?''

''... what?''

She moved slightly in the chair, visibly uncomfortable, but her eyes didn't waver and still stared at him, desperate, pleading.

''In my file there's specifications that say I only want female personnel in the physical checkup'' When Price nodded again, Christine tried to overcome the knot in her throat. ''I was just there. There's only male personnel working at the moment. They told me Dr. Benítez was on break and wouldn't be back till noon''

''Can't they move your appointment to when she's in?'' Price was already shutting down his laptop, knowing where this was going, and feeling the exasperation boiling inside. Fucking idiots everywhere.

''They said I could either do the checkup now with the personnel that was in or they would put in my file that I refused to do it'' Christine's voice was even lower now, her fingers tapping furiously on her thighs, and her right knee still bouncing. ''Price, I can't...''

Half an hour later, Price was sitting uncomfortably right in front of the door of the room where Dr. Benitez and a female nurse were performing the physical exam on Sgt. Vega. It had cost him only five minutes of raising his voice at the incompetent idiot in charge of the clinic for the day, and a personal call to Dr. Benitez's phone (who had been appalled by the situation and cut her break short, God blessed that woman, and told off herself the idiots at the reception).

''I know. I'll fix this'' Price stood up and walked around his desk to offer his hand to her. ''Come on, kid, we're gonna give them a piece of our minds''

To pass the time, he had sent a text to Heather, explaining the situation, and her answer had been almost instant, and indignant.

I personally put in her file she was NOT to be examined physically by any male presenting person. I'm going to raise hell at whoever is ignoring the personal notes in people's files.

Great, now Heather was in the warpath too. Sighing, Price was about to put his phone away when he got a message from Nikolai, some stupid short video of something he had found on the internet.

For a second he considered telling him, but decided against it. There was no need to have an angry Russian mercenary storming into the base demanding to behead someone for upsetting his solnysh... solhn... his sunshine.

Price also wondered why she hadn't asked Soap or Gaz, or Ghost, but was still musing over it when the door opened and Christine stepped out, talking with Dr. Benitez.

It was like night and day. Now she looked her usual self, or at least her usual masking self, chatty and bright, confident and brilliant. Dr. Benitez nodded at Price and then went back inside, and Christine walked over to him as he stood up.

''All set, kid?''

''All set, sir'' She smiled, and then offered him a lollipop. Price stared at it for a second and then at her eyes, unable to avoid grinning when he saw the usual mischief in there. How in the world he had ended with two Soap in the same unit was beyond him, but it made him feel thankful everyday.

''Really? A lollie?''

''She gave me one and I asked for another one for you'' Christine shrugged, with a cheeky grin. He noticed with sadness how the left corner of her lips was uneven, twisted due to the scar, but he admired her 'fuck it all' attitude about it and her refusal to wear her mask most of the time.

''Oh, thank you then'' Price accepted the lollipop and both unwrapped them as they walked to the exit. ''I'm glad I was still around to come with you. I bet if Ghost, Soap and Gaz had arrived sooner from the drill with the rookies they would have been happy to accompany you''

Christine hummed quietly, enjoying the lollipop, but when he finished talking she looked up at him.

''They were already back when I asked you''

Price opened the door for her, and stared at her hair as she stepped out. She had gone to him, for support and safety, even when she could have chosen any of the other Sergeants or Ghost. Price was well aware of the something brewing between the Lieutenant and her, and that her and Soap were practically siblings, and that Gaz and her were thick as thieves too... but still, she had sought him out instead of them... His heart swelled.

''Alright, sunshine'' Price ruffled her hair playfully, grinning when she protested. ''I think we've earned a coffee. Let's go find the rest of the muppets. My treat''

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sinning-23 · 8 months ago

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Til the wheels-er…wheel falls off (OPLA Cabaji x Reader)

Warnings: some smUt! Uhhhhhh this is also really super I wrote this on a whim.

He’s so stupid and hot with his stupid hair and his stupid eyeliner and his stupid bangs and stupid boobies!!!!!

Anyway enjoy!

Ps. Please ignore any spelling errors yall

——————————————————

Cabaji wasn’t a particularly expressive member of the crew. To anyone else he was simple just Cabaji. Close to the captain, wielded knives, rode the unicycle, annnnd that's about it. Hell, he had a bit of an attitude about him but whatever.

To you, however, Cabaji was very expressive, especially when he was under you like this, his face tinted red with his hair a mess and sprawled onto the pillow under him. Your hands find refuge on his chest, sliding over the soft flesh there and over the tops of hardened nipples. No wonder he didn't wear a shirt most of the time, they're far too sensitive to have fabric cover them 24/7.

"Cabajiii~" You deride, licking a stipe up his already bruised and bitten neck, a work of art you take immense pride in.

Your hips rock against his and he’s trying his damndest to keep up, his hands going from your hips, to clenching the sheets, to resting between his teeth as he bites his knuckles.

""I-I can't hold- fuck y/n please. Too much." he huffs, his hips desperately thrusting upward tomeet yours.

Times like these you considered it an honor to see him like this, so fucked out and claiming he couldn't take it, just to beg to cum inside you one more time. You only hum, pushing his body back down to rest against eh matress as his stomach muscles tense. Such a pretty sight.

"Hold back or not, it won’t matter. I’m still gonna fuck you for all you're worth, get it?" You growl, a hand secured around his neck as he nods in agreement.

His hips are getting spoiraddic now, each moan a bit longer than the last and before he can warn you he's already buried his face into your neck, shaking as he cums for the 2nd time that night.

"Need a break?" You ask, fingers trailing down the soon to be welts on his back. Cabaji doesn't trust his voice right now to respond normally so he opts to shake his head no, lifting you a bit and slowly trusting upward.

"No. Im gonna keep fucking and filling this pussy up. That’s what you wanted wasn't it?" He growls, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

Times like these it definitely was rewarding for you both to be switches. Even though most of the time you were a ride Cabaji wouldn't survies, he was always sure to return the favor and make sure you knew just what it felt like to have the roles reversed.

______________________________

Authors Note: what possessed me to write this you may ask?? I HAVE NO IDEA! Cabaji is kinda hot tho so like why not. As usual my asks are always open and make sure you drink some water today!

#x reader #one piece #reader is black #one piece live action #i don't care he's hot #headcannons #one piece x reader #opla #smut #hes so hot #cabaji #cabaji x reader #cabaji opla #cabaji one piece #blurb

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i-talk-too-much · 2 years ago

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A Misunderstanding (Part 2)

Dick Grayson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,272

Warnings: none, smut in later chapters

A/N: it's been *checks watch* way longer than I thought it would be. oops. also, I made a little oopsie in part 1, I originally wrote her final was in two days, but it was actually supposed to be in a week… so I have that changed now ahaha. Anyways

(Part 1)

Summary: You and Dick were childhood friends before you both drifted apart - him living with Bruce and you moving away. You are reunited after you move to Gotham and Nightwing saves you from a criminal.

————————–

Dick laid awake in his bed that night, the covers splayed around his legs. The thoughts swarming his mind about the earlier meeting kept him awake. Your face, your mannerisms, everything – nothing changed after sixteen years.

No, that’s not true. You had changed. You were no longer the kid he knew back when he was in the circus. You grew up, just as he had. And the time in your apartment proved it.

He didn’t know what pushed him to visit you. To check on you, he said, but that was something he thought of in the moment, a simple excuse to talk to you more.

He brought his hands to his face, palms against his eyes as he sighed into the still air.

He felt like an idiot. How could he have let the time go? Why did he not respond to your letter all those years ago?

Actually, Dick knew why. He knew exactly why he dropped the letter into his drawer and forced himself to ignore it. But, it seemed so stupid in retrospect.

