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amywritesthings · 14 days ago

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dating on airplane mode. | part three.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader Fandom: attack on titan (modern au) Word Count: 5.5k Summary: So you're dating your neighbor who also happens to be a sex hotline dom named Levi Ackerman. Stranger things have happened, right?

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - slow burn, mentions of sex work, neighbors au, newly established relationship, the direct sequel to Press Four For More Options Credits: dividers by @/saradika-graphics

part two. / part four. | masterlist

“You boned.”

“Annie!”

Eight o’clock in the morning and you’re already under attack.

Not a 'hello' or 'how are you' — just a crude accusation spoken very loudly in a very busy coffee shop.

You manage to salvage your coffee order before you can knock over the cup from shock, though the abruptness of Annie Leonhart’s proclamation sloshes some of the steaming liquid onto the table between you.

Annie doesn’t flinch when she answers.

“I see it in your stupid, beautiful face.”

“Can I please sit before you — I’m sorry, stupid and beautiful?”

“You are both. Don’t change the subject.”

“You haven’t even let me—”

“I need every detail told to me in ways that would jeopardize our relationship with HR.”

Annie slides her sunglasses up to her hairline.

“Not that Shadis likes me to begin with.”

(Maybe you should have called out sick today.)

Drawing in a slow inhale through your nose, you give your colleague and friend a pointed look — as if somehow taking the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ approach has ever worked on a woman like Annie.

“You almost made me drop my coffee,” you state instead.

“So you’re not denying it,” Annie catches, leaning halfway over the circular table. Her blue eyes sparkle with anticipation. “You met someone, and you did the do.”

“I did meet someone,” you confirm as you lean forward as well, matching her energy, “but no, we did not do the do. What are we in, high school?”

“Apparently,” Annie states with a growing grimace, unimpressed by your resolve. “Boring.”

Rolling your eyes, you pluck a sugar from the table to add to your piping-hot beverage.

“Fine, then you don’t get to hear about my boyfriend at all.”

Annie’s smug smirk drops to the floor.

Bingo.

You knew, out of anything you could have said, the b-word would trip up her war path.

Yet when you expect shock to follow, you’re treated instead with… worry?

(Well, that wasn’t the reaction you were expecting with the new relationship bomb drop.)

“Look me in the eye right now,” she demands, tone taking a serious curveball.

“I’ve only been looking at you this whole time, Annie.”

“Okay, well, keep staring at me.”

Annie takes a pause before quietly asking:

“I’m only going to say this once, because if I say it again I might throw up and have a stroke.”

“That’s… dramatic, but okay.”

“I care about you,” she starts with utmost sincerity.

Something uncomfortable bubbles in your belly, like the positive honesty feels weird — it is weird, coming from Annie, but still.

“I care about you a lot, okay? And I need you to know, because I care, that you really do not need to go back to whatever ridiculously stupid—”

“What?”

“—miscommunications he put you through. I know he has great hair and we’re surrounded by receding hairlines at the office so a full head makes it even more appealing, but—”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Without thinking, you dart your hand over the table and speak as fast as humanly possible.

“Ididn’tgobacktoPorco!”

When Annie finally closes her mouth, you exhale and repeat with emphasis.

“I did not go back to Porco.”

The tension in her face dissolves. “You didn’t?”

“Jesus, no, why the hell would I go back to Porco?”

“Because you said boyfriend, and it feels pretty sudden, so I just—”

“I said I met someone, Annie, not that I went back to someone.”

“It could have meant the same thing!”

Flopping back into your chair with a groan, you shake your head and bring the coffee cup to your lips.

As you blow against the hot beverage, Annie seems to settle. Regroup. Assess.

“Okay, so it’s not Porco.”

“God, no. I’m pretty sure he’s still pleasantly happy with Pieck.”

“I don’t care what he’s happy with. Fuck that guy. So then it’s—”

A flicker of recognition passes over her face.

“—the eggplant guy?”

If only Levi could hear your work best friend describe him as the eggplant guy, given your text exchange before you ditched the bar last night. You’re not sure if you’d ever never live it down.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “The eggplant emoji guy.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

Annie, dazed and dazzled by this newfound information, sips slowly on her six-shot heart attack of a hot coffee.

You still wait to take a sip of yours, forever the cautious one, and let the edge of the coffee lid hover a breath away from your lips.

Is it okay to tell your friends about this?

You didn’t ask.

Hell, you haven’t had much of a conversation about what any of this means yet other than the fact that this relationship is exclusive and not as fragile as you’ve been conditioned to believe.

(Somehow Levi has already dissuaded an anxiety it took other men months to try — and significantly fail — at quelling.)

“Where’d you meet him?” Annie asks, breaking through the start of the cobweb doubts and mysteries can often so easily spin. “At the bar last night?”

“Sort of?”

Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean, sort of?”

“Like…”

You trail off, trying to figure out the appropriate way to explain yourself.

“We technically met at the bar last night, for the first time?”

“Wait, so he’s a guy from a dating app?” Annie asks with a slight crack of confusion in her voice, sipping more of her coffee. “But I thought you got rid of those dating apps before the—”

She abruptly coughs, putting her drink down on the table in order to cover her mouth.

Ah.

There it is.

You knew you weren’t going to need to explain the situation very far with Annie.

A natural-born detective, she puts two and two together before you have a chance to tease the miracle (mistake?) she’s conjured on a fateful napkin at a very shitty holiday party.

For a minute she stares at you, dumbfounded for what may very well be the first time in her life.

Her hand continues to cover her mouth. A tiny brown droplet bounces from her chin, dripping onto the wooden surface below.

Despite yourself, you feign nonchalance and finally take a sip of your coffee.

The warning sting causes you to wince and reluctantly sit the cup back down on the table.

Yep. Bad idea. Still too hot.

“...it’s the Scout Services hotline guy?”

Annie’s voice barely registers past a whisper.

Awe sweeps her expression—

Like she’s proud?

“Yeah,” you finally confess as if this coffee shop is a church ready to absolve your incoming sins. “The Scout Services hotline guy.”

Wooden legs creak as she scoots her chair closer.

Annie leans over the table with eager eyes and a mouth that’s catching flies.

“Did you stay over at his place last night?”

“No,” you concede, but you can’t help but add, “but I did see him twenty minutes ago.”

. — —

There’s a difference between watching Levi work out from afar when you’re supposed to pretend you give two shits about the 90’s movie they’re playing on repeat between the morning news and music videos —

— and watching Levi work out from afar when Levi is very aware that you cannot take your eyes off of him.

After you locked the door to your apartment last night, getting ready for bed felt like a dream.

Grabbing water from the refrigerator felt like an adventure.

Shimmying out of your day clothes to an oversized t-shirt and sleep pants somehow felt exciting.

Like your world, once in sepia, had burst into technicolor.

For hours, a tingle lingered on your lips with the evidence of his boldness.

The ceiling was a makeshift projector, replaying the scene of him grabbing your face and pressing your into the wall of his apartment.

And, technically speaking, his bedroom would be right in this room, too.

Six floors up.

He’d been lying right above you, six floors up, for weeks, and you never knew.

By the time you finally found the relaxation to fall asleep, your alarm clock buzzed with the shrill urgency to start a brand new day.

Truth be told, you didn’t care if you were tired.

Hell, even with bloodshot eyes and a dry mouth, you weren’t sure if you could actually be tired today.

Not when you had to pepper on some concealer and grab your best workout clothes to sprint a beeline to the gym.

(Something must be in the water if the gym could harbor this much excitement without seething sarcasm; the power of hyperactive horniness.)

Like clockwork, Levi was there — same workout bench, organizing the same class of free weights, but looking… lighter.

Maybe a little less serious.

Yet when the front door to the gym chimed with your entrance, his chin lifted instantly.

Searching eyes floated around, aimless with a flash of hope, until they eventually landed on you.

Something warm flickered across his face before he nodded once, a silent greeting.

Water bottle in hand, you raised your free hand to wave back before disappearing to put your stuff away.

By the time you left the locker room, Levi already began bicep curls in front of the mirror.

(Showoff.)

Slowly approaching the bench, you could feel the butterflies threaten to take over your entire body.

The way he so easily maneuvered you to that wall, the feeling of his lips on yours—

“Surprised you’re here so early,” Levi stated, bursting your dream bubble. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bad news: the baritone in his voice was far worse in the morning.

(As if you needed any other reason to be distracted.)

“Something like that,” you confessed, unable to keep the smile from pursing your lips. “Are you always here this early?”

“Sort of.”

Levi paused to glance back at the weights he’s sectioned off at his bench before gesturing back to you.

“Actually wanted to catch you before you had work.”

You couldn’t stop the surprise even if you tried. “Oh?”

Right.

Because he knew what time you go to work.

Thanks to your motor mouth, he knew a lot of things about you.

Some would argue they’re things that no one else should.

It’s a little incredible that you could even look him in the eye after everything that had gone down between two telephones and a credit card.

Levi turned to set his free weights down on the bench below. He wiped his palms off on his hips and pivoted towards you.

For a minute you both waited there, saying nothing yet everything at the same time.

Silence usually freaked you out.

Not now.

Being in his presence was surprisingly perfect enough.

“Just wanted to wish you a good day at work, see if you slept alright, those sort of things."

"Oh," you lamely state again, trying your best not to break out into a giddy smile. "Well, I... appreciate the well wishes, and they're right back at you. Did you sleep alright?"

"Not exactly, but it wasn't a hinderance," he admits before jutting his chin at your body. "I like this on you."

"This what?"

"Your outfit."

Somehow his drive-by compliment had the power to wipe your memory of the outfit you chose between the time you left your apartment and now.

Your chin dropped to stare down at your clothes with a growing bashfulness.

“You do?”

Levi nodded once. “The color suits you.”

His words are so genuine that you couldn’t possibly come up with anything suave back.

Thank you? Too bland.

I think I look like shit? Lacking confidence was not a good look.

Instead you shrugged as nonchalant as possible and spoke—

“Well, you — you know, you look really good in white, so.”

You had to bite the tip of your tongue not to outright grimace.

Smooth. Real smooth.

But not wrong — Levi was wearing a clingy white tank top and a pair of black basketball shorts. White was definitely in his color. It made the silver dog tags around his neck stand out louder.

"I meant it — the white looks great with your black hair, and I just — please shut me up before I keep rambling about colors."

The corner of Levi’s lip curled upward briefly before he ducked his chin with a huff that almost sounded like a laugh.

As his head shook — in disbelief or modesty of his own, you couldn’t tell — his black hair swayed over his eyes.

“I could listen to you talk all day, you know that."

His tone was noticeably warmer now.

"But the attention to color is noted and appreciated."

Levi inhaled, taking a pause, before gesturing to the machines you’re usually situated at.

“Guess you don’t have much time before your shift?”

“Not really,” you confessed.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you promised Annie you’d meet her for coffee, then maybe you would have stayed a little longer. Talked all day, maybe, just to see if he was telling the truth.

“Well, I won’t keep you.”

Please do, you wanted to say.

Instead you nodded, pressing your lips together tightly.

You weren’t sure if public displays of affection are on the table, so you gave a short, awkward parting wave.

Levi belatedly waved back, as if confused by the gesture.

“Have a good day at work,” he added before you turn.

As you made your way to the treadmill and assumed position, you noticed the way his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors watches your every move.

Eventually Levi turned to his set of free weights and began his typical routine — bicep curls, tricep extensions, back flies —

But every so often—

A glimpse.

After every set, a small but meaningful glimpse in the mirror found its way to you.

And shamelessly, for the first time in your life, you stared right back.

He watched as you departed for the showers and followed your departure through the exit.

. — —

“Holy shit. ”

“Yeah.”

To say you were giddy is an understatement.

Even now as you recount the brief meeting with your very-new, barely-a-day-old boyfriend, a flood of warmth unlike anything you’ve ever experienced washes over you.

“The insane odds that he’s been hot and sweaty at the same gym as you the entire time.”

Annie shakes her head, blowing her blonde side bang out of her face.

“I should’ve joined that stupid place when you asked.”

“Right? Shame on you,” you joke, attempting another sip of your coffee.

It’s still hot, but it doesn’t threaten to sear off your taste buds.

“Are his arms huge?” You shake your head, and Annie outright whines. “Oh, fuck, he’s lean?”

“He’s strong, I can tell you that.”

Pride.

Your tone is drenched in pure, unabashed pride.

(Because you are — proud, really, of the man you’ve managed to somehow charm into dating you despite the nagging feeling that he’s eons out of your league.)

As you dart your tongue between your lips to catch the remaining coffee, you watch as a dreamy Annie slowly but surely sinks back down into her chair.

Her brow pinches together, face scrunched in deep thought.

Then it smooths, though her one eye narrows to a squint.

“So then how does… everything work?” she eventually asks.

Annie reeks of skepticism, causing you to sit up taller in your chair.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you thought about it?”

“About what, Annie?”

“Y’know, the whole hotline thing.”

Right.

The hotline thing.

The part you haven’t quite processed yet.

Because at the end of the day, there is one very important truth:

Levi is an adult hotline operator.

Not only were you a former client as of a few days ago, but you are not naive enough to partake in the delusion that you were his only client.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of people called in nightly to get a fix.

There are only so many operators available nightly.

It wouldn’t be crazy to believe he has regulars.

Hell, he has the voice and the skill to possess an entire fanbase.

“Are you okay with that?” Annie adds as if she can hear your inner turmoil brewing within.

Her tone reflects no judgement, for you or for him.

It’s an honest question.

“I… have not gotten that far,” you are slow to start, choosing honesty as your best policy, before shaking your head. “I mean, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. I’m okay with that. I think I’m okay with that. I mean, I’m not stupid: a job like that is going to take a lot of… time and communication, but it’s a job just like anything else.”

“Like acting?” she supplies, and the haze is a little bit clearer.

“It’s technically a type of voice acting, right?” you agree, gesturing broadly with your hand. “And that’s certainly how this whole thing might have started out between us, but that’s not what it is now.”

You may not be sure of many things in this world, but you’re pretty certain about that.

“It’s going to be a learning curve,” you continue, “but it isn’t like I’d ever ask him to quit his job over dating me.”

Annie nods and leans in to pick up her coffee, sipping slowly to gather her thoughts.

After a beat, she pulls the coffee cup away and speaks.

“You’re looking at this a lot more realistically than a lot of people would be, but I know that’s just how you are. A lot of people would be leery of that sort of occupation, so that’s why I asked. Not saying you have any reason to be concerned, it is a job, but boundaries and figuring out how to separate it from your former calls is… something to talk about.”

“And we will,” you reassure her earnestly. “Nothing about last night felt forced, if that makes sense. He’s… attentive? Intuitive? And he wants to talk things out. Do things right. Go slow.”

A grimace curls on Annie’s lip.

“Go slow? What are we, in medieval times?”

“Annie.”

“I’m kidding,” she concedes, “sort of.”

With a pause, she shifts in her chair and gestures with her hand at you.

“Look, after all of Porco’s bullshit and the way the two of you ended in such a wishy-washy way, it’s nice to hear about a man that actually wants to communicate and go slow.”

“You really mean that?”

“Absolutely not, I’d die if the guy I was seeing went slow,” she replies, shaking her head wildly. “But we are two totally different people when it comes to romance. You love that whole wining and dining and waiting for the right moment shit, and I… do not.”

“Clearly.”

“And that’s why we gel so well.”

A genuine smile grows on her mouth.

“But, seriously,” Annie continues. “I’m happy about anything that makes you happy. It might be unconventional, but aren’t most great things?”

She isn’t wrong.

Some of the greatest love stories ever told faced copious amounts of adversity and challenges.

Maybe dating Levi Ackerman will be one of the wildest adventures of your life, but you’ve fallen far too deep now to claw yourself out.

You want to see where this goes.

Where it could lead.

(To hell with conventional.)

As she lifts her coffee towards you, you catch Annie’s drift and lift your own.

The paper cups tap together in an early-morning ‘cheers’ of solidarity.

“And who knows?”

Annie smirks in devilish contemplation.

“Maybe he can tell me if my Bert’s actually tall, lanky, and breedable.”

“Annie!”

. — —

The day goes fast because everyone in your office is hungover.

Eren Yeager mourns the 80% tip he left for the bartender.

People ask where you went last night, but Annie — forever the wingwoman — tells them to mind their business, voice a hair too loud for their sensitive ears.

By the time you say your goodbyes at your desk, successfully avoiding your ex-boyfriend for yet another day in the office, the sun has already begun to set.

You beeline straight home with a gurgling stomach and a skip to your step.

When you get off of the elevator and make it to your front door, you notice a tiny green sticky note hanging right under the rounded peep hole.

In all capital letters, jagged and purposeful:

------------- DINNER, MINE, 8?

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Did Levi leave this on your door?

Is he seriously inviting you over tonight for dinner?

Ripping your phone from your pants pocket, you quickly look for Levi’s phone number.

Although you’re fairly — if not completely — certain it’s him, you don’t want to presume it was a note left on the wrong door.

[ME:] Hey, quick question. Did you leave a note at my door?

Within seconds, a reply flashes in your notifications.

[LEVI:] Did it fall off?

[ME:] No, but there wasn’t a signature on the note

Three gray dots dance as he types.

[LEVI:] Shit, I didn’t leave my initials?

[ME:] Nope

[LEVI:] Well that’s embarrassing.

Unable to keep yourself from grinning, you unlock your front door and waltz into your apartment.

You lock it once more and kick off your shoes, padding across the floor towards your bedroom.

[ME:] lmao it isn’t embarrassing, but I accept

[LEVI:] Great. See you at 8.

You’re about to toss the phone on your bed to freshen up, but it buzzes again.

[LEVI:] Do you enjoy pasta?

[ME:] Love it

[LEVI:] Good.

After a few seconds pass, you’re certain that’s the end of the conversation.

It takes ten minutes to hastily wash your face, fix your clothes, and fuss over your appearance in the mirror to finally give up and accept this is as good as it’s getting on such short notice.

(Why does nothing sit right when it actually matters?)

Confidence may be forced and fleeting, but you do your damnedest to hold your head up high when you enter the elevator and press on the button to illuminate Levi’s floor.

You can do this.

You can have a casual, very-last-minute dinner date.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…

Ding.

The elevator doors open, and you make your way to the door you’d stumbled out of the night before.

Your knuckles rapt at the wood before you can chicken out, waiting for a response.

Muffled shuffling can be heard on the other side of the door before it flies open.

Levi Ackerman stands before you in a black apron tied around his neck and hips, obscuring the creme-colored Henley hugging his torso.

His emerald-green oven mitt sits idly against the edge of the door, creating a barrier between his apartment and the hallway.

“Hey,” he greets, and your heart melts.

“Hey.”

“Thanks for coming by. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved, actually.”

Something glows in the corner.

When your attention is ensnared by it, your eyes can’t help but widen.

On his small two-person dining table sits a tall candle burning on a cheap golden pillar.

There aren’t any other decorations or place mats. It’s just that sole candle, two folded napkins, and a set of silverware for each.

“My shitty friends told me it would be… appropriate to light a candle, when a date is coming over,” he explains slowly and all-too seriously. “I don’t typically light candles when I’m eating food.”

When he turns to glare at the barren romantics on his table, you note that the tips of Levi’s ears burn pink.

(As if you could be any more endeared.)

By the looks of the candle wax dripping down, it had been sitting there for a while.

“Candles are good,” you promise, toeing your shoes off at his front door. “I like candles.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I have like a million of them in my apartment.”

Levi can’t help but snort. “I have only this one that I picked up on my way home today.”

He steps out of the way to let you in and trudges back to the stove where several pots steam to a simmer.

Picking up the handle with the oven mitt, Levi carefully fills two circular plates full of seasoned spaghetti with a blush sauce and some basil drizzled on top.

Taking a seat by the candlelit table, you watch as he carefully picks up both plates and walks across the kitchenette towards you. He places both down simultaneously, serious in his delivery, before removing the mitt and apron to join you.

“How was work?” he casually continues once he sits.

“Same old boring stuff,” you confide, picking up your fork. “Do you cook often?”

“I do, yeah,” he confesses, mirroring your movements with his utensil. “Nothing elaborate, but it gets the job done. Do you?”

You scrunch your nose.

“When I’m not being lazy, sure. Instant ramen is my best friend, which is kind of a little sad. I want to start cooking more, but the drive doesn’t exactly hit me beyond, like, maybe once or twice a week. Leftovers are a godsend.”

There you go again.

As if rambling on the phone wasn’t enough, you can’t help but still do it in person.

The longer you talk, the more your brain screams at you to stop, but it’s that slight oversharing that always seems to sneak itself in.

An imperceptible smile graces his face.

“Guess you’ll have to visit more during the week, then, so you go home with proper meals.”

The idea makes your heart flutter.

“Guess I do.”

Both of you grow silent as you eat the (unbelievably) delicious meal he’s conjured.

You can’t get over how good a simple plate of spaghetti can be, but you imagine it’s whatever he’s done with the sauce that pushes it over the edge.

After an exhausting day of office work, you try your damnedest not to scarf it all down.

Then you open your big damn mouth, not even thinking:

“Do you have work later?”

Because that’s what normal people ask, right?

About occupations, about schedules — it’s reciprocal to ask him about his job, but the metal of his fork scrapes across the plate as his hand completely stills.

Levi’s attention rises back to you, fleeting apprehension in his gaze.

“I’m supposed to,” he cryptically replies.

“Supposed to?”

A hush falls over the intimate crowd.

Your brows knit as you attempt to decipher what isn’t being said.

Levi remains still, doing the same in return from the other end of the table, before slowly answering.

“If… you don’t want me to clock in, then I understand.”

When your eyes widen with the implications, he shakes his head and sets down the fork.

“I mean to discuss this with you before we go further anyway.”

That festering self doubt from the night before begins to creep up the veins of your hands, towards your hammering heart.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Levi huffs. “I understand my occupation isn’t conventional. Most people wouldn’t put up with the—”

“Put up with?”

You blurt, accidentally disrupting the beginning of his speech.

Setting down your own fork, you rest your hands in your lap as you put on your brave pants and take a leap of faith.

“Levi, I’m not asking you to quit your job over me.”

His head turns a fraction of an inch, eyes narrowed.

“It’s like acting, right?” you continue, returning to the conversation you had earlier with Annie. “It isn’t… real. I mean, not really. You put on a character and it—”

“Let me just stop you for a second. Please.”

Levi sits up taller, softening his tone despite the firm interruption.

“I meant what I said to you last night. You’re the only person I have ever crossed that line for, and our connection is something that will never happen again. I want this to work, so I’ll be as transparent as you need me to be so you never feel as if my job is anything but what you said — acting. Yes, it is a character. And no, Levi on the hotline is…”

He sighs heavily, as if this is a heavy burden he’s carried.

“That Levi is not this Levi sitting across from you.”

“I know.”

You find a moment of bravery to not only interject, but reach across the table to grab the hand resting its surface.

Levi momentarily tenses at the touch before overturning his hand, curling his fingers around the edge of your palm to your wrist.

“I need you to know that I’m fine with being your cheerleader,” you promise, “and I’m not saying that just to… I don’t know, trick you someday down the line.”

Levi’s expression softens.