He shifted to lay on his side, hoping the change in position would allow him some much needed sleep. Instead, his eyes caught sight of his desk.

A thought formed in his mind and he sat up.

He could write you a letter – a letter explaining what happened. Maybe he could ask to meet-up, if you were willing.

And with hope filling his chest, he left his messy bed and set to work.

——

You were stressed. Stressed out of your goddamn mind for the exam that was tomorrow.

Honestly, you probably didn’t have to be as worried as you were – you had been putting your all into your classes. But, it never hurt to study more, to go to the library for a last-minute review.

Reaching the first floor of your apartment building, you passed by the long hallway of mailboxes.

You paused by the entrance, deciding on a whim to look in your own. It was long since due for a check-in, a pile of letters no doubt straining against the small compartment. Everything was digital nowadays, including your bills. Opening the small storage in the wall, you wondered what kind of mail you’d receive.

There was less than you imagined. Approximately six sat inside and you pulled them out, sorting through each, none grabbing your attention. That was, until the last letter came into view.

It was sleek – the envelope colored black with the flap on the back taped down by a dark blue sticker. It was charming. You read the white-inked ‘from’ address, the name almost making you drop everything you were holding.

Dick Grayson.

“What the hell,” you slowly whispered into the empty hallway, your brows furrowing. You re-read it two more times, disbelieving the written name.

How the hell did he get your address? And why was he sending you a letter now? It’s been sixteen years! He should’ve forgotten all about you at this point.

You thought he had, after not receiving a reply. A nostalgic ache settled in your chest, the familiarity of it making you shake your head, stuffing the black letter and the others into your bag. You didn’t have time for this, you needed to get to the library.

The walk to the building was filled with thoughts about nothing but the letter. What could he have written? What would have made him send you a message, sixteen years after you sent yours? Did he only now receive the letter you sent?

You scoffed at the last idea.

You had more faith in the postal service than the fucking police, there’s no way it was only now delivered. Then, what could the reason be? It felt as if the envelope was burning a hole in your bag, you being acutely aware of it sitting inside, holding the answers to all your questions.

By the time you arrived at your destination, you had mentally gone through every possibility. Countless scenarios ran through your mind and none of them seemed to fit.

This was bad – you needed to focus on studying.

Finding a secluded area in the library – a table in the back – you plopped into a chair and pulled out your laptop, some papers and set to work. Every so often, your eyes traveled to your bag, the letter taunting you. It was after thirty minutes passed and all you managed to do was stare at a page thoughtlessly, that you finally decided to open it.

You gently took out the envelope and slowly peeled the blue sticker from the back. Lifting the flap, the page inside felt expensive. Sliding the paper out and unfolding it, your eyes scanned the words, absorbing the content inside.

To Y/N:

Hope you’re doing well. It’s been a long while since we've last seen each other, huh?

…Mainly my fault, I admit.

I did get your letter all those years ago, but I placed it in a cabinet and forgot. Life became busy, time sped by, and I never had the chance to look at what you sent me.

Until I began looking through old bins in storage and found yours inside.

I promise I never forgot about you. Not one day. I just never had…time.

I know it's been almost 16 years, and it might be a bit late for me to mend ties – but would you want to grab coffee sometime?

Here's my number if you–

You stopped reading, feeling an inexplicable wave of indignation course through your veins.

Were you that easy to brush aside? To forget? Surely, in sixteen years, there would have been at least a moment where he could've reached out to you.

And yet, here he was, sixteen years later with a half-assed explanation and a nonchalance that irritated you.

He was funny if he thought you would cave so easily. To rush to send him a message, to call and hear his voice.

You ignored the slight clench of your heart.

If he made you wait sixteen years, he'd have to accept waiting a little bit more.

——

You didn’t know how you got through that exam, but you did.

The moment your feet stepped onto the sidewalk outside your college building, you felt an imaginary weight lift off your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, the air inside your lungs almost felt cleaner. Almost.

With the results of that exam out of your hands now, all that was left was to enjoy the break and wait for the final grade. You had half the mind to go out to the club to celebrate, but the recent mugging still made your blood run cold.

Bing-watching a show with take-out it was, then.

And two hours later, that was still the plan – until a certain hero dropped by your fire escape window and invited himself inside to lounge on your couch.

"Is this gonna be like – a thing?" You motioned ambiguously toward the situation with your hands. "You stopping by my apartment on your patrols?"

He shrugged and grinned, a cheeky smile reaching his eyes. "It can if you want it to be."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead opting to offer the man some of your food. “Want some? It just came, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

He smiled at the hand-out, taking the deliciously-filled plate with both hands and chowing down as he settled back into the cushioned seat. “Plus, I’m on break. The others can call if they need me,” he said, stuffing his mouth with a forkful of food. “So, what are we watching?”

“Well,” you began. ”I’m watching a space documentary. You’re trespassing.”

Nightwing gasped dramatically, splaying a hand across his chest. “Me? Trespassing? I would never.”

You chortled, deciding right then that he’d always be permitted in your apartment – but you wouldn’t tell him that. Pressing play on the remote, you leaned back and copied his position against the couch.

While you were absorbed in the beautifully rendered scenes of the cosmos, you didn’t notice Nightwing glancing around your living room, taking in every little detail. His eyes landed on a certain black envelope sitting on a desk by the window.

“Damn, that’s insane!” You exclaimed, amazed by the facts shown on the screen. You leaned forward and placed your fork down with your finished plate on the coffee table. “Hey, do you think the stars–” you cut off, seeing his head turned toward the window. “Nightwing?”

He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment until he replied, “yeah? Sorry, what were you saying?”

You paused, observing his expression before responding softly. “Everything all right?”

“No, yeah, definitely. Just got distracted by something shiny, s’all.” He got up, taking his empty plate along with yours to the kitchen sink. “You know, that black envelope looks fancy. Looks like one of those wealthy Gala invitations.”

“Huh?” Your eyes fitted over to your desk. “Ah, that? Nah, it’s just a letter from someone I knew.”

“Knew?” You heard the sound of running water and dishes clattering. What a gentleman. “Not a lover, then?”

“Pfft, no,” you laughed, taking a sip from your cup. “He’s a childhood friend I lost contact with. Somehow he found my address and sent a letter.” After a moment, you added, “and now that I think about it, it’s a little creepy.”

Forced laughter seemed to bubble from Nightwing’s lips, the sound reverberating through the small apartment.

“Can I ask who the sender is?” His voice held a light note to it. You raised a brow.

“Why? Jealous?” You teased, almost wishing he was.

A bark of a laugh escaped his being as he replied. “Jealous? Yeah, sure, let’s call it that.”

Deciding to satiate his curiosity, you answered truthfully. “If you really want to know, it’s from Dick Grayson.”

“Grayson, huh? Bruce Wanyne’s trust fund kid?” At your wordless confirmation, his lips upturned in a joking manner.

“Tell you what, if he’s creepy,” Nightwing paused, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll protect you from him.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your lips matched his own, humor thick in your voice. “And how are you going to do that?”

He crossed his arms. “With my fighting skills,” he answered defensively, then mumbled, “obviously.”

You chuckled at the pout on his lips. “Obviously.”

“In all seriousness though,” he moved around across the room and lifted the letter before continuing, “wouldn’t hurt to reach out to him, if you’re comfortable. Did you two part on bad terms?”

“I mean,” you paused, resting your cheek on your palm and mulled over the answer. “I don’t think so?”

Nightwing shrugged. “Then it’d probably be fine, right?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but something about his attention to the letter felt off. With the way he was acting, it seemed personal. You narrowed your eyes.

“You know,” you tilted your head. “With how determined you are, it’s almost like…”

Nightwing’s head swirled toward you, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“You’re friends with him, aren’t you?”

His shoulders visibly sagged at your statement, the corner of his lip lifting. “Was it that obvious?”

“Wait, so is that how he got my address? From you?” You stood up, slowly walking towards the man standing by the desk as you became lost in thought. “Was that why you were shocked when you saw my ID? Did Dick talk to you about me?” Hope filled your voice, the emotion speeding up your words.

Nightwing raised his hands, stopping you from crashing into his chest. “Slow your roll, Y/N. One question at a time.”

“Did you tell him my address,” you asked, crossing your arms and straightening your back.

“I did,” he answered. No part of him appeared guilty, however.

Your mouth tightened with displeasure. “Without my permission? Why?”

He brought his hand to the side of his head, scratching the space behind his ear.

“I knew how much he wanted to see you again, so I thought it'd be fine.” After a moment of your unwavering stare, he quickly added, “and now that I see your reaction, I’m never going to do that again before asking you.”

You breathed out a laugh. “You say that like there’ll be others asking for my address.”

Nightwing’s body relaxed at your softened expression. ”Knowing you for as long as I have, I’m sure there will be.”

You take a moment during the lull in conversation to walk toward the couch and sit on the armrest.

“What’s he like?” You brought your uncertain gaze to his. ”Do you think I should reply to him?”

He leaned back against the desk and lifted his shoulders nonchalantly. “From my standpoint, I’d say go for it. If you decide he’s not worth it, just block him. No harm, no foul.”

He moved toward the window, opening it just enough to slip onto the fire escape before turning back and facing you.

“And if he was truly a dickhead, I’d tell you. In the end, though, it’s up to you. Your choice.”

——

That night, you kept turning the letter in your hands, rereading the last lines.

Here’s my number if you want to give it a chance. Text or call, anytime.

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

Your friend always,

Dick Grayson

Nightwing was right.

There’s no harm in catching up with an old friend. And if things go south, you could just block him and move on. You've moved on once before, you could do it again.

Contemplating it one last time, you steeled your resolve and saved his number into your phone before typing out a message.

————————–

Tagging: @bluebirdhangingonawheepingtree @hungryhungarian @escapism-r-us @xasement @zbeez-outlet @scrambled-eggs-y

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x you #dick grayson #dick grayson fic #A Misunderstanding #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #nightwing fic #nightwing

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livwritesstuff · 1 year ago

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couldn’t stop thinking about this, so here’s a followup :)

When Eddie does eventually get a tattoo for Steve, it’s on a whim.

Kind of on a whim.

He hadn’t forgotten about the idea by any means, but he had yet to come up with an idea that came even close to encapsulating the love Eddie had for Steve, so he waited.

Then, one day, around a year and a half after their initial conversation on the subject and when Steve and Eddie were enjoying a lazy morning arguing over the grocery list (Steve wants to try a new pasta salad recipe, the fancy bastard, and Eddie just wants him to make the same cheesy marinara pasta sauce he’s been fiending over for years), Steve gets called into the hospital.

His second-to-last clinical rotation for his psychology doctorate sent him to the psych floor of a nearby emergency room, which has meant, for the first time, Steve is on-call even when he’s not scheduled to be at the hospital.

Steve is miserable — the most miserable Eddie’s ever seen him when it comes to his psych program — and annoyed with the school for assigning it to him when there had apparently been others available that were closer to how he actually wants to use his doctorate when he finally earns it, but, like he tends to, he’s being a decent sport about it.

He’s on the phone with his C.I. affirming that he’ll be in as soon as he can when he picks up a pen, grabs Eddie’s wrist, and scribbles fresh mozzarella, penne, tomatoes, lemon juice on the underside of his forearm. Below that he writes love you, and below that he adds - S, followed by a heart, a sideways smiley face, and a star, like Eddie’s seen him do hundreds of times. It’s how he signs off every post-it note stuck to the fridge, every message swiped into the fogged-up bathroom mirror, every letter he folds up and mails to Robin or Nancy or both or some other member of the Party.

Eddie isn’t even totally sure Steve realizes he’s doing it, that maybe he just likes that first doodled heart so much he can’t help but keep going, but he loves it either way. It’s sweet and charming and cute and just so, so Steve that it almost hurts.

Steve presses a swift kiss onto Eddie’s lips before making a bee-line for the door, still on the phone with his C.I, and Eddie’s mind is moving so fast he can’t sit with it anymore, so he jumps to his feet, checks his wallet to see if he’s got cash (he does), and then he too is on his way out the door.

Thankfully, at eleven on a Tuesday morning, his tattoo artist is accepting walk-ins, and before his brain completely catches up to his beating heart, he’s got Steve’s words (minus the groceries, obviously) in his neat writing and his heart, smile, and star tattooed on his forearm and it’s fuckin’ perfect and Eddie couldn’t be happier.

Steve returns sooner than Eddie thought he would — before dinner, which is still late, but not as late as it usually is whenever he gets called into the hospital — and as he lets himself into their apartment, Eddie meets him at the door.

“Hey,” Steve says with a tired smile, “Hungry?”

“Look!” Eddie ignores him, holding out his arm so Steve can see the tattoo through the protecting plastic wrap.

Steve looks down blankly at it for a moment or two before the corner of his mouth upticks just slightly.

“You...you did this today? From the-the stupid thing I wrote?”

“Yeah,” Eddie grins, “Isn’t it great. i’m so fuckin’ thrilled with it, man. It’s just — it’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s-” Steve shakes his head like he always does when he’s being bashful, “If you say so.”

He pulls Eddie into a tight hug, which Eddie immediately reciprocates, pressing his lips to Steve’s neck.

“I really love you,” Steve says.

“Love you too,” he replies, “in case that wasn’t clear.”

And Steve is pulling away, so Eddie catches the way he smiles as he shakes his head again. Steve’s eyes travel to the kitchen and then snap back to his own.

“Wait, so did you get the groceries?”

“Ah - fuck.”

part 3

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #established relationship #psych student!steve #idk is this ooc? i can’t even tell anymore #eddie just loves steve so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself and i love that for both of them #does steve get a tattoo for eddie?#unsure. he doesn’t really strike me as a tattoo kind of guy #he strikes me as a terrified of needles after they were used to drug and torture him kind of guy #and he can hold himself together long enough to get a flu shot bc he knows he can be dramatic about it to eddie later #but a tattoo takes quite a bit longer #and steve has been in school long enough to know that exposure therapy isn’t all that effective #so who knows

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wolfguts · 7 months ago

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After stewing on this for a bit. That while this is horrible and looking at what some people have said in the notes of this posts. looking back it is suspect that the they were "having fun" and "sad to leave". Especially considering that the note she had supposedly wrote was very stillted and in formal hebrew. This is definitely something horrible that no woman should have to experience regardless of who they are. It's ok if you also believed this at first, I did too. None of us are immune to propaganda regardless where it's coming from.

This is awful and whoever did this heinous act should be held responsible. However, this is should not in anyway be used as justification for the genocide of the Palestinian people and Palestinians in Gaza right now. We should not forget the IOF have been doing similar acts and at much larger quantities and openly celebrating it. I don't wanna deny the experience this woman had being held hostage and she is more than allowed to tell her story. Don't let this shake your support of those who are stuck in Gaza that are being slaughtered everyday and at every turn and are being denied aid. This is as much part of the problem where people are asked to condemn hamas despite the fact this is about ending an on going genocide and the slaughter or innocent people who have been subject to the whims of Isreal and IOF for years. Having the few safe places blown up and being gunned down when trying to get aid. Hamas is not infallible and are equally able to do horrible things. But to say this in some way diminishes the suffering of Palestine and her people would be stupid and frankly extremely ignorant. As I could also say the same for her experience of being raped while being held hostage. We need an immediate ceasefire not a brief pause or a short one but a permanent one. At the very least be able to give those stuck in the Gaza strip the aid and the ability to leave that they desperately need.