“You’re allowed to change your mind about me, though.”

“I know,” you repeat with a hint of amusement. “I’m not kept captive on the sixteenth floor. I very much want to be here, with you, eating dinner. Maybe a couple of times a week if you’re not too busy.”

“Never too busy, no,” he replies, softly running his fingertips along the inside of your wrist in a soothing manner. “My door’s wide open for whenever you want to spend time here.”

You burst into a grin. “Just not during your work hours.”

You can’t believe it.

Levi opens his mouth to respond, but a pinkish hue sprinkles across his cheeks and spreads up and under his black fringe to his ears.

You made him blush?

“You… I mean, maybe one day you could,” he nearly sputters. “I don’t recommend it — not because it’s too explicit, but it — Sorry, you caught me off guard with that.”

To say it feels empowering to throw confident, dominant Levi off of his axis is an understatement.

You can’t help but abandon your food and lean your elbow on the table.

Leaning against it, you glance down at your joined hands and purse your lips to avoid smiling.

Ideas.

Very bad ideas swirl like a surprise storm in your mind.

With this newfound shift in dynamics, of testing the waters of what this is in comparison to what you previous had, you can’t help but open your mouth and ask one very pointed question:

“Do you need a warm up?”

Levi’s brows knit as he stares you down, studying the forced neutrality on your face.

“A… warm up?”

You’re not sure what you’re saying right now.

Your lips move, sure, and you hear your voice, but your brain is about three words behind.

“Just saying, since you’re working tonight. Like how Broadway performers do a vocal warm up before they go out on stage, if you needed—”

“You want me to warm up for my job for the night... by telling you how to get off?”

Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re proposing in this momentary lapse of judgement.

"In my own apartment," he clarifies, "right in front of me."

Levi isn’t even actually trying and all the heat shoots straight between your legs.

Maintaining eye contact, you can’t help but swallow.

"I guess that's kind of moving too fast, huh?"

“A little," he confesses, but there’s an element of breathlessness to his voice.

Is it a stupid idea? Maybe.

One could argue jumping into a relationship with the guy you were having hotline sex with for a week is also a stupid idea.

You never claimed to be a smart woman.

"And I know you want to take things slow, but..."

As you trail off, recognition passes across the dark-haired man's face.

Then — an almost playfulness in his tone, if you really listen closely.

"...but I’ve already heard you come at least twenty times in twenty different ways over the phone before I even got to ask you out," Levi finishes for you, "so I think it’s safe to assume we make our own rules.”

Unconventional.

What your best friend called this relationship skitters across your mind; a reminder that no matter how by the book you do this, it’ll still be a little off-kilter.

(And you realize you like that.)

“And how about a twenty-first?” you ask.

"I wouldn't say no," he blurts, then explains. "I... want to go slow, yeah, but I can't lie and say I don't miss hearing you."

You can't stop your brows from flying up.

"You miss hearing me—"

"Yeah."

The room feels ten degrees hotter, and it isn't the candle's fault.

Levi's throat bobs as he heavily swallows.

“Are you positive about this?”

Are you?

Your attention is unwavering when you respond. “Only if you want to, too.”

Expression still neutral, Levi contemplates.

His eyes drop blatantly to your lips, lingering, before they return to your face. And, with barely a whisper—

“I need to hear you say yes or no. Explicit consent. You know me.”

Anticipation floods your veins.

You nod, then for good measure, “I do. Yes.”

“And you know you can stop at any time.”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m still taking you out on that damn date.”

“I don’t doubt you, Levi.”

Levi inhales, slow and steady, through his nose at the sound of his name on your lips.

“...color?”

Something about hearing the stoplight measures vibrate in his very throat makes you more than ready to throw caution to the wind.

“Green.”

A hand raises as Levi’s hand runs across your cheek.

His thumb glides along your lower lip, right to left, before settling at its center.

Testing the give — the submission — the pad of his thumb tugs your lip down.

It’s met with no resistance.

“Then take a seat on my bed.”

Author's Note:

The AO3 author curse hit me, but guess who is back!

I appreciate all of the comments on AO3 and the messages here in my absence with this story. The enthusiasm (and re-reads oh my gosh, I could send you all little treats for the re-read messages!) has seriously been my north star for the last four months. We are, in fact, getting spicy as hell next chapter.

Thank you for any reblogs, replies, etc. Every comment gives this writer wings.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #aot fanfiction #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #aot x reader #snk x reader

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ridingtorohan · 5 months ago

Text

Generic Headcanons for the Tulpar Crew!

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist _ Join the taglist _ Ask box

Curly can't bowl. Absolutely can not. As coordinated as he is, this sport is absolutely not under his forte. Somehow, he gets all strikes or only one pin down.

Used to have a bubble blowing pipe as a kid. Still collects bubble blowers but doesn't really use them.

Sentimental in that he doesn't throw gifts away, even if he knows he won't use them. Has them neatly packed away in boxes

His hair is usually slightly frizzy and brushed on trips but back at home, he does the full oil, scrunch, curl routine, resulting in amazing curls

Prefers vanilla ice cream

Diagnosed insomniac. Sleeps like the dead when he does actually sleep; his heart rate slows down a lot so he actually scared a few roommates in the past

Hairy chest

Usually wears two shirts. After the crash, he's far more sensitive to temperature changes and bundles up, even if it's sweltering outside

Has a nasty scar on his knee from when he tripped as a kid. Didn't get stitches but probably should've

Listens to a mix of rock and foreign music, even when he doesn't know what they're saying

Wanted to be an astronaut but settled for becoming a pilot

Curly was an only child to a single mother. She had a serious disease that had him taking care of them both at a young age. He used the insurance money to become a pilot. She really believed in his dream.

Slightly colorblind (mixes up yellow and green) but by the time he's an adult he's able to tell the shades apart, so it didn't affect his pilot's course

Really enjoys raisin toast and cheese whiz.

A little forgetful. Usually keeps a notepad in his pocket or his keys on a long string

Can imitate accents really well, especially Southern drawls

Has English ancestry

Secretly terrified of the concept of the immortal snail

Daisuke sings horribly, but in such a charismatic way that somehow gets everyone joining in.

Does very bad puppetry, usually with socks. However, he's surprisingly good at miming.

He likes to draw!

He alternates between being the absolute boss at video games vs scoring almost nothing.

However! He's the absolute king at dance dance revolution and guitar hero.

Can't sit still for puzzles but surprisingly has a lot of fun with games like candy crush (and is really good at it)

Likes lemon hard candies

Pours whipped cream on anything. Bread? Whipped cream. Coffee? Whipped cream. Swansea had to kick that habit out of him

On that note: sweet tooth

Drools in his sleep and has the worst bedhead known to man

Has three sisters, all older and with set careers. He loves them a lot, despite feeling inadequate sometimes. He also has two moms!

Can't hold his liquor BUT surprisingly can never get drunk off of cold medicine

Watches a lot of thrillers, action and romcoms. Is always captivated by them (and cries a little when the couple gets together)

Quotes Mean Girls a lot

Was definitely a Disney kid. Belts into Lion King songs all the time (Swansea wants to strangle him)

Listens to screamo when he's tinkering with machines (usually with cars or where he can't readily change the songs)

Otherwise has a playlist that has songs from every genre. Never skips any of them.

Believes in sasquatch. Vehemently.

Tends to have bad luck with electronics, usually sparking himself somehow. His electronics usually have a lot of scuff marks and dented corners but surprisingly no cracked screens

Fluent in Spanish and passing in at least three other languages

Knows beauty routines better than most people do (including social media infleuncers)

Either has flawless skin or has a strict routine to prevent breakouts.

Definitely had a crush on Marty McFly poster in his bedroom. Still does.

Jimmy is, surprisingly, a good writer. He usually drops them only a few chapters in, but they're captivating and really enriched

Taps his foot a lot

Scrunches up his face when he's concentrating, often comically so

Absolutely hates black coffee but refuses to drink any other.

Says he hates the song that's playing but 9/10 he'll be nodding along to it. Absolutely despises Swansea and Anya's playlists

If the person he hates likes a song/movie/snack, he'll absolutely hate it. Even if he loved it before.

Sleeps with his arms crossed and head tipped back

Knows a lot about a bit of everything but in a weird way. Such as how to replace a car radio but not how to hot wire a car

Acts like the "tsundere" trope where he's mean if he likes someone

Prefers uniform clothing and goes for simple button ups otherwise

Somehow always finds himself at the receiving end of gossip. He knows all the tea but doesn't care enough to share it

Crazy skilled at board games, especially strategy and Monopoly. May or may not cheat. The absolute biggest sore loser

Mint or rocky road is his go-to ice cream snack. eats ice cream cones from the bottom up

Really good at visual puzzle solving. ("How many cubes are there?", mazes, etc)

Plays guitar and does it well. Favourite song to play is probably Country Roads

Hates the song Pumped Up Kicks. The school he used to go to before meeting Curly had way too many incidents to be comfortable.

Somehow, he does really well at baking those fancy deserts. Souffles, creme brulees, macarons, caramel, you name it. Probably would have made it as a chef somewhere

Always packs light and never keeps anything. Doesn't even have cards to the stores he frequents a lot.

Usually has a lighter or one of those "7 tools in 1" tool in his pocket.

Gets super bored with horror and nature documentaries. A fan of thriller and action though.

Somehow winds up with 57 pens in his drawers. He's never sure where they come from.

Likes to keep his facial hair short or with a shadow. It makes him feel unkempt if he goes longer.

He's more of a hands-on kind of guy, preferring to be outside in the fresh air instead of reading a book or watching TV.

Salted pretzels are his go-to snack.

Anya wears contacts (based on the soundtrack cover art)

Licks her finger before turning a page of the book and dog-ears to bookmark it

Always has ink smudges on her fingers. She never knows how it gets there

Twirls pens when she's lost in thought

She has a neutral resting face, so when she smiles or frowns, it crinkles a bit but you can always tell it's genuine

Never keeps her hair short; it always leaves her itchy. Closest she'll get is chin length

She's definitely a homebody

She doesn't often like switching hobbies but when she does, she focuses all her attention on it. However, it takes her a really long time to master it, leaving her discouraged.

Had difficulties in school.

All her books are filled with highlighted passages and writings in the margin

Tummy sleeper with her face smooshed in a pillow

Sleepwalks in a horrifying way. She'll stand at the foot of the bed and say cryptic things like, "He knows you're here" before walking away. Doesn't remember it the next day.

Prefers tea over coffee and dark chocolate

Doesn't really care for ice cream but likes freezies and Gelato

Prefers dogs over cats and loves labradors, even though she doesn't have the energy for them

Never could stomach the smell of puke or fecal matter

Doesn't know how to swim

Absolutely burns in the sun, no matter how much sun screen she uses.

She drives with audio books on, or while she's studying. Constant interruptions stress her out

Knows how to play the flute!

Has a few Russian lullabies memorized and knows the translations for them, though she doesn't know much Russian otherwise.

Mother died young, so it was her and her dad for a long time. She never felt like she lived up to his expectations.

Really close to her cousin growing up, who acted like an older sister to her.

Somehow, knows all the obscure lore about haunted locations and folklore. While she believes in ghosts, she doesn't believe in other entities.

Never swears. It's just not who she is.

Anya listens to a lot of indie and instrumental music.

She once had a pet parakeet named Timothy but gave it to her cousin when she tried to study for med school.

She has a music box, gifted to her by her mother before her passing. It's one of her prized possessions. Anya plays it before sleeping.

She likes to watch silent movies, black and white, and those that relate to her experiences in life.

Audrey Hepbern is consequently her favourite actress.

While most of her books are educational or self-help, she owns a few classics like Moby Dick and Pride & Prejudice.

Swansea knows how to crochet

He's a GOD at gambling. Everyone is sure that he's cheating, but it's honestly a lot of skill

While he doesn't know any other languages, he knows enough basic phrases to navigate in most foreign countries.

Very old in his ways (men must be gentlemen type thing) but progressive in others

Doesn't vote

Annoyed when Daisuke arrived in his floral shirt. Not because Daisuke skirted past the full uniform but because Swansea owns a lot of them (and oddly enough, many that match with Daisuke). So he never gets out of uniform

Can fall asleep anywhere

He's the fastest typer out of the Tulpar crew, second only to Daisuke

Still uses a Nokia phone though

Listens to podcasts or radio stations, but if he ever sits down for TV, it's usually dramas (think, SVU or Young & The Restless). Gets super invested in the soap dramas, even if he swears he doesn't or otherwise. He knows everyone's names and backstories off hand.

Gets grumpy if you turn off the show he's watching.

Tried growing a beard once. Never again

Keeps photos of his entire family in his wallet. Mother? There. Wife? There. Kids? There. His dentist? Somehow, there.

Never went to AA. He doesn't exactly deter people from drinking, but he'll outright shove people in chairs and take their car keys if they're too drunk to drive

Owns a really beat-up sports car. The upkeep is horrible, but it's what he got in the divorce, and he won't trade it for anything. Let Daisuke drive it exactly once (1)

Took wrestling and boxing in his youth! He gives a mean right hook. He still has the arm muscles from it

Absolutely cannot stand sticky, tacky items. Hates the feel of gum on his hands. Okay with chewing it.

Very efficient at multitasking! Even if it looks like he's focused on something, he notices things from his peripheral vision asap. Also weirdly attuned to Daisuke and just knows when he's grabbing something that he shouldn't

Scary good intuition about people.

Absolute king at barbecuing. Steak is his favourite food, especially accompanied with beer (he misses those days), roasted mini potatoes and garlic vegetables.

Makes the meanest stew and soup you've ever known. Throws the absolute wildest ingredients into the pot, but it comes out miraculous every time.

Adds salt and pepper to his meal anytime anyone else is cooking. Even if it was adequately seasoned

Knows how to ride a horse!

His part of the city isn't the best (high crime rate), but all the kids know his name and go to him whenever they need to escape from home or a warm meal. He doesn't know why they're so drawn to him, but something about Swansea makes them feel secure. It's put him in the good graces of the not-so-good folk and he's left well enough alone by them.

Definitely owns a shotgun and probably had to fend thieves away from his home prior to that though.

Definitely has Irish and Scottish ancestry. Maybe a bit of German.

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing headcanon #curly #jimmy #swansea #anya #daisuke #mouthwashing curly #mouthwashing jimmy #mouthwashing anya #mouthwashing daisuke #mouthwashing swansea #mouthwashing headcanons #:// how did swansea end up with so many?

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anisangeldust · 7 days ago

Text

Cakes & Candles | H.C.

Summary: dinner and cake for a gentle celebration with your older boyfriend!

Pairing: Older bf! Hayden x Younger gf! Reader

Warnings: Fluff! Bashful Hayden, lovey reader, briar mentioned briefly, Hayden is 44 and reader is mid 20s

A/N: Peepaws birthday!!! I love this silly old man. Hope you enjoy!!

The gentle chill of the spring air settled through the open window of your house. Wrapped in the flannel of your beloved, you moved around the dinning room and set out two placesettings — one for you and one for Hayden.

The decorations from the big family celebration were still up, all the banners and balloons you’d set up with his daughter. Today, though, was just you two.

The oven dinged and the scent of cake wafted around the whole kitchen. After letting it cool and mixing up some frosting, you took your spatula and messily frosted the cake. Smears of white and sticky sugar coating the spongy dessert. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was homemade with love.

Mixing some blue icing and scooping the mixture into a plastic bag, you lean over the cake and try to pipe ‘Happy Birthday Hay!’ Though the execution was questionable, Hayden would love it, because he loved you.

The gentle jangling of keys in the front door alerted you; Hayden’s home. Taking the cake and placing it on the back counter, you leaned against the kitchen island and waited for Hayden to come through the house.

“Sweetheart, I’m back” he set down a bag of Chinese takeout and his keys, wrapping his arms around you and placing kisses all over your face.

“Mmm.. happy birthday my love..” you mumble and bring your fingers up to card through his curls, your breath mingling as you lock lips.

The kiss was gentle, soft, loving — all things your and Hayden relationship was. There was an air of devotion between you two, a sense of complete contentment. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. “You’re the best birthday gift..” he kisses your temple, breathing sweet nothings into your ear.

“Shhh.. I got you one anyway. Now let’s eat. Since you wouldn’t eat me cook for you.” You tease and open the bag of takeout.

——

Rinsing off dishes in the sink and washing your hands, you grab two number candles and stick them in the center of your homemade cake. “Happy birthday to youuuu” you giggle and bring the cake out to your sitting boyfriend “happy birthday to youuu!” Gently striking a match and lighting the ‘44’ “happy birthday dear haydieeee” you kiss his smile lines and wrap your arms around him from behind. “Happy birthday to youuu!!” You peck him a bunch in quick succession.

“My love..” he laughs and holds your hand tight, closing his eyes before blowing out the candles. “Did you make this?” He looks up at you with complete love and adoration, mixed with humble pride. “I told you not to..”

“Shh.” You stop him “I wanted to. You wouldn’t let me cook you dinner or get you an expensive gift, so I made you a cake.” You mumble and cut the dessert.

He shakes his head “at least sit on my lap, my love.” He pats his thigh with a sparkle in his eyes.

After plating two slices, you happily climb in your older boyfriend’s lap. Taking his plate and fork, you hold up a bite to his lips. “Try it..” you smile and he accepts the food.

“Mmm. It’s delicious babygirl. You’ve outdone yourself.” He enthusiastically eats more, wrapping an arm around your waist while you both munch on the dessert.

There’s a moment of tender silence, an unspoken feeling of right. This was right. This was how it was supposed to be. “I love you.” He breaks the silence first, his throaty voice piercing the bubble. “I love you more than anyone has ever loved any person.” He holds you tenderly.

“Nonsense..” you giggle “I love you more.”

He laughs and wraps both hands around you “you don’t know what you’re saying. No one loves anyone as much as I love you.”

Blush finds its way onto both your guys’ cheeks “we love each other equally..” you mumble and lean into his lips.

“If you say so..” he concedes playfully, nibbling on your bottom lip.

#anisangeldust #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #haydenchristensenedit #Hayden Christensen fluff #x reader fluff #fluff #haydenchristensen #˚₊‧꒰ა angel writes! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#hayden is so cute tho #happy birthday peepaw😛😛

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beautifulterriblequeen · 4 months ago

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Runaan's Last Secret

*smokes bubble pipe* I suppose you're wondering why I've gathered you all here today. It is simple, mes amis. We've waited six years to find out what really happened inside King Harrow's chamber the night the assassins attacked. And with the release of S7, all these long years later, I finally have the last pieces of information I need to find the full truth.

We all thought there was a murder to solve in the king's chamber. But I'm here to tell you now, that is not the case.

Let us begin at the beginning and assemble our evidence:

The night Harrow died, Runaan tried to convince Rayla to give up the egg, tried to scare her off from returning it.

He couldn't sway her from her journey of redemption, though. They came to blows.

But he chose his mission over killing her. He wasn't even out of breath when they stopped fighting - if he'd truly wanted her dead, she'd be dead.

He left her behind and led four assassins up the front steps of the tower. There, he executed a frontal assault on the king's chamber, when they're built and trained for stealth.

The fight dragged on loudly. It drew extra soldiers from around the entire castle, who left their posts unguarded. But it had a purpose.

Delaying his own victory would cost lives on both sides, but clearing a path for Rayla to escape with two soft human princes in tow would ensure her survival. Runaan had already committed himself to this course when he refused to force her to complete the mission. He couldn't back out now.

Alright, that's the catch-up. For years, we had no idea what actually happened inside Harrow's chamber. But in S7, we finally got a peek. And I'm afraid it's told me everything I need to know. *more bubble pipe noises*

Let's consider these newer clues from S7:

When Runaan finally breached Harrow's door, two other assassins rushed in with him: Andromeda and Skor. Only Callisto, it seems, had fallen alongside Ram out in the hall.

Runaan drew his bow and killed Harrow - or so his binding ribbon believed -

- but the next we see -only moments later as the reinforcements have not yet arrived from below - only one assassin staggered out of that chamber and onto the balcony.

The other four members of the squad died in this battle, and their bodies were recovered by Viren, along with their weapons.

Which means, no one else survived that room. Only Runaan.

The assassins weren't attacked by human troops, either. Runaan had time to stagger out to the balcony at his hobbled pace. No guards caught up to him until he'd already shot the shadowhawk arrow.

When he burst into Harrow's chamber, this is what he was wearing.

When he left it, this was all he had.

Moonshadow assassins are some of the deadliest fighters in all of greater Xadia. No one survives them. No one.

No one... except Runaan of the Silvergrove.

Remember when I said we were not here to solve a murder in the king's chamber? That is because we are here to solve several murders in the king's chamber.

He turned on them.

Runaan turned on what remained of his own squad - Skor and Andromeda. He killed them. For Rayla.

They wanted Rayla dead. In the show, they believed she should die alongside them. In the novelization Book One: Moon, they specifically wanted Runaan to kill her for failing to do her duty. Either way, if any one of Runaan's squad survived and returned to the Silvergrove to report what Runaan had done - and had not done - when his mission went pear-shaped, he would've had to kill Rayla then and there. Right in front of Ethari.

And that, mes amis, he could not abide. He could not bear to be the monster he feared he had always been, right where his husband could see him.

And so, his only remaining option was for his surviving assassins to perish in battle, with their own honor intact and his in tatters. But they went down hard.

They broke Runaan's horn. They stripped off his tunic. They nearly cut his throat. They messed up his hair. Oui, the most unforgivable.

They wanted to live. Runaan did not allow them to.

He trained them all. He loved them.

And he killed them, to save Rayla's life.

For love of Rayla, his precious daughter, Runaan of the Silvergrove killed his own assassins.

It is no wonder he could not look Keeper Lyrennus in the eye when the man asked Runaan about his son.

He's drowning in guilt. He knows what he did. Even though Ram died from another's strike, Runaan knows he would have killed him himself if he'd had to.

This image of Runaan's fear at the sight of the red spirit Lyrennus cast, it lands differently now, no?

He hasn't told them. Perhaps he never will. But he has committed this sin nonetheless, and he must carry it with him for the rest of his life.

Runaan's last and darkest secret. No wonder he accepted Callum the moment he turned against Ezran and fought his own soldiers for Rayla's sake. He knows exactly what that feels like.

#tdp spoilers #tdp theory #runaan #this is what happens when i watch two poirot movies in the same week #i belgian detective my way through my blorbo's deepest and darkest sins like a hot knife through butter #why did i never see this possibility before?? it was right there #wails in detective lamenting a missed clue #it's so simple #so elegant #so horrible #runaan you've done absolutely atrocious crimes and i love you #i'm genuinely ill over this i have felt queasy for an hour now #no wonder poirot retired as often as he could from cases. zamn #may god and ethari forgive me

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darkintothedawn · 3 months ago

Note

stiles sneakin into ur window at night bc he refuses to use the front door and wake everyone up

DRAIN PIPE || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Stiles is climbing into your window and causing a mess, it's late and you're tired and you just don't want to deal with it. The morning is better, with all traces of annoyance gone, until Stiles' dad is screaming for him outside and you're instead confessing to your mother that you were the one who called him over.