#also to shout out to the person in the notes calling those who want an end to genocide the 'watermelon cult' you are a tar pit #free palestine

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4law · 2 years ago

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𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟔-𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐌𝐄 — trafalgar law x gn!reader

idea after seeing this post // 500 words

sfw + fluff. wrote on a whim / unedited!

“why are we cleaning coins?”

you sigh, fingers cramping up from the way you have to hold up each individual coin to your eyes, inspecting closely before rubbing at each side until they’re shiny— sparkling without a speck of dirt left between the ridges. it was a tedious task, sure, but nothing you couldn’t do for your (maybe a little odd) coin-collecting captain.

“don’t be ridiculous,” law retorts, voice fully serious as he throws away a wipe. “these are important.”

his hands are covered in fitted latex gloves, to which he explained earlier that “he didn’t want dirty fingerprints covering the design.” either way, the task is grueling— it feels like you’ve both been here for the entirety of the day.

“if you say so,” your voice trails into a gasp as your fingers slip, muttering curses under your breath as the coin falls to the floor. “so do you have a favorite coin?”

there’s a hum of thought from law, ignoring the way you’ve fallen onto your knees to search for his stupid coin. “this one is the 1943 lincoln steel cent,” he notes, fingers swiftly bringing the coin to your face as you jolt backwards in surprise. “it was made to save copper during world war two.”

“ahh,” you muse, “a steel coin. so that one’s your favorite?”

“i never said that one was my favorite.”

“then which one—”

“this is the 1916-D mercury dime,” he interrupts, bringing the coin too close to your face again. your lips part open in a small o, eyeing the peculiar look of it. “so that one is your favor—”

“it’s rarer than my 1909-S VDB lincoln cent.”

he picks up the next coin before you can respond, the very subtle glint in his eyes sparkling as he takes a peek at the design. it’s cute to see him so happy— to see your typically guarded captain completely nerding out. “this one is called the 1796 draped bust quarter.”

cute or not, it’s a lot of lecture. not quite fitting for a pirate like yourself.

“captain….” you whine, laying your head on his lap in defeat. “too much.”

your arms wrap absentmindedly around his waist, sad eyes trailing to the pile of coins you both still had to clean. why does it feel like it’s been at the same size for hours now? and also, why is no one else helping? the pile would be gone if law let everyone else help. maybe he only trusts you with his coin cleaning chores.

law ignores your complaints, free hand patting your head before he goes on and on about his quarter (despite your desperate sighs and pleas for it to end). “…so that’s your favorite?”

“no.”

“law!”

he holds up another coin, lips curled in an amused smile at the the way your face falls at the thought of another lecture.

“don’t zone out, y/n-ya. these are important.”

#trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #law fluff #trafalgar law fluff #law x you #one piece x reader #one piece fluff #op x reader #op fluff #⚓️ — ꒰ scribbles ꒱#so i wrote this in 15 minutes

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ssinboo · 2 years ago

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jägerbomb

summary: You were nothing but a nuisance. A lovesick fool always obsessing over Felix, so why were you looking at someone else?

Felix won’t have that, he’ll do something, anything, to make sure you only look at him, even if that means submitting to your every whim.

pairing: subby!Felix x Reader (Reader does read on the thicker side, and their hair is described as having curls, but no reference to texture)

word count: 2.7k

warnings: COMPLETELY TOXIC, not accurate representation of how any relationships should go ever, humiliation, mutual masturbation, lots of begging, Felix is desperate, no aftercare

a/n: very unedited ;( I wrote this almost all at once after listening to Taste on loop! I’ve been so absent throughout october I apologise OTL

Felix had always assumed— No, he had strong evidence that supported his claim of being a Dom. He’d tried subbing a couple of times, not once did being at someone’s mercy ever turn him on.

But it only took a party and a couple too many drinks and he found himself completely hard from the way you snubbed him.

You. Of all eight billion fuckers in this wretched planet.

Crazy. Stalker. Obsessed. Weirdo.

Those were adjectives he’d frequently use to describe your childhood crush on him. After all, you had to be a weirdo, chasing after the same guy for almost twenty years now.

Felix tried everything; Tried to reject you politely, completely ignore your existence and then, finally, be mean. It wasn’t uncommon for your puppy love and relentless eagerness to please to be used as the butt-end of a distasteful joke.

Still, how could you move on so fast?! I mean, you dressed up all prettily in a flowy skirt and high heels all for him, right? So how dare you smile so bashfully at Bang chan, who was only serving you a freaking drink!

He walks over to the makeshift bar, pouring himself a drink. Very clearly within your panoramic vision. But you pay him no mind…?

What.

You laugh at Chan’s cheesy joke and slap his arm, God, you are so stupid at flirting. Not too long ago, you would follow Felix around like a lost puppy, would you follow someone new, now?

No, you wouldn’t.

You wouldn’t, right?

It takes hours for you to finally gather your things and leave. As soon as the party was over and people started to leave, you were up and ready, bidding everyone Goodbye with such a sweet, tired smile. You don’t look for him. What, like he wasn’t worth your Goodbye?

He’d show you—

“What’s wrong with you?!”

You’re certainly taken aback when Felix suddenly grabs your wrist, stealing whatever balance you had with those heels. He’s absolutely fuming, pouty lips tightly pressed into a deep frown.

“Felix…? What?”

The softening of his anger absolutely maddens Felix. No, you were in the wrong. He can’t let this go just because your eyes look so sultry painted in smokey eyeshadow.

“You’ve been ignoring me the whole night— What’s wrong with you?” He spits, tightening his grip around your wrist.

You’re clearly confused, but at least you’re finally looking at him. “Huh?— Uh… I—I didn’t realise. I’m sorry…?”

No. This isn’t you.

Real You would know that ignoring Felix Lee is the last thing you’d ever do.

“What?!”

“I said I’m sorry… Can you please let me go? You’re hurting my wrist.” It’s instinctual the way his hand flinches away from your body once you speak out your discomfort.

Having the weirdest interaction of the night, you’re confused with the way Felix looks at you, but don’t bother staying there to find out. Felix is nothing but trouble. Adjusting your bag, you turn to leave.

“Was it something I did?”

Why did he sound so hurt? He certainly didn’t mean to. It’s not like Felix craved or even enjoyed your unending attention.

“What?!” You sigh. “…No. Don’t worry about it—“

“Then why were you with him?”

Oh God, Felix was Jealous?

No. It can’t be.

He probably just wants you to stay away from his friend.

“Don’t worry… Channie isn’t interested in me,” You shake your head at his silliness. Bang Chan was kind at fault, and since his sister joined as an intern at the place you worked, you both became a lot closer. “Are you happy, now?”

Goodness, you shouldn’t have asked. He looks ten times angrier as soon as you finish your sentence, pretty brows furrowed and pink lips twisted in a maddened scowl. Felix is approaching you with heavy strides, shoulders risen in tension.

“What?!” You can feel his hot breath against your face when he speaks and you have to stop yourself from leaning into it. No,you promised yourself to never fall into Felix’s charms ever again. “Channie…? Since when are you so close?”

“A while… Why are you so interested?”

You can see how he visibly swallows, “…Why won’t you tell me? Do you love him?”

You run your hands through your hair in frustration, undoing the neat updo. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, looking so strikingly soft under the moonlight and smelling like ripe strawberries. God, how much he wants to run his fingers through those curls.

“God, you are so drunk. I’m seriously leaving, Felix, you are not in your right mind.”

“…Lix,” His voice is a broken whimper that hurts his ego like nothing else.

“What?”

“Call me Lix… Please, call me Lix like you used to,” He’s inching closer, slightly bending his knees so he can look up to you instead of down.

“Fine,” You give in. “Lix,” You emphasise his nickname and he nods fervently, “You should go to bed.”

“Come with me,” He pleads, hands reaching out to grasp your arm, this time so delicately, as if he’s afraid you would push him away, cower away from his touch.

This is so insanely out of character you feel like you might’ve stepped into an alternate universe or something. Where the fuck Dr. Strange when you need him to fix things?

“Fe—,” You stop yourself before he pleads again, “Lix, I can’t go in with you, you’re drunk and you’re gonna regret this tomorrow—“ Pulling his fingers away from your blouse, you turn around.

“No! No—No, don’t go, please—Please.”

And he’s reaching forward, wrapping his arms around your waist— heavy hands resting atop the band of your skirt, feeling the heat that emanates from your body like a furnace. Were you alway so warm and comforting to touch?

Sooner than your brain can catch, you lean into his body, back tightly pressed against his chest. Softly melting into his hands, your own hands reaching to find his around your waist.

The coldness from the many rings that adorn his fingers is a welcome contrast to the sudden heat that takes over. Felix rejoices, wanting nothing more than for this moment to last forever. Your body should never leave his. Should never crave another.

He leans down, lips finding yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss.

But you realise the rabbit hole you’re falling into.

You pull away from him in an instant, sending a slap across his cheek. The hurt expression in his eyes is not missed.

You almost feel guilty.

Because he looks so confused and genuine. Nothing like the man you know, with such passionate eyes, an honest horrified look stamps his beautiful face. You almost want to apologise, to ask for another kiss.

Almost.

Not after everything he’s done.

“How— How—How fucking dare you?” You stutter, clasping your hands together in the hopes to stop the mad trembling of your fingers.

Not once, no matter what he did, had you ever even so much as raised your voice at his antics. But you are beyond furious now.

Felix immediately slips into a choir of apologies, falling to his knees, fingers clawing at the fabric of your flowy skirt. His brows are pulled together, eyes glossy in unshed tears.

“You don’t deserve to be this close to my lips,” You thread a dangerous, unknown path right now, but how tired are you of being on the receiving end of such insults?

Oh, how you adored the feeling of this. Turning against him the very words he once spat so violently. The way Felix reacts, immediately widening his eyes and pleading so eagerly isn’t bad either.

“I’ll do anything— Please—“ He gulps, fisting the sheer fabric of your blouse.

The perverted smile that finds your lips is unbecoming of such a sweet person, but what could you say? Felix made you this way. He rejected your kindness, spat on your love again and again.

You’d make him feel your humiliation.

You’d visited his bedroom many a time before, always accompanied by the usual friend group, of course. But for once, you are alone and immediately hit with the overpowering scent of his cologne. Goodness, you want to bury yourself within his sheets.

Sitting on his bed, legs crossed comfortably as you lean on your arms, you watch Felix kneeling so obediently by your feet. His eyes stare at you with so much adoration, as if he’d really do anything for you at this moment.

“My feet hurt,” It’s a test. You want to see how far he’s willing to go. “Give me a massage, will you?”

But to your surprise, Felix is very eager to carefully remove your heels, gulping at the feeling of your warm skin under his fingertips. His hands are so diligent, ridding your feet of the stinging pain of long-term heel wearage.

“Mhmm—“ You hum, losing yourself to the pleasure.

God, that goes straight to his dick.

It wasn’t easy, the way your thighs look so smooth and inviting under your pleated skirt, how you’re sitting on his bed, looking at him, letting him touch you. Asking him so nicely to treat you well, only him.

And now, he knows he’s giving you pleasure. Even if it’s a massage, he’d happily do it anytime you needed, as long as you kept needing him.

But his disgusting brain can’t help but imagine your lewder sounds, anything. How you would look naked, God. Your curves, your body sitting atop his, your weight restricting his hips as you ride him through

“Are you hard?!”

He panics, flinching away from you, hiding his crotch. Oh no, he’s fucked up royally, how could he? You’ll never let him touch you now, you’ll leave and hate him forever—

“Take it off.”

“W—What?” His eyes, honeyed chocolate so sweet it’s acidic in your throat, look up at you with such genuine surprise, but most importantly, miserable hope over your words.

“Take off your pants, don’t you want to?”

Though it comes out as teasing, it’s a genuine question; As much you want Felix to suffer the humiliation you felt, the stupid, lovefool part of you wishes to know he really wants you, he really craves your body.

The way he struggles with the belt, stumbling to pull off his jeans brings a confident smile to your lips. You cross your legs, not only to give him a fleeting glimpse of your lacy underwear but also to suppress the aching that just won’t go away.

“Kneel back down,” You whisper, eyes glued to his figure.

God, Felix was sculpted by the divine. With broad shoulders, but still a somewhat delicate frame and unblemished, milky skin so soft to the eye you just watched to bite and scratch all over. You wondered how his neck would bruise if you sucked on it or how his back would look if you dug your nails into it.

He tries to hide his shameful erection with cupped hands, but you use your foot to pry his arms away. Oh, his cock was just as gorgeous as the rest of him, reddened tip kissing his belly button with tiny drops of precum leaking.

Felix feels himself growing hornier by the minute, specially with the way you look at him with such desirous eyes.

“D—Does it hurt?” You ask, biting at your red lip with such unconscious allure.

“Y—Yes… So much…”

With curious eyes, you stretch your leg, running your foot along the extension of his member. Felix lets out such a strained, pretty moan. You gulp.

“Touch yourself,”

Felix nods fervently, right hand gripping his cock. He struggles with the dryness and you smirk.

You lean forward, cleavage right in his eye line as you open your mouth, tongue sticking out as you let saliva gather at the tip. Felix looks so hypnotised with the sight, salivating at the sight of your mouth.

Letting it drip over his dick, you watch him spread it across his head and down the shaft with a quiet whimper.

“Faster.”

He works his hands in a back and forth motion, stomach muscles spasming involuntarily under the pleasure. It’s such a delectable sight, you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, not even when your lower region begs for attention.

His pouty lips forming such a pretty ‘O’ shape, pretty eyes brimming with painful tears. Body unconsciously arching forward, shoulders slumped and trembling under the motion.

Felix almost cums when he sees you stand up and shimmy off your pleated skirt. The expanse of your thighs, jiggling as you jump away from the fabric and hook your fingers around the band of your panties.

The way your belly folds over the lacy fabric, he wants to touch it, to fondle your skin, bite and mark what’s his.

But you sit back down and he’s so, so close to your pussy, he chokes.

And then you spread your legs over his bed, teasing hand running down your thigh, where he can’t touch, can’t trace his fingers over your skin and your pretty ass.

“Come on, isn’t this enough?”

“Yes—Yes— So pretty—“ He chokes.

“Come on, Lix, look at me,” You whisper.

His eyes meet yours and they’re so filled to the brim in lust, innocent doe gaze totally glassy under delirious longing to fuck you into next week. You smile, fingers reaching between your legs to spread your folds apart.

You can see so perfectly the conflict in his brain, he wants to obey, to do anything you want but he also wants nothing more than to look at your glistening folds. Despite the struggle, his eyes remain on yours.

“Cover me in your cum,” A devious smile paints your lips.

Felix chokes, brain so fried with the amount of blood rushing to his dick at the moment. He must have heard your wrong, completely taken over by his darkest wishes.

“W—What?”

“Well, if you can’t,”

He leans forward, nodding fervorously, “NO! Yes, I can! Please— I will be good— Please, let me—“

You crawl back on the bed until you’re comfortably laid on his many pillows and spread your knees apart. Felix follows you, an enchanted look on his face.