Memo— I'm sorry if this isn't exactly what you wanted, I genuinely couldn't figure out how to start this to begin with for a while. Thank you for the request of course and if you did want something different or if someone wants something similar you can always send another ask! I do hope you like this, anon.

Word Count — 3741

Warnings — Fluff. Mild annoyance. Puppy dog Stiles.

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

Your room is dimly lit by the glow of your phone screen, the only source of light as you lay sprawled out on your bed. The house is quiet, the kind of stillness that only settles in when everyone else is asleep, leaving you alone with the soft hum of your thoughts—and Stiles blowing up your phone.

Stiles: You up? Stiles: Wait, ofc you are. You literally just opened this. Stiles: Soooooo Stiles: What if I was dying? And you ignored me? How would you feel? You: I’d be mildly inconvenienced but ultimately fine. Stiles: Rude. Disrespectful. Hurtful, even. You: You’re not dying. Stiles: Not physically, but emotionally? Spiritually? Maybe even mentally? You: Sounds like a you problem. Stiles: Wow. Ok. Ice cold. Where’s the love?

You shake your head, biting back a smile as you toss your phone onto your chest. It’s always like this with Stiles—constant, clingy, and so unapologetically him. And you don’t mind, not really. If anything, his ridiculous messages have become a staple of your nights, filling the silence with his chaotic energy even from a distance.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, about to hit send on another sarcastic reply, when your phone buzzes again.

Stiles: What if I was outside your window right now?

You scoff, rolling your eyes. You: I’d tell you to stop being creepy and go to bed.

The typing bubble pops up, then disappears. A pause. Then—

Stiles: Bold of you to assume I’d listen.

Before you can respond, there’s a soft thud outside your window.

Your heart stutters.

Another sound—this time a muffled curse, followed by the unmistakable scrape of sneakers against the siding of your house.

You freeze. No. No way.

Slowly, you sit up, eyes locked on the window. A shadow moves outside, just beyond the glass.

You don’t even think. You launch yourself toward the curtain, yanking it back, and—

Yep.

There he is.

Stiles Stilinski, clinging to the edge of your windowsill like some kind of sleep-deprived raccoon, his hoodie askew and his expression caught somewhere between triumph and regret.

"Hey," he whisper-yells, flashing you a lopsided grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

You stare at him, unimpressed. "Are you serious?"

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

You push the window up just enough to glare at him properly. "Do I even want to ask how you got up here?"

"Uh—" He looks down for the first time, then back at you, his grin faltering. "So, funny story… Turns out your drainpipe is not, in fact, built for weight-bearing activities. Who knew?"

You follow his gaze to the slightly bent metal, your jaw tightening. "You're the reason it looks like that?"

"Technically, gravity is to blame, but sure, pin this on me."

You press a hand to your forehead, exhaling through your nose. "You have got to stop doing this."

"And yet," he says, shifting his grip and hoisting himself higher, "Here I am."

"Yeah, and I’m starting to question why I keep letting this happen."

"You don't let it happen," he corrects, grunting as he swings a leg over the sill. "I make it happen."

Before you can protest, he somehow manages to wriggle through the window with all the grace of a drunken deer, knocking into the curtain and nearly toppling your bedside lamp. He lands on your floor with a soft oof, sprawled out on his back, staring at the ceiling like he’s just run a marathon.

"That was exhausting," he groans. "You should really consider moving to a ground-floor bedroom."

"You should really consider knocking on the front door," you retort, crossing your arms.

Stiles scoffs, propping himself up on his elbows. "Okay, yeah, and then what? I wake your parents up? They already think I’m a bad influence—if I show up at your front door in the middle of the night, they’d never let me stay over again."

You blink at him. "Stiles. They wouldn’t let you stay over now."

He pauses, then clicks his tongue. "That’s fair."

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "So, let me get this straight—you climbed up the side of my house, almost fell to your death, broke my drainpipe, and risked getting caught all so you could not wake my parents?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds kinda dumb."

"It is dumb."

He grins. "Yeah, but, like… dumb in a charming way, right?"

You roll your eyes, nudging his foot with yours. "No, dumb in a dumb way."

He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you've just mortally wounded him. "You wound me. Really. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this betrayal."

"Yeah, well, actions have consequences."

Stiles flops back onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. I see how it is. You don’t appreciate me. I’m just some guy, risking life and limb to see you, and for what? Disrespect?"

"For a concussion, probably," you mutter.

He watches you from the floor, his expression softer now, less exaggerated dramatics, more something real. "You’re not actually mad, though. Right?" He stands up when he talks, almost as if he's ready to spring out the window if you are.

You hesitate, then sigh, flopping down onto your bed. "No. But I should be."

"Yeah," he agrees, grinning. "You should be. But you’re not. Because deep, deep down, you love that I do this."

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. "Love is a strong word."

He smirks. "You tolerate that I do this?"

You huff, shaking your head. "That’s more accurate."

And honestly? It is. Because at the end of the day, this is just… Stiles. Sneaking in through your window like a delinquent, making himself at home on your floor, filling your nights with his restless energy.

And despite how much you should be annoyed, how much you should tell him to stop—

You know you’d miss it if he ever did.

You shake your head, still lying on your bed as Stiles lingers in the middle of your room, looking awkward in a way that’s almost endearing—hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s suddenly unsure what to do now that he’s actually here.

You watch him for a second, then sigh. "Okay, so—why are you here?"

He shifts on his feet, glancing around your room like the answer might be hiding in your bookshelf or taped to your walls. "I dunno," he says, rocking back on his heels. "Just… couldn’t sleep, I guess. And I was thinking about stuff. And you."

Your eyebrows lift. "Me?"

"Yeah, you." He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the way he won’t quite meet your eyes says otherwise. "And I figured, you know, since I was already thinking about you, and since you were obviously awake, and since your window is right there—"

"—you decided to break in."

"Not break in. More like… strategically enter."

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. "You’re impossible."

"Yeah," he says, grinning a little. "But you like me anyway."

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you just pull your covers to the side, turning over onto your other shoulder. "Close the window."

There's a pause.

You don’t look at him, don’t clarify, don’t explain—because if he doesn’t get the hint, that’s his problem.

For a second, there’s nothing but silence. Then, finally, the soft creak of the window shutting, the lock clicking into place.

And a few moments later, the dip of your mattress as Stiles climbs in beside you.

Stiles hesitates for only a second before he takes what you’ve silently offered, slipping under the covers and settling in behind you. His movements are careful, almost tentative, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind and shove him off the bed.

You don’t.

Mostly because you’re exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and from the sheer effort it’s going to take to pretend your drainpipe isn’t hanging on for dear life outside your window. You don’t have the energy to kick him out, and honestly, even if you did, you probably wouldn’t.

He shifts slightly, adjusting until he’s pressed fully against your back, his arm draping naturally over your waist. He’s warm—unfairly so—and for a moment, you hate how easy it is to relax against him, how comfortable this feels despite the absolute nuisance he’s been tonight.

"You’re still mad," he murmurs, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

"Not mad exactly," you say, your voice muffled against your pillow. "Just… annoyed."

"Right. Annoyed. Got it." His fingers tap lightly against your hip, thoughtful. "So, like… mild annoyance? Or are we talking long-term consequences? Should I be preparing for some kind of slow-burn revenge arc?"

You snort. "You wish I had the patience for a slow-burn revenge arc."

"True," he concedes, squeezing your waist lightly. "You’re more of an ‘immediate consequences’ type. Which, honestly? Fair."

You hum in agreement, staring at the wall. You should turn around. Should look him in the eye and make sure he knows you’re actually a little pissed this time, that he can’t just pull some reckless stunt and expect to charm his way out of it.

But the problem is… if you do turn around, he’s going to be looking at you like that—all soft-eyed and stupidly endearing, like a kicked puppy who just wants to be forgiven. Because he is one.

And you will forgive him, way too quickly, because you always do.

So, instead, you stay facing away, letting him be the big spoon, letting him hold you without having to see the expression that’s no doubt on his face. He can deal with you being slightly annoyed for once. He deserves to sit with it.

Besides, you’ll be the one stuck explaining to your parents why the drainpipe looks like it lost a fight with a raccoon.

For now, though, you let your eyes slip shut, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you, the warmth of him pressed close, the way his fingers trace mindless patterns against your side.

He’s here. He’s safe.

And maybe you’ll be less annoyed in the morning.

The morning light filters softly through your curtains, painting everything in hazy gold. The world is still quiet, wrapped in that early morning stillness where reality hasn’t quite settled in yet.

You’re warm. Comfortable. And you don’t fully register why until your sleep-fogged brain starts to catch up with your body.

Your face is pressed against something solid and warm, rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Your arms are curled around a familiar frame, fingers tucked into the fabric of a hoodie, holding on just as tightly as the arms wrapped around you.

Stiles.

He’s awake. You can feel it in the way his body is just a little too still, like he’s trying way too hard not to move. His breathing is slow—too slow—like he’s deliberately keeping it shallow so he doesn’t disturb you.

You peek your eyes open, blinking up at him. Sure enough, his gaze is already on you, wide and soft, like he’s been staring at you for a while now. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something tender about it—something careful, like he doesn’t want to do anything that might ruin this moment.

You yawn, stretching slightly but not moving away. Instead, you nuzzle just a little further into his chest before tilting your head up, pressing a lazy, barely-awake kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“Breathe,” you murmur against his skin.

You feel him suck in a sharp inhale, his arms tightening around you instinctively.

Then, a breathless laugh. “I—yeah. Okay. Noted.”

You shift, resting your chin against his chest so you can look at him properly. “I’m not annoyed anymore.”

His lips twitch, his fingers brushing absentmindedly against your back. “I figured. You are currently cuddling me like I’m your emotional support human.”

You don’t even try to deny it. There’s no point—you both know the truth. It was you who moved into his arms sometime during the night, who sought him out in your sleep, curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stiles knows it. You know it. It always happens. And neither of you are in any rush to change it.

So instead, you just sigh, pressing your face back into his hoodie, letting yourself relax completely into him.

His arms stay wrapped around you, holding you like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

And honestly?

You’re perfectly okay with that.

The warmth of him, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers absentmindedly trace the curve of your spine—it’s grounding in a way you don’t fully want to acknowledge yet. You should probably say something snarky, tease him for the way he’s holding you like you might disappear if he lets go, but you don’t.

Instead, you shift, stretching lazily, letting your nose brush against the hollow of his throat as you settle back in. Stiles tenses for half a second, his breath hitching, and you feel the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

It makes you smirk against his hoodie.

"You okay there?" you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

He exhales a little too forcefully. "Yeah. Totally fine. Just—" He clears his throat. "You, uh. You can't just do that."

"Do what?" You tilt your head, blinking up at him with innocent eyes.

Stiles levels you with a look. "You know what."

You just hum, clearly unbothered, shifting again so that your leg slots between his. It’s barely anything—just a sleepy, natural movement—but it's enough to have Stiles groaning under his breath, pressing his head back into your pillow like he's gathering some kind of strength.

"You’re doing this on purpose," he mutters, eyes squeezing shut.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," you say, voice light, but the smile you’re biting back gives you away.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "You are a menace."

"And yet, you’re still here."

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice quieter now, something softer threading through it. "I am."

You finally glance up at him properly, and it’s a mistake. Because he’s already looking at you, already watching you with that look—the one that’s way too fond, way too open, way too everything. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering for half a second too long on your mouth before meeting your gaze again, and it sends a quiet thrill through you.

For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with words. He just watches you, his hand at your waist stilling, fingers pressing just a little firmer into your side. You swallow.

"You’re staring," you murmur, voice quieter now.

"Yeah," he says simply. "Guess I am."