Kneeling on the bed, Felix resumes his motion, eyes glued to your fingers as you run them between your folds, collecting the dripping slick and spreading it around the lips.

He groans, speeding up his movement.

“You can’t cum,” You speak out, voice breathy and so seductive to his ears, “Not until I do.”

Felix whimpers, feeling his climax so, so close. His biceps aches under such strain and his cock throbs, so heavy in his hand.

His lips do nothing but softly moan prayers of your name.

You hum, imagining it’s his fingers rubbing against your clit so vigorously right now.

And you enjoy the view, pearly teeth digging into his pink lips, such a painful, pleasured expression. You can only adore the sight of milky precum running down his tip and his fingers, so messy and so, so pretty.

“Hmm, Lix~ Do you want to come?”

“Yes—“ He gulps, “Please— I want to cum so bad! I can’t take it—!”

His begging sends you over the edge and you ride out your high, the squelching sound fills his ears with lewd thoughts of sinking his cock into your wet pussy. He watches you clench around nothing, your body arching up.

“Come on, Lix—“ You spread your lips apart and he doesn’t waste a single second.

Felix hovers over your hips, head thrown back as he spurts ropes of hot white over your sensitive cunt. You moan at the feeling, letting him empty himself over your pussy and stomach, making a mess of his bedsheets.

And he paints his claim on you, tarnishing your pretty body with his essence, letting his scent wash over your body. No matter what, you were his. Of course you were, you would always be.

As soon as his climax is over, Felix collapses.

Hiding his face on the crook of your neck, he catches his breath, heart beating so fast you can feel it against your chest. When he regains his conscience, Felix leans back, hips holding yours in place as he stares at your post-orgasm face.

“Please— Only look at me, baby… Please— Please— Promise me, you won’t look at anyone else, please—“

And you have a terrible record when it comes to resisting those eyes of his.

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leviathan-supersystem · 2 years ago

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you don't strike me as someone who "cares for" reading in general. predictably you didn't even attempt to address my point and instead just resorted to squacking the same old tired talking points that i have already debunked numerous times. you truly aren't worth the effort to cook up a new response, since i doubt you'll read it, so i'll be re-posting a response i already wrote to another libertarian mouthbreather elsewhere in the notes of this very post:

hey, fun fact! did you know that the bullshit definition of capitalism you’re using was invented about a century after the term was invented, and that the correct definition of the term that i’m using was both how the term was invented and how it has been used by most people the entire time it has existed? we can even pinpoint the exact moment when the bullshit definition you’re using started emerging! here’s the essay where Murray Rothbard coined the bullshit definition, and it’s Very Interesting for a few reasons [x]:

In order to discuss the “future of capitalism,” we must first decide what the meaning of the term “capitalism” really is. Unfortunately, the term “capitalism” was coined by its greatest and most famous enemy, Karl Marx. We really can’t rely upon him for correct and subtle usage. And, in fact, what Marx and later writers have done is to lump together two extremely different and even contradictory concepts and actions under the same portmanteau term. These two contradictory concepts are what I would call “free-market capitalism” on the one hand, and “state capitalism” on the other.

a few interesting points here! first off, way back then ancap charlatans hadn’t started misappropriating the word “corporatism” yet, and were instead trying to distinguish between “free market cspitalism” and “state capitalism”- the concept of calling the latter “corporatism” instead in an attempt to fully exonerate capitalism hadn’t yet entered the conversation. second, he acknowledges, right at the beginning of the essay, that the term capitalism was, in fact, invented by anti-capitalists! (not Marx, to be clear, it was Louis Blanc, another socialist theorist from around the same time, though Marx did expand on the concept greatly- Rothbard got this wrong because he is stupid)

obviously, Rothbard deciding a century after the fact that the word “capitalism” doesn’t mean what it was invented to mean is utter nonsense on his part, an obvious attempt to obfuscate and distract from Marx’s critique of capitalism critique of capitalism by re-defining words on a whim. moreover, his attempt to delineate between “free market capitalism” and “state capitalism” (or as his ideological descendants would put it capitalism vs corporatism) ignores that large-scale land ownership, which is key to many of the relations that Marx analyzed and critiqued, (relation between landlord and tenant, relation between farm owner and farm worker, relation between factory owner and factory worker, etc) depend on state violence to enforce that claim on land in the first place. in other words, the two cannot be so easily separated.

i’m sure, of course, you will freely acknowledge that you were in error, and will edit your post to reflect this.

(ps: also your analogy is moronic. orchards are a good thing, and in many contexts more beneficial for human well-being than untamed forests, which i highly doubt was the point you were trying to make with that inane metaphor. you get an F for the assignment see me after class.)

i know the entire point of the media is to turn working class people against each other and protect ruling class capitalists, but this is a little on the nose

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toast-is-ticklish · 2 years ago

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Dont Hate You.

Super fluffy not super proofread shadowpeaches fic lmao.

Sorry in advance for typos or weird sentences lol, I sorta wrote this on a whim.

Lee! Sun Wukong Ler!Macaque

Wukong is sort of out of character here just because hes super sleep deprived and irritable.

Hope somebody enjoys this! 💖💖💖

___________________________________________

Being immortal gives you a lot of things to have nightmares about.

This was especially true for Sun Wukong, who had a tendency to make stupid, half-baked plans leading to stupid, terrible, consequences for those he cared about and stupidly failed to protect.

All those mistakes he made were cemented in his mind, every failure branded into his memories with searing heat. They played over, and over, and over, more nights than most.

And so here he was again. Shooting up from his bed with a gasping breath, covered in sweat, lungs feeling empty and aching.

He grounded himself and gave his vision some time to unblur. Breath in, breath out, and then the usual routine.

Glass of water. Cold shower. Attempt to convince yourself to go back to sleep. Fail. Look at the night sky and wait for the sun to rise.

Easy-peasy.

Not like immortals needed to sleep anyways.

The Monkey King slowly clambered off the bed, ready to begin his little mental itinerary. But upon his first step his thoughts were very rudely interrupted by a shrill squuuuueeeeaaaaaak of the floorboard beneath.

Damnit. He didnt have the floor memorized in this stupid air ship yet.

Not a big deal. Unless you're rooming with an extremely nosy six eared monkey.

Stopping himself from groaning in annoyance he looked over at his six eared companions bunk, waiting for a reaction.

A moment ticked by with no stirring or waking up.

Huh. Maybe he was just super lucky tonight.

"Mmh, Wukong? What're you doing?" the black furred monkey mumbled sleepily.

"Nothing, just grabbing a drink."

He didnt want to talk about his nightmare. Some part of Wukong wanted to be called out, just so he could feel like someone was concerned for him. But no. He had to resist that urge. He had to be strong.

Macaque lifted his head up and eyed Wukong suspiciously. "Bullshit," he broke into a yawn and stretched, "You had a nightmare."

"I didnt." The Monkey king didnt even know why he was lying right now. He was too tired to be able to convince anybody, especially not Macaque.

"Why are you denying it? Not to bruise your ego buddy but it's pretty damn obvious," he disappeared into the shadows and flipped up right in front of Wukong to look him in the eyes.

"I dont know what you're talking about. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked Mango," he said, averting eye contact.

He knew using old nicknames would just further provoke the other monkey so he had no idea why he was doing it. His mouth was just sort of. Going.

"Well, Peaches," Macaque snarled, "Let's take a look at you."

"You're drenched in sweat," he listed on his fingers, "your hands are shaking," were they? Wukong didnt even notice.

"Aaaand..." he drawled out, grabbing Wukong by the chin and turning his head, "Those eye bags are looking pretty atrocious."

Monkey king growled through his teeth. He shoved Macaque away, anger flaring up and face prickling. "Why the hell are you even talking to me right now?! To mock me? To piss me off?" he burst out, letting his anger get the best of him. Why was he getting so worked up about this?