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s both of you at the same time—but it doesn’t really matter, because one second you’re just laying there, hovering in that space between hesitation and action, and the next—

His lips are on yours.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. When you don’t—when you press into it, letting your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie—he exhales against your mouth, something loosening in him, and suddenly, you’re kissing Stiles.

And it’s good.

Better than you would have expected, if you’d ever let yourself think about lazy, sleepy, morning kisses with Stiles before (which, for the record, you totally haven’t). His lips are warm and a little chapped, moving against yours in a way that’s way too easy, way too natural, like this isn’t the first time you’ve done it. Like this isn’t the first time he’s thought about doing it.

You sigh against him, tilting your head slightly, and he makes a quiet, almost desperate noise before kissing you again, deeper this time. His hand slides up, fingers tracing along your ribcage, settling just beneath the hem of your shirt, and the warmth of it sends a shiver through you.

He notices. Smirks against your mouth.

"Cold?" he murmurs.

You huff, nudging his nose with yours. "Shut up."

"Not a chance," he says, grinning, before kissing you again.

This time, there’s nothing tentative about it. His hand slips higher, his body pressing closer, and it’s dizzying—the slow drag of his lips, the heat of him against you, the way he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, like he needs it, like he’s making up for lost time.

And maybe—just maybe—you feel the same way.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly, and he groans against your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. His hoodie rides up between you, fabric bunching as your hands roam, and suddenly, it’s all warmth and pressure and Stiles.

It’s almost too much. It’s not enough.

And then—

There’s a loud bang from outside.

You both freeze.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Stiles?"

Your stomach drops.

Stiles curses under his breath, forehead pressing against your shoulder. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

A second later, another call.

"Stiles Stilinski, are you up there?"

Your eyes widen. "Is that—"

"My dad," Stiles groans, rolling onto his back and dragging his hands down his face. "That’s my dad."

Your stomach twists. "He knows you're here?"

"I don’t know!" Stiles hisses, already scrambling to sit up. "But considering he’s currently yelling my name outside your house, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that, yeah, he knows."

You swear under your breath, sitting up with him. "How the hell does he know?"

"I—" Stiles pauses, then closes his eyes in defeat. "Oh my god."

You stare at him. "What?"

"My jeep is parked in your driveway."

There’s a beat of silence as you both process that. Then—

"Oh my god."

"Yeah," Stiles groans, rubbing his temples. "I am so unbelievably screwed."

You don’t even hesitate. You shove him. "Get out."

"I’m trying!" He flails, nearly toppling off the bed as he tries to untangle himself from the covers. "Do you have a back door? A fire escape? A trapdoor?"

"Oh, yeah, let me just pull the secret lever in my suburban bedroom," you deadpan. "Obviously not, Stiles."

He glares at you, shoving his feet into his sneakers. "Your sarcasm is not helping right now."

"Neither is your existence in my room at seven in the morning."

"Okay, ow," he mutters, making a beeline for the window.

Before he can climb out, there's a knock on your bedroom door.

Your heart stops.

"Sweetheart?" your mom calls. "Are you awake?"

You and Stiles lock eyes, frozen in panic.

He exhales sharply. "I’m never sneaking in here again."

You shove him toward the window. "Yeah, that’s what you said last time."

He hesitates for half a second, glancing back at you, and in the middle of all the chaos, the sheer insanity of the situation, his expression softens. "Hey," he murmurs.

You blink. "What?"

He grins, lopsided and infuriating, but somehow still—sweet. "Worth it."

Your chest tightens, but before you can respond, the knock comes again, more insistent.

You take a breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Yeah, Mom, I’m up."

The door cracks open, and she peeks in, her gaze flicking between you and Stiles, who is now standing awkwardly by the window, caught in the act.

Her eyebrows lift. "Stiles?"

You nod, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. "I, uh… I called him over. I missed him."

She glances between the two of you again, then sighs. "Next time, maybe tell me beforehand, okay?"

You swallow. "Okay."

And miraculously, somehow—she buys it.

Stiles is still frozen by the window, one leg halfway up like he’s debating whether to fully commit to the escape or just surrender to the inevitable. He looks at you, then at your mom, then back at you.

“So… do I keep going? Or…?” He gestures vaguely toward the open window. “I mean, I can, but—"

Your mom sighs, already turning to head downstairs. “Oh, for god’s sake, Stiles, just come have breakfast.”

He blinks. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “And tell your father to come in, because his yelling isn’t doing anyone any good this early in the morning.”

Stiles stares after her as she disappears down the hall, then slowly turns back to you. “… I’m sorry, what just happened?”

You groan, falling back onto the bed and dragging the blanket over your face. “I don’t know. Just—go downstairs before she changes her mind.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, then hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey.”

You peek out from under the blanket, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

His expression softens, a flicker of guilt passing over his face. “Thanks. For, y’know, taking the blame.”

You roll your eyes but nudge his foot with yours. “It’s the least I could do.”

He grins at that, rocking back on his heels before reaching for your hand. His fingers thread through yours easily, like it’s something he’s been doing forever, and your chest tightens at the casual intimacy of it.

You try not to let it show, but he catches it anyway. Because of course he does.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, and your breath stutters just slightly. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more serious.

“I promise I’ll never put you in a situation like this again.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He winces. “Okay, yeah, that was definitely a lie.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder. “Come on, Stilinski. Let’s go face the music.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face as he follows you toward the door. “If my dad tries to give me the talk at the breakfast table, I am walking into oncoming traffic.”

You grin, bumping his hip with yours as you head downstairs. “Relax. My mom likes you.”

“That’s what worries me,” he mutters, but his fingers are still laced with yours, and somehow, even with the looming awkwardness of breakfast with both your parents, it doesn’t feel so bad.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #gender neutral reader #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski x reader fluff #stiles stilinski fanfiction

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thedemoninme141 · 8 months ago

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Not A Bad Day.

Parings: Wednesday x Female Reader!

Summary: Wednesday is having a bad day.

Warning: FLUFF!!! WhippedWednesday! Soggy Shoes! (Author's note: The Office inspired me to write this.) Main Masterlist

Wednesday considered herself well-acquainted with misery, but today seemed particularly intent on testing her patience. From the moment she woke up—thirty minutes late, no less— a mortifying mistake that never would have happened at home. There, her beheading alarm would have swiftly corrected such negligence.

She sighed, Dreams about you might be her demise one day.

Getting dressed was a simple affair, but Wednesday’s shirt decided to be uncooperative, with a button popping off as she fastened it. She muttered darkly under her breath, already plotting how she’d punish the garment later.

She couldn't escape her room without hearing Enid's annoying "Good morning Willa." She can already feel it; this day is going to get worse.

The next blow to her day came in the form of a WHOLE two-point deduction on her literature test. Ninety-eight out of one hundred. Unacceptable. Wednesday had never scored below a perfect hundred in her life, and the sight of that glaring red "98" felt like a personal affront. She glared at the paper, as if willing it to correct itself through sheer force of will. But it remained stubbornly the same.

If that weren't enough, Bianca had beaten her in the fencing match. It wasn't that Bianca was an unworthy opponent; on the contrary, she was the only student who ever gave Wednesday a challenge. She had lost to her before but losing to her today, of all days, felt like a deliberate twist of fate.

Then there was lunch. Wednesday was usually content to sit alone, Only reason she started sitting with Enid is because... You, with your disgustingly wholesome smile, would be there, chatting with the group as Wednesday would steal her glances at you. But not today, you had to sit with the group from your art class. She doesn't care it was because of your group project, all she saw was how you laughed at something someone said, your smile like a knife twisting in her gut. She stabbed her fork into her lunch with unnecessary force, imagining it was the face of each and every person at your table. She dissected them in her mind, weighing their worth and finding them all significantly lacking. Why did you seem so content, so oblivious to her glaring presence?

So hurriedly, she got up, distracted by another sound of you laughing, running into Kent, who managed to spill his drink all over her freshly cleaned boots. The shock on his face as he stammered apologies did nothing to quell the rage bubbling in Wednesday’s chest. She was about to take out her knife and skin him alive in front of the whole school, but the whole school also included "you". So she just shot him a glare that promised retribution far worse than anything he could imagine before marching off to her next class. Her boots squelched unpleasantly with every step, and she found herself grinding her teeth in frustration.

When she returned to her room, She found Enid, frantically digging through her side of the room, tossing clothes and accessories in every direction as she prepared to go somewhere. Normally, the sight would have irritated Wednesday beyond measure, but today, it promised peace and quiet in the room once Enid left. Finally, she could get her writing time all to herself without Enid's constant chatter with Ajax on the phone.

She settled at her desk, getting her typewriter ready, Enid piped up, not waiting for Wednesday to ask what she was up to.

"I'm going to the mall with the girls, Do you wanna come too?"

Wednesday didn’t even look up from her typewriter. "Absolutely not."

Enid didn’t seem fazed by the cold response and, still humming a tune under her breath, made her way to the bathroom. Wednesday was just about to enjoy the rare tranquility of the room when she heard a soft knock at the door.

She opened it with her usual grimace, only for it to fade slightly at the sight of you standing there. Your bright eyes met hers as you greeted her with a warm smile, one that always seemed to disarm her no matter how much she steeled herself against it.

"Hey, Wednesday! Is Enid ready yet?" you asked, your voice light and friendly.

Before Wednesday could respond, Enid's muffled voice rang out from the bathroom, "Five minutes!"

Wednesday shifted awkwardly, the silence stretching out as you stepped into the room. She closed the door behind you, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in her chest.

"Thanks," you said, making yourself comfortable on Enid's bed. You glanced over at Wednesday, your expression softening. "Hey, why don't you come with us? It could be fun." you said just as Enid got out of the bathroom. "Wednesday? Fun? She’s not really into shop—"

"I need to buy a watch." Wednesday interrupted, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. She could have slapped herself. A watch? Out of all the excuses in the world, that was the best?

Enid blinked in confusion, her brows furrowing. "But you don’t even wear a—"

"I wear now," Wednesday snapped, cutting her off sharply. Her cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of color.

"Okay then, Get out of those soggy shoes if you wanna join us," Enid said,

Soggy shoes? Owh... she had been wearing coffee-soaked shoes in front of you the whole time? Where was her mind today? This day can't get any worse.

Yet, somehow, it did. There she was, suffering through the ordeal of Enid browsing through every hideous, brightly coloured dress imaginable. She watched as Enid and Yoko flitted from rack to rack like hyperactive butterflies, pulling out monstrosities of neon and glitter. She shuddered internally at the thought of anyone ever considering those abominations fashion.

"How long can it possibly take to find something as uninspired as a pink sweater?" Wednesday muttered under her breath, glancing at her forcefully bought watch for what felt like the hundredth time. It was getting late. If it were up to her, she’d have left Enid and Yoko to fend for themselves. A mugging wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to them after sunset. But then there were you, and Wednesday wouldn't want you to lose the purse she gifted you on your last birthday. It was annoyingly, pathetically enough to make her stay.

The drive back was hardly any better. The bus was packed, loud, and the journey felt interminable. Enid and Yoko continued their chatter, oblivious to Wednesday’s increasingly sour expression. She stared out of the window, willing the outside world to disappear so she could retreat into her thoughts. If only her powers could manifest to the point of invisibility, she’d gladly vanish right there.

But then, something changed. A weight on her shoulder.

You, sitting beside her, leaned your head against her shoulder as you let out a tired sigh. You had drifted off, exhausted from the day, and the quiet weight of your presence was the most soothing thing Wednesday had experienced all day. Wednesday didn’t move, didn’t dare to breathe too deeply for fear of disturbing you. The chaos around her faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic sound of your breathing.

Not a bad day, she thought. Not bad at all.

(Why am I writing so much fluff, Celine would be so disappointed at me lol)

#wednesday x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams fanfic #wednesday addams x you #wednesday #jenna ortega x female reader #jenna ortega x reader #wednesdayaddams #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #wednesday x female reader #wednesday x fem reader #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x fem!reader #netflix wednesday

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sherryrowen · 6 months ago

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Slumbertale Sans!

Slumbertale is one of the first aus I saw when I joined the Undertale fandom, it’s very interesting and it’s Sans is one my favorite Sans variants out there!

I mean, look at him!! He has a cool galaxy nightgown and a bubble blowing pipe!! Granted, I took some liberties and changed and added a few little things in my fanart (namely the bubble blowing pipe design which seemed to be different in the comic), but it still looks great! All in all, I had a lot of fun doing this one, painting the galaxy in his nightgown was my favorite part of doing this fanart, although I had a lot fun just doing the whole thing!

And I just want to mention one little thing, the Papyrus in this AU is just SO ADORABLE!! I just wanna say his design is also my favorite Paps variant! Ya’ll have to check Slumbertale if haven’t already!

(Slumbertale Sans belongs to @rainingskeletons )

Also here’s a close up for the juicy details.

#artists on tumblr #digital art #art #digital artist #digital drawing #fanart #sans undertale #digital illustration #slumbertale #undertale au #sans fanart #my art

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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Stars Align

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as age gap, manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Steve Rogers was one of the biggest stars of Hollywood’s Golden Era. For years, his disappearance from the spotlight has been a mystery, that is until he walks right into your life. (Old Hollywood AU/1960s AU)

Characters: silverfox!Steve Rogers, reader is named 'Satyr' for clarity

Note: I enjoy older music and musicals. I tend to drift into this idea whenever I'm enjoying some and I finally said fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

1965

Satyr

"Oh, Margie, can I get some of that lipstick?" The blonde with crystal blue eyes nudges the scarlet-headed vixen tracing her lips with a deep shade of crimson in the mirror crowded with women in sticking and short skirts.

"You should've thought ahead, Carla," the redhead pops her lips. "We're friends up until that curtain opens."

"Oh, boo. It's lipstick."

"It's mine," the other woman retorts and slides the lid on the tube with a smug smirk.

You overhear from the corner where you move your feet and try to recall the choreography. It's made more difficult with the cacophony of voices and the crush of bodies fogging the backstage with heat. Most are more concerned with the beading in their bodices or the curls across their brows.

You didn't think of any of that. You spent your scarce savings on the bus ticket and kept the change to eat for the day. You look down at yourself, wondering if you've missed something important. The advert said 'dancers needed' for an open audition. It didn't say anything about sequins or eyeliner.

The more you look around, the more it feels like a mistake. Your mother is right. It’s a pipe dream. You’ve spent all your money on coming to New York to embarrass yourself.

But no! This is your one chance at Broadway! Broadway! You still can’t believe it. All your life you dreamt of being on a stage, and somewhere deep down, a screen. Even if the very idea makes your stomach bubble. The singing, the dancing, the stories... you wanted to bring that same fantasy to girls like you.

There’s not much room on the silver screen for musicals anymore but the city is thriving. Or so you read in the magazines your mother calls rages.

“One minute, ladies,” the stage manager calls from the edge of the curtain, “shoes.”

The other women clamour, clicking and tapping around in their heels. You peek down and wiggle your toes in your soft-toed flats. They’re farm shoes. Scuffed from you dancing on the swept barn floor.

You line up in order of the numbers pasted to your chests. The paper curls at the corner from your previous stomping and the crinkle is slightly agitating. You are made even shorter as you’re the only auditioner without at least a few extra inches under her heels.

The stage manager blows a whistle and orders the first girl out, swirling his finger to herd you out like sheep. “Out, out, out. Line up. Don’t waste time.”

As you go to pass the dour man and his tin whistle, he stretches his arm out and you bounce off of it. You step back into the woman behind you. She grunts in surprise.

“You, where are your shoes?”

“Sir? I have shoes--”

“Heels,” he snaps his fingers in frustration, “those are not going on my stage. Take them off. Dance on your toes!”

You blink and your lip trembles. You’re mortified. He grabs your arms and yanks you of the way. “You got ten seconds to get those off and get in line.” He lets you go and points the other woman out, once more barking the same sentiment.

You don’t think. You just do. You tear off your flats and leave them forgotten on the floor. You slip in your stockings and stop again. You roll them down and kick them away, swiftly running out to find your place in line.

The woman next to you with the flaxen blonde hair with straight-cut bangs mutters something and laughs. You don’t pay her any mind as you dig down to recall the choreography. You got this. If you can remember Ginger Rogers famous Swing Time masterpiece, you can get this.

Judith, the black-haired, prim-lipped instructor who previously took you through the steps a grand total of once, comes to the front of the stage. The tin whistle blows and the chatter hushes. You peer between the bodies and see the panel of six sat along the front row. One of them must be the director, the rest you’re unsure.

As Judith raises her hand in a silent count down from five, you remember to get on your toes. Your bare feet are frozen in the airy theatre. This is it. You’re about to dance for your life.

As she closes her fist and the music begins to play from an old victrola, you fall into action. You elude the dancer next to you that goes to the left rather than the right and you focus on your posture. As you meld into the music, you disappear from the room and into your imaginary spotlight. You are back among the cattle and the sheep, watching you flail around in the moonlight.

You are only brought back by the squeal of another. Further ahead, a dancer is on the floor. The stage manager blows the whistle and promptly orders her away. She gets up, limping as her shoe dangles from her ankle, and scurries with her face covered.

You don’t stop. If you can ignore your father’s hammering and your mother’s hollering, you can get through this. Your eyes flick up as your body follows the recital in your head. There are two figures higher up, shrouded in shadow. You can’t make out more than their silhouettes. There sharp shoulders suggest two men, but why would they be sitting in on this?

More are picked away from the crowd for missteps and trips and some every break into tears and run off of their own volition. The chaos adds to the beating of your heart but you can’t stop. Every penny you have depends on this. Your pride, not that it’s very much, is hanging from this fraying thread.

As you continue along the progressions, one of the men in the back stands and his voice rolls through the music. The other remains and sits forward in his chair. The song plays on and your feet don’t stop. The steps feel more natural as the rows thin out around you.

The victrola quiets as you hit the final step. You’re breathless but enlivened. The man in the back stands and follows the other’s departure at a calmer pace.

Judith begins her countdown and the manager shouts, “again!”

Steve

Steve Rogers follows the pin-striped tails of his companion down the back hall. It’s been a while since he’s been in a theatre. Yet, it isn’t his last visit that plays in his head. It’s those early days, when he was a spindly little stagehand, brushing wigs, fluffing capes, and moving scenery. Before simplicity was so damned depressing.

Sam leads him along the back row as the stage stands empty ahead of them. His agent sits first before he can bring himself to do the same. It’s not just that creak in his knee, it’s the way it all feels so familiar but strange. It’s like going home and seeing a new family living in the same house you were raised in.

“Looks like we missed the preliminaries,” Sam mutters.

Steve puts his hands on his thighs as he pushes his shoulders wide. He squints. He can see the figures along the front row. Six of them; the usual, a director, the co-director, and the backers. He rubs his eyes as he tries to clear them and sighs.

“Don’t say a word,” Steve grumbles as he feels around his jacket and dips his hand beneath. He slips the hard leather-bound case from his pocket and opens it on its tight hinges. He unfolds the glasses he only wears at the typewriter.

Sam abides but not without a lingering look that makes him squirm. He’s already agitated. He’s not used to this yet. It should be like riding a bike, shouldn’t it? Ugh, this is a bad idea.

“Relax,” Sam says, sensing his uneasiness. “This is day one, alright? No pressure. We don’t have to find nobody today. This is just... putting our toes in the pond. See what’s out there. This doesn’t work out, we can see how well Frank’s kid can dance. She’s cute.”

“Sinatra? No way,” Steve growls. “I don’t want anyone famous. It’s the whole reason...” He trails off and shakes his head.

“Well, keep in mind, these are amateurs. You’re not gonna find Hayworth here. Or anywhere, these days.”

Steve glances over at his agent and sighs, “I was having dinner with Rita when you were still in diapers, kid,” he warns.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam waves him off as voices rise behind the curtain. “Looks like things are about to get interesting.”

Steve plants his elbow on the narrow armrest and shifts in the seat. He doesn’t remember them being so uncomfortable. He remembers sitting in them for hours; for premiers, for awards shows, just for the hell of it.

His chest flickers. He hasn’t felt that since the first time he faced a camera. It was different then. Things were still black and white. If Fred’s still got it, he must too.

Why is he doing this? Why couldn’t he just stay in that house and be, not happy, but alone. Unbothered. Why now? Why did the itch start until his skin felt ready to split? He’s gotta try. He’s Steve Damn Rogers and he always gets back, it just took a little longer this time.

A whistle blows and he crinkles his face. Ugh, the noise. That will be the hardest to get used to. When did he get so boring? Maybe when fun turned out to be so painful.

Women flow out in rows. They arrange themselves along the stage as a woman stands at the front with a black blunt haircut. She watches them fan over the space. There’s a pause before another follows the third line back. Then another skitters out with no shoes and inserts herself into the empty space left between the previous dancers.

He rests his chin on his fist curiously. He doesn’t miss the disarray that much. He remembers being behind those curtains and watching the hopefuls run off in tears. Sometimes, they took his handkerchief, other times they ran right past him.

Why are those times easier to remember? Why do the shining ones, the ones in bright Hollywood lights, not excite him? No, no, don’t think of that. It’s not gonna be that way this time. This time, it’s his rules. His script, his movie.

The music begins and his focus on the dozens of dancers. There’s almost too many to keep track of. Yet his eyes come back to that third row. The girl dancing on her toes in bare feat. She moves like silk or satin in the wind. So effortless. Yet everything else about her doesn’t belong. The way she moves is how one should onstage, but her beige dress and plain hair do nothing to make her stand out.

A woman near the front trips and lands on her knees. She cries out as she’s ushered off. His eyes flit back to that girl with no shoes. She doesn’t even wince.

“Ah, this is a wash,” Sam grumbles. “Look at them, a bunch of nobodies. Can’t even stay on tempo.”

“How would you know?” Steve mutters back.

“I got an eye for this stuff, don’t I? I represent the greatest actor in the world.”

“Funny,” Steve drawls dryly.

“I need a smoke. Let me know if anything interesting happens.” Sam stands and struts out.

Steve remains. He pushes his glasses closer to his eyes as he leans forward. The women fade, all but one, that one. The one in the bare feet. It’s like she’s in another world. As he watches her, he feels liek he is too.

The music stops. Her final pose is perfect. On beat, posture good, sharp. He rolls his tongue around. This could work. It could. He doesn’t need another... well, don’t worry about her. He needs someone to mold but not without substance. She can dance, that’s all he needs. The rest can be learned.

He stands with one last look and leaves, his feet weighed down as the music begins again. He stops in the hallway behind the theatre and faces the door. He could sit and watch her for hours. No, he needs to get Sam. They’re not doing this again. He knows it’s her. It has to be. He doesn’t feel so... itchy.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #old hollywood #1960s #captain america #marvel #mcu #avengers

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soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

Text

Broken Showers Aren't All Bad - Alec Lightwood x female reader

Summary: You use Alec's shower as yours is broken

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: none

Y/N’s POV

As I stumble back to the institute, my muscles aching and my clothes stained with sweat and demon ichor, I can’t help but feel a sense of exhaustion weighing heavily on my shoulders. The fight against the shax demons had been relentless, each blow and dodge taking its toll on my body and spirit.

Dragging myself to my room, I’m grateful for the ensuite bathroom, the promise of a hot shower offering a small sliver of comfort amidst the chaos and danger that constantly surrounds us. But as I step into the shower and turn on the water, my relief quickly turns to frustration as the pipes splutter and the flow of water comes to an abrupt halt, leaving me standing there in disbelief.