Surprisingly, Macaque looked guilty. He smacked a hand on his forehead and dragged it down his face. "I- I just... ugh. This isn't what I wanted," he said with a sigh, "I want to help you Wukong." A moment passed. "I'm..." he ground out, "I'm sorry. You just pissed me off with that old nickname. I lost my cool."

What? Wukong was sure he was still asleep at this point. Mac, wanting to help? And apologizing? Not possible.

He was going to promptly ignore whatever development that was.

"Why and how would you ever help me? With anything. Ever," he crossed his arms, tail flicking anxiously.

Dodging any and all of the implications from that statement, Macaque smirked, "Well I have an idea. But you'll have to extend some trust to me your majesty," he saw the doubt in Wukongs face and continued, "Its something we did as kids."

Well. Wukong couldn't think of anything they did as kids that was harmful. And he was so, so, tired.

"Fine," he decided. Was this a terrible mistake leading to his demise? Probably.

"I knew you'd come to your senses sometime, Wukong," underneath macaques laid-back persona he was really excited, "Just lay back down and let me work my magic."

So here Monkey King sat, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, in a bunk on an airship, weaker than he ever had been, and with his childhood friend turned mortal enemy clambering on top of him to supposedly help him with nightmares. He hadn't felt this ridiculous in a while.

"Just tell me if you want me to stop," Macaque looked down at Wukong, "I will. I promise."

Wukongs distrustful eyes continued to follow Macs every movement, watching as his hands lowered towards the Monkey Kings ears.

"What're you do-" as Macaque started fluttering his fingers around the shell of Wukongs ear, suddenly everything relaxed. "Oh," he breathed out.

The tight coil of his irritation, anxiety, and stubbornness was being loosened and replaced with butterflies in his stomach and the urge to titter.

Despicable.

Macaque let out a snicker "Damn Wukong, I guess we called it your 'melt spot' for a reason. I forgot how much you like this," he smirked, testing the waters for teasing most likely. Suprised by the lack of verbal response on Wukongs end he continued, "You dont have anything to say about that?"

No Wukong did not. I mean think of what it looked like! Here he was desperately fighting a dorky smile off his face, squirming, and holding onto Macs wrists uselessly. And by the feeling of his face he was probably blushing too. Gods. He hadn't blushed in literally two hundred years.

So no. He had no comment. He just clamped his mouth shut and turned his head to the side so he didnt have to look at Macaques stupid smirking face.

"Wow. Never thought I'd see you speechless," he started with a grin and let it drop, "But you cant just leave me out to dry now Wukong! Laugh! Smile! Something!"

He was met only with silence and a then a shake of the head. Mac was too impatient for this. In his attempt to help he had apparently made Wukong take some kind of vow of silence or some shit. A playful one, but still annoying.

He knew Wukong liked having his ears touched, but Mac was getting bored. So he let his hands inch down to the other monkeys ribs and just lightly scratch scratch at the skin there. Giving a little pinch to his bottom rib for good measure, and being rewarded with actual laughter!

"Glad to see you're not a corpse."

"Eep! Mahac nohoho..." Wukong giggled out protest half heartedly and somewhat sleepily. Seems like now that he was a little more relaxed the lack of sleep was catching up with him. Macaque couldn't help but let out a snort at that. "Yeah you sound real torn up about it, bud. And was that an 'Eep'? Seriously?" he chuckled out.

"Shuhut ihit! Ihihit wahahsnt!" Wukong denied through his bubbling laughter, and being flustered made things tickle more, and thinking about that made him more flustered so he was sort of stuck here. And Macaque was barely even teasing him at all.

But this was kind of...nice? He hadn't felt this relaxed and, well, safe in a long time. And it was just so easy to sink into that feeling. Let someone else take care of things for once. Even if he didnt really deserve it.

"So you're telling me I can make Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Sun Wukong, squeak like a little mouse if I just do this?" he teased, giving Wukongs ribs another pinch.

And he was rewarded with another little squeak.

"Eep! Ohohoh mhyhy gohohod! Ihihim nhohot a mouhououse! Ihi- Ihih- Ihih!" Wukong decided to give up on talking and just fling his hands onto his face.

"Wow, you are really get worked up about this huh? Well, the goal was to make you relax, not die so I'll lay off a little bit. Chill."

Even though it's really cute.

Aaand why was Wukong looking at him like that. Oh. Oh you gotta be kidding. He accidentally said that out loud?

He looked at Monkey King, who had lowered his hands and was just. Staring.

Yeah he accidentally said that out loud. Shit shit shit. "Eheh. Sorry, I promise I'll lay off now," the black furred monkey said, ignoring the warmth growing on his own face.

In an attempt to distract from his little blunder, he brought his hands down to Wukongs stomach and lightly scribbled there.

And once again Monkey King was lost in giggles and titters and now he was actually feeling really sleepy.

"Feeling tired?" Macaque asked, seeing his companions blinks becoming slower and his giggles quieting down a little.

"Mmheheheh...nohoho," immediately followed by a yawn.

Macaque hadn't seen this side of Sun Wukong in a long time. He was childish, but never this way. He honestly looked more like some kind of puppy or cat than a monkey at this point. He knew it was just because of how incredibly sleep deprived Wukong was right now though. It was honestly kind of bittersweet, reminding him of all that he lost after he was left behind. Even though he was trying to fix things, he knew it would never be the same.

Suddenly he was pulled out of his thoughts by a steady thump thump thump on the bedsheets.

Wukongs tail was wagging.

He felt an involuntary grin spreading across his face at the sight.

Wukong was asleep, tail wagging, taking deep, slow breaths, with a smile on his face.

Macaque took in the result of his hard work and was about to dip into one of the shadows to get off of the sleeping monkey without waking him up when he felt a tug on his arm.

"Mmmno. Stay," he mumbled sleepily.

"Uuhm. I don't know if that's such a good idea Wukong...Woah!" Macaque yelped as he was tugged down to a laying position on the bed, monkey king wrapped around him like some kind of monkey-koala hybrid. "You're stayin," the other monkeys voice was distorted both from sleepiness and the fact that his face was mushed up against Macaques shoulder.

Oh well. They would figure everything out in the morning. For now, macaque would let himself enjoy the warm feeling nestling in his chest and climbing up his cheeks, while it lasted.

" ...don't hate you Mango," he heard murmered as he fell asleep.

"I dont hate you either, Peaches," he whispered back.

#tickle fic #tickle #tickle community #lego monkie kid #lee!Sun Wukong #Lee! Sun Wukong #lee!sun wukong #Lee! Monkey King #lee!monkey king #Ler! Macaque #ler!macaque #lmk tickle #lego monkie kid tickle #legomonkiekid tickle #legomonkiekid tk #fluffy

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glacialltz · 3 years ago

Note

Hi, I saw that you're asks are open and was hoping to make a request. I saw another tumblr post a prompt with Floyd and was wondering if you could do a scenario or hc building on it for Floyd, Jamil, Lilia, Leona, and maybe Maleus. The prompt is from alynabeatley and goes

"Floyd: You love me, right, Shrimpy?

MC: Normally, I’d say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don’t like it."

I hope this isn't too much feel free to ignore if it is or it goes against rules or what you're comfortable with. Thanks so much.

summary: "you love me, right?" with floyd, jamil, lilia, leona, and malleus

warnings: none

word count: 1.7k

author's note: here is the original post by @/alynabeatley! go ahead and give it some love! anyway, this is a fun idea and it has a lot of potential for all of the different characters! the Baker is kinda iffy on how he wrote this, but he really hopes you enjoy it nonetheless

"You love me, right, Shrimpy?"