With a groan of frustration, I pound my fist against the tiled wall, feeling a surge of pent-up anger and exhaustion bubbling to the surface. It's the last straw in a long line of setbacks and challenges, and I can't help but feel like I'm at the end of my rope. They said they had fixed my shower earlier today but it’s still fucked.

Desperate for a solution, I run through a mental checklist of every member of our group, trying to determine who might be willing to let me use their shower. Clary and Jace are out of the question—they're probably lost in each other's embrace, lost in their own world of love and passion. And Izzy, well, she doesn't know the meaning of privacy, likely to barge in without warning at any given moment.

That leaves Alec—the one person in our group who values his privacy above all else. It's a long shot, but I'm left with no other choice, especially as he’s out on a mission currently.

As I tiptoe through the dimly lit corridors of the Institute, my heart races with anticipation and a tinge of nervousness. I know I shouldn't be doing this, sneaking into Alec's room while he's away on a mission, but my own shower has been malfunctioning for days, and I can't stand the thought of going another day feeling unkempt.

The door to Alec's room creaks softly as I push it open, praying that no one hears. Stepping inside, I quickly make my way to the bathroom, feeling a rush of relief wash over me as I shut the door behind me. The warm steam soon envelops me as I strip off my clothes and throw my towel aside, longing for the hot water.

As I step into Alec's shower, the warmth envelops me like a comforting embrace, easing the tension that had been coiled tightly in my muscles. The steam fills the small space, wrapping around me like a gentle cloud, washing away the lingering remnants of fear and adrenaline from the encounter with the shax demons.

I close my eyes, letting the water cascade over me, each droplet a soothing caress against my skin. The scent of Alec's shampoo and soap fills the air, a familiar and comforting aroma that helps to ground me in the present moment.

With each passing second, the tension begins to melt away, replaced by a sense of relaxation and relief. The hot water works its magic, easing the ache in my limbs and soothing the bruises that litter my body from the fight.

I tilt my head back, letting the water cascade over my face, feeling the weight of the day's events slowly lift from my shoulders. In this moment, there is nothing but the sensation of warmth and cleanliness, a temporary reprieve from the chaos and danger that constantly surrounds us.

As I stand under the warm cascade of water in Alec's shower, a sense of tranquility washes over me, momentarily banishing the worries and fears that had plagued me earlier. But as the sound of footsteps approaches the door, my heart lurches in my chest, and panic sets in like a suffocating wave.

Alec’s footsteps are unmistakable—steady and purposeful, devoid of the usual warmth or joviality. My mind races with the worst-case scenarios, imagining his stern expression and sharp reprimands as he discovered me here, intruding upon his private space and using his stuff.

With trembling hands, I reach for the shower curtain, hastily pulling it closed around me as if it could shield me from the impending confrontation. My breath comes in shallow gasps, the steamy air feeling suddenly stifling as I await Alec's inevitable discovery.

The moment the bathroom door creaks open, my heart feels as though it’s lodged in my throat, and I shrink back against the tiled wall, desperately trying to make myself as small as possible on instinct. Through the opaque curtain, I can vaguely make out Alec’s silhouette, his presence looming like an impending storm.

“Who’s there?” His voice pierces through the heavy silence, sharp and authoritative, sending a shiver down my spine.

I swallow hard, my throat feeling dry and constricted. "It's me," I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper, my words muffled by the fabric of the curtain.

Alec’s footsteps draw nearer, and I can feel the weight of his gaze boring into me, even through the barrier of the shower curtain. Every nerve in my body is on high alert, bracing for the inevitable backlash of his discovery.

“What are you doing here?" His voice carries a note of incredulity, mixed with a hint of confusion.

I bite my lip, my mind scrambling for an explanation, any excuse that could possibly justify my presence here. "My shower... it's broken," I stammer out, my words coming out in a rushed tumble, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

There’s a moment of tense silence, broken only by the sound of water cascading from the showerhead. I brace myself for Alec's anger, fully expecting a sharp rebuke for my audacity.

But, to my surprise, when Alec finally speaks, his voice carries a note of understanding, his tone softer than I had anticipated. "Well, I suppose you can finish up here," he says, his words tinged with a hint of amusement.

Relief floods through me like a tidal wave, and I let out a shaky breath, feeling the tension in my muscles slowly begin to ebb away.

As I finish my shower, hastily drying off with a fluffy towel, a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as I realise my oversight—I forgot to bring clean clothes with me. With a frustrated sigh, I wrap the towel tightly around my body, hoping it provides at least some semblance of modesty as I prepare to face the inevitable embarrassment of leaving Alec's bathroom in just my towel.

Steeling myself for the inevitable, I take a deep breath and push open the bathroom door, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I step into the room beyond. My eyes dart nervously around the familiar surroundings, searching for any sign of Alec's presence.

And then, I see him—standing by the window, his back turned to me, his gaze focused intently on something outside. Relief floods through me at the sight, grateful for the temporary reprieve from the awkwardness of the situation.

But as if sensing my presence, Alec turns, his eyes widening in surprise as they travel the length of my body, lingering for a moment longer than is strictly necessary. A flush of crimson creeps into his cheeks, and he quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat in a feeble attempt to disguise his embarrassment. "Uh, sorry," he mumbles, his voice slightly hoarse, his eyes fixed resolutely on the floor. "I didn't realise you were... uh... here.”

I swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to my own cheeks as I struggle to find the right words to break the awkward silence that hangs between us. "I, uh... forgot to bring clean clothes," I mumble sheepishly, feeling like a fool for my forgetfulness.

Alec nods awkwardly, his cheeks still tinged with a faint blush. "Right," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Well, um... I can, uh, go get you something to wear... if you want.”

Instead of leaving the room to head to mine he moves to his chest of drawers, searching for something for me to wear. I feel a mix of gratitude and nervous anticipation, never expecting Alec to share his clothes with me let alone his shower. When he returns with a black t-shirt in hand, I accept it with a grateful smile, clutching it tightly against my chest as I wait for him to realise that he needs to turn away.

For a moment, Alec seems to falter, his gaze lingering on me expectantly until the realisation dawns on him. With a slight cough, he quickly averts his eyes, turning away to give me the privacy I need to pull the shirt over my head. As I slide the shirt on, I'm struck by how it drapes loosely over my frame, reaching down to mid-thigh and resembling more of a short dress than a typical t-shirt. The fabric is soft against my skin, imbued with Alec's scent, a comforting reminder of his presence.

When Alec finally turns back around, his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of me in his shirt, his gaze lingering on the way it hugs my curves and falls to the length of my thighs. A faint blush creeps into his cheeks once again, but this time, there's a hint of something else in his expression—a mixture of admiration and something deeper, more intimate.

"You, uh, look good in that," he stammers out, his voice slightly hoarse, his eyes flickering uncertainly as they meet mine.

I can't help but smile at his awkward attempt at a compliment, feeling a warmth spread through me at the genuine sincerity in his words. "Thanks," I reply softly, feeling a flutter of excitement in the pit of my stomach at the realisation that Alec's gaze lingers on me a moment longer than necessary, his eyes filled with a warmth that sends a shiver down my spine.

As I stand there in Alec's room, the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air, I can't shake the feeling of reluctance that settles in the pit of my stomach. Despite the lingering warmth of Alec's gaze and the newfound connection between us, I know that I can't stay here forever.

With a soft sigh, I muster up the courage to break the silence, clearing my throat awkwardly as I glance towards the door. "I should probably get back to my room," I say softly, the words feeling heavy on my tongue.

Alec nods in understanding, his expression unreadable as he steps aside to let me pass. "Yeah, of course," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.

As I make my way towards the door, a pang of regret washes over me, aching in my chest like a physical weight. Part of me had hoped that Alec would stop me from leaving, that he would reach out and pull me back into his embrace, unwilling to let me go.

But as I glance back over my shoulder, Alec's expression remains stoic and unreadable, his gaze fixed resolutely on the floor. With a heavy heart, I push open the door and step out into the hallway, the sound of it closing behind me echoing in the silence.

As I return to my room, the echoes of Alec's presence still lingering in my mind, I quickly slip on a pair of panties before reaching for the black t-shirt he lent me. With a momentary pang of guilt, I peel off the shirt, feeling a sense of loss as I momentarily remove the comforting fabric from my skin.

But the need for cleanliness overrides my reluctance, and I hastily pull on a clean bra before slipping Alec's shirt back over my head, the familiar fabric enveloping me once again in its warmth. Bringing the collar to my nose, I inhale deeply, breathing in the scent of Alec that lingers there, a mixture of soap and sweat and something uniquely him.

Lost in the comforting embrace of Alec's shirt, I'm startled by a sudden knock at my door, the sound jolting me back to reality. Swinging the door open, expecting to see Izzy, my breath catches in my throat as it’s Alec standing there instead. His expression is wrought with anxiety and before I can even utter a word of inquiry, he closes the gap between us in two swift strides, his hands reaching out to cup my face in a surprisingly gentle yet urgent grip.

The world seems to tilt on its axis as Alec's lips crash against mine, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending my heart into a frenzied rhythm. His kiss is passionate and breathless, a whirlwind of emotions and desires unleashed in a single moment of raw vulnerability.

I'm momentarily stunned, my mind struggling to catch up with the sudden turn of events. But as Alec's lips move fervently against mine, a surge of warmth floods through me, melting away any doubts or reservations I may have had.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him closer, losing myself in the intoxicating sensation of his touch. His hands are rough and calloused against my skin, a stark contrast to the softness of his lips as they trail a fiery path along my jawline and down my neck.

In that moment, there is nothing else but Alec and me, lost in the dizzying whirlwind of passion and longing. The world outside fades away, replaced by the electric intensity of our connection as we become entangled in each other's embrace.

And as Alec finally pulls away, his chest heaving with exertion, I'm left breathless and exhilarated, a million thoughts and emotions swirling through my mind. “Do it again,” I s all I can breathe, Alec’s response immediate and impassioned. With a hunger that matches my own, he presses me against the nearest wall, his lips claiming mine with a fervour that leaves me dizzy with desire. In that moment, it feels as though we're the only two people in the world, lost in the intensity of our connection.

His hand finds its way to my bare thigh beneath his shirt, hitching my leg around his waist, pulling me impossibly closer as if he can't bear to be apart from me even for a moment longer. The sensation of his touch sends a shiver of pleasure coursing through me, igniting a fire that threatens to consume us both. Every caress, every kiss feels like an affirmation of the bond between us, a silent promise of things to come.

But our stolen moment of passion is abruptly interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Reluctantly, we break apart, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as we turn to find Izzy standing in the doorway of my room, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

"Welllllll" she says, her voice laced with amusement. “Sorry to interrupt this but I need to steal Y/N,” she adds with a wink, "you two can continue this later. Preferably with the bedroom door closed this time.”

I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment at being caught in such a compromising position, burying my face in Alec’s shirt who's gaze remains unwavering as he meets Izzy's teasing grin with a smirk of his own.

“Later Izzy," he replies smoothly, his tone laced with amusement. “10 more minutes.”

With that Izzy snorts and closes the door on her way out, a fond smile on her face and Alec pulling me into his arms, a hug that has me nuzzling into the crook of his neck not sure what this is between us.

“I never thought I’d be happy about a broken shower.”

“Me neither.”

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

#Alec Lightwood #Alec Lightwood fluff #Alec Lightwood smut #Alec Lightwood angst #tmi #the mortal instruments one shots #the mortal instruments #Alec Lightwood x reader #Alec Lightwood x you #Alec Lightwood x y/n #Matthew daddario #shadowhunters

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