A question like that was bound to mean trouble when coming from Floyd. Why was he even asking? Did he do something stupid again? Or, even worse, did he want you to go and do something stupid with him? With trepidation present in your voice, you looked at him and responded, "Normally I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it."

Floyd's laugh was gleeful and high-pitched as he slung an arm around your shoulder, pulling you up against him. "Come on then!" He tugged you along with him and you couldn't pry yourself out of his predatory grasp. "Lets go play! ♡"

His voice was so excited and his body language happy. At least he was seeking you out while in a good mood. But being dragged around by Floyd is tiring, and you still had things you wanted to get done. "F-Floyd," you began. "Maybe... maybe we can play later? I've still got-"

You were cut off by the way he suddenly stopped pulling you and stood completely still. Olive and golden eyes stared down at you in complete silence for a moment. You couldn't tell if his expression was more sinister or more sad. He looked somewhat like a mix between a kicked puppy and an angry one.

"Shrimpy,... you said you loved me though?"

"Well, o-of course I do, Floyd, but I still have things I need to do and-"

"But if you loved me you'd come play with me!"

Ah. He was in one of his more childish moods. No matter what you did or said, he wouldn't stop moping until you dropped everything and accompanied him all around the campus. You knew that from experience. With a sigh, you surrendered yourself to your boyfriend's whims.

Floyd grinned widely, full set of sharp teeth on display. He won, so of course he's going to be happy! "Stop dragging your feet or else I'll squeeze you!" he giggled, yanking you after him once more. It seems his innocent little question was a trap after all...

Jamil has never been one to openly ask if you loved him. He took comfort in the ways you showed him you loved him instead. So his question caught you completely off guard.

"You love me, right?"

His charcoal eyes sparkled at you through the dimness of the room. The two of you were sitting in his room after dark, Kalim having already been safely tucked away into his dorm room. You two spent your nights like this quite often, as it helped Jamil wind down from the stressful work of the day.

Maybe that's why he was asking? Was Jamil so tired and stressed that he sought comfort and confirmation about your love? Even still, it was a worrying question coming from him.

"Normally I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it."

Jamil laughed quietly. It was like music to your ears. He rarely laughed so openly and unabashedly, and it made you smile every time. "There's no need to worry, Dearest. I was just asking." The coy smile on his face said otherwise.

"Yeah, sure," you scoffed, plopping down next to where he sat working with a grin.

He faked an offended expression. "You're calling me a liar?" He wasn't really offended.

"Well, depends on what you wanted."

"Well, surely since you love me so much," he began while you wore a skeptical expression. "Won't you please help me babysit Kalim tomorrow? He's been planning yet another party and I have so much to do in preparation." You knew he wanted something. Jamil's lucky he's your boyfriend or you might have walked out right then.

"THAT'S what you wanted?" you scowled at him and he just looked at you innocently as if he didn't just ask you to help watch the human equivalent of a category five tornado. "Fine, I guess I can lend a hand."

You practically rolled your eyes at him when he smiled and leaned toward you to kiss your forehead. "Thank you, darling." You smacked his arm lightly. He was lucky you loved him, indeed.

"You love me, right?"

Four of the most terrifying words you could ever hear from Lilia. That coupled with his big, raspberry eyes blinking at you innocently. What was he up to?...

"Normally I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it." You were on guard, and you weren't going to let him weasel you into any sort of trouble.

He laughed quietly, giggling at your reaction. He seemed so eager and it was starting to freak you out. Lilia is a hard one to read, which made his small question ever more ominous. "Come now," he cooed. "Why are you hesitating so much?" His fang-filled smile gave him away.

"Because I don't trust you, obviously."

He faked a look of hurt and offense, placing a small pale hand over his chest as if your words had physically wounded him. "Hehe, you're so mean! And here I was, kindly going to offer you some homemade soup!"

You grimaced at his words, practically flinching when he said the soup was homemade. He wanted you to try it? No way... you knew how awful his cooking is...

"Well," he continued. "I've gone through all the trouble of bringing it here, so you'll eat it, won't you? I mean, you do love me, don't you?" The way he batted his long lashes at you made you suspect he knew exactly what he was asking if he could subject you to.

With every passing second, the abhorrent dish was brought closer and closer to you. He kept practically thrusting it at you, big eyes blinking as if that would persuade you to take a sip. "L-Lilia," you stammered. "It's, it's alright! I can... I can just get some lunch from the cafeteria!"

"Nonsense!" His tone was jolly and his expression bright. "I made this especially for you! And you did say you love me, after all." His fangs were fully on display as he smiled at you. He wasn't letting you out of this any time soon. You sighed, resigning yourself to your fate.

"You love me, right, herbivore?"

The timing of this question was eerily suspect, as lunchtime was rolling around soon. Your boyfriend was lounging next to you, his face turned toward you, adorned with a cocky grin.

"Normally I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it." Your eyes were narrowed slightly at him, but your attitude only made his smile grow slightly wider.

"Don't be like that!" he bemoaned, putting on his most pitiful expression. "I'm so tired from participating in PE today. Won't you please go pick up my lunch for me?"

"Where's Ruggie? Doesn't he usually did that?"

Leona scoffed, rolling his eyes while his tail flicked in annoyance. "That octopunk stole him away. He's been working in that sleazy lounge all day. Dunno when he'll be back." He swiveled his head slowly back to you, a fake, cheesy grin plastered back over his face. "That's why you'll pick up my lunch for me, won't you?"

"No."

"Come on now! Look, I'll share if there's anything left?"

Instead of replying, you just shot your boyfriend a glare. He sighed lowly and loudly, making a big show of his exasperation. All of a sudden, it seemed like an idea hit him. He looked at you once more, but this time his gaze was soft and his ears downturned. A soft pout adorned his lips as he did his very best to come across like an adorable kitten.

"What are you doing?"

"You said you loved me?" he faked a sniffle. "B-but you won't even help me get my lunch." You were annoyed. You knew he wouldn't let up any time soon, keeping up his sad kitten act until you gave in. Deciding to just cut it short, you sighed and stood up, brushing off your clothes. His eyes practically glittered with glee as he relished in his victory.

Yeah, you loved him. But did he ever test how far he could push it...

"You love me, right, Child of Man?"

Malleus's question struck a chord with you. While Malleus often sought reaffirmation from you, he rarely asked you with his words. No, he usually did things like reaching for your hand, seeking your warmth, instead of asking you upfront.

"Normally I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it." Your eyes were full of worry as you looked over at him. Half of his face was covered in shadow as he faced away from the fireplace roaring beside the two of you. He smiled softly for a moment while looking downward, but you could tell there was no joy in it. No, he looked sorrowful and sad, and it hurt your heart deeply.

"Fear not, Beloved. There is nothing to worry about." He turned his face toward you, reaching to hold your hand in his own and stroke it softly. There was something off about his body language.

"Malleus, did something happen today?"

Your boyfriend sighed, dropping his gaze from yours once more. You got it without him having to explain it - he was left out once again today, wasn't he? You got up for a second to move closer to him, holding him gingerly and rubbing his shoulder.

"Yes, Malleus. I love you. I love you very much." You finally responded to his original question, giving him the answer he so desperately hoped you would. He wanted your love so badly it hurt, and it soothed that ache for you to remind him that he always had it.

His head bowed slightly, coming to rest upon your shoulder. He was always careful when he did this, making sure to not jab you with the sharp point of his horns. He muttered out a small thank you, his voice barely able to be heard. He just wanted to sit like this with you for a moment, it seemed.

You were right, his question was going somewhere. It was delving into his issues and innermost insecurities, but you always managed to help him feel better instead. He loved you so much, just as you loved him.

𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕟𝕛𝕠𝕪𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕗𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤

𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕗𝕖'𝕤 𝟝𝟘𝟘 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟!

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