#Okai Neon II

[rianmobili]

Top 10 Most Popular Electric Scooters

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

[cheriecelestial]

Angel Pt.1

pairing*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Red Hood!Jason Todd X fem!reader

disclaimer*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. slight suggestive content (?). swearing. canon typical violence. kinda long. not proofread !

a/n*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ based on that one prompt “Wow ! You’ve grown so much since I last babysat you” “I want to rail you so bad”. Reader is like 26 and Jason is 19-20. Set in the WFA verse + joyfire are a team. Kinda non canon complacent. Smut in part II

Part II

Under the nocturnal skyline of Gotham perched on a towering building was the vigilante anti- hero Red Hood watching, observing the city like a hunter stalking its next prey. His jacket whipped against the wind of the boisterous and animated city. He closed his eyes and listened to song of wailing sirens and the distant cries of people, ready to respond to the city's calls for help.

Gotham was a city that, much like its vigilantes, thrived in the night. The city was hued in the rapturous and vivacious of the nightlife. Neon signs flickered casting flashes of colours across the pavements of the night clubs. People scattered across the pavements like ants, some making their way home from a tiring day of work, others more aimless and leisure - their destinations less defined and indulgent. He pulled out his grapple hook gun and shot to a building a few blocks away from where his bike was parked.

In the shadowed alleyways, Red Hood felt a sinister presence stir. He kept walking without letting them know that he noticed their presence. By the footsteps, he could tell six no.. seven. Four of medium build and three a bit more burly. Judging by their lack of ability to mask their footsteps, he could guess they're amateurs. Well in all honesty, almost everyone was an amateur compared to him. Slowing his pace, Red Hood's hands instinctively moved to his holster, anticipating a potential confrontation. Nothing beat the thrill of beating up bad guys. However, amid the approaching group, he discerned another set of footsteps — urgent, lighter, tinged with fear, and most importantly heading directly toward him.

He felt someone clutch the lapel of his jacket desperately. "You're a vigilante, aren't you ? Please help me sir. I think there are bad people following me." Red Hood looked to his side and saw a woman much shorter than him and shaking like a leaf in wind. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. It had been almost a decade since he had gazed into those warm large eyes—a fragment of his childhood that he had long relegated to oblivion. Jason Todd had what most would call a troubled childhood. Abandoned by his birth mother and the only other one he had dead from drug abuse and an even worse father who died the hands of Two Face. Tossed through the foster system, he eventually found himself on the unforgiving streets of Gotham. Amid the darkest moments of his youth, one saving grace remained —his angel,Y/N L/N. One he completely forgot about when he assumed the mantle of Robin.

"Help me please." She implored, her voice trembling and on the verge of breaking - the same one who would calm his raging storm on bad nights and tell him that he was going to be okay, and in the moment he swore he was. Her gaze shifted between the men and the vigilante, moving closer to him without realizing to shield herself from the villains in the shadows. Almost as if in a trance, he raised his gloved hand to caress her cheek as if to check if she was real or not. "Just follow my lead." He spoke in a low tone and the woman nodded frantically. His hand encircled her wrist and he started running, dragging her behind him the second he heard the thugs charge. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't think twice before starting a fight and having it his way. But he couldn't bear endangering her in the slightest so getting her to safety was the only viable option.

Her breath came in rapid gasps, and beads of sweat glistened on side of her forehead as they navigated the maze of alleyways in their path. The flickering glow of distant streetlights created fleeting glimpses of their pursuers. Her heart pounded in her chest like the strumming of a frantic drum as adrenaline pumped poisoned her veins. Jason noticed that she couldn't run fast enough to outrun the thugs with her stamina. "Sorry about what I'm about to do”,he warned in a hushed whisper and without hesitation, he lifted her over his shoulder and began running. Y/N gasped, clutching onto the vigilante for dear life. Wind ruffled her hair as she watched the vigilante leave behind their pursuers effortlessly. "You know if this vigilante thing doesn't work out you could try out for the Olympics." She muttered not realizing she said it out loud. Red Hood let out a gruff laugh, "I could but I like beating up bad guys and saving people such as yourself just a tad bit more angel." Y/N blushed at the nickname but waved it off as commonplace banter.

He set her down next to his bike. And took off his chocolate coloured jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "How could I ever thank you?" The h/c haired woman smiled at him with a smile so infectious that the corners of Jason's lips curled up without his realising under his mask. "Don't thank me just yet princess. They aren't near done." Y/N blinked in confusion and followed Red Hood's line of sight where she saw three black cars racing towards them. Her features morphed from relief to horror and alarm in the blink of an eye.The vigilante revved his bike and looked at her,"What are you waiting for?" The woman looks at the approaching cars and back at the vigilante, contemplating her options and got on the back of his bike. His hand envelops her and plants it onto his waist as if silently asking her to hold onto him. Y/N flinches at the contact as it she touched something really hot and retracted her hand.

The masked vigilante plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and strapped it on her head."You might want to hold on angel." Y/N hums in acknowledgment and holds the grab handle behind the seat. Jason rolled his eyes at her refusal to hold onto him and revves the engine making her lurch forward and crash into his back. Realising that doing this any other way apart from his was futile, Y/N timidly encircled her arms around his waist.

The vibrations of the engine shook her whole being as he raced down the streets. The streets, trees, people blurred in her peripheral vision and she started feeling light-headed. Gathering all the morsels of courage she could find, she looked behind her to see the thugs chasing them. They hadn't lost the three cars and things just got worse when she saw a man peek his head out of the window with a fun in his hand. I'm so dying today. She clasped her hands tighter around him and pressed her face against his rigid muscular back in fear.

Sensing her unease, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her infront of him. Y/N let out a yelp from the suddenness of the contact.

"What are you -"

"You don’t want your back facing them when they start shooting soon." Y/N looked over his shoulder to the thugs and then sunk back into and then sank back against his chest.

"You know if it makes you feel better just know this is an average Tuesday for me." Y/N blinked at him incredulously and in a small voice muttered,"It's Thursday today." A nonchalant shrug was all the answer he decided to give her. How the hell does he manage to remain calm through it? I'm on the verge of a panic attack and he's swerving as if this is a joyride in his kingdom. And in that moment if someone said that he was the king of Gotham, Y/N would find it hard to refute it.

The bike picked up speed causing the h/c haired woman to crash against his chest harshly. It was as if the pressure of the wind glued her against him. To calm herself, she decided to try concentrating elsewhere. Absentmindedly trailing the ridges of his armour and the red bat symbol on his chest. She heard whispers and rumours about Red Hood, the prince of crime, the scourge of the underworld—an outlaw employing more lethal methods against crime than Batman. Despite initial conflicts with Batman, he was acknowledged as a Bat vigilante some time ago. This man was dangerous and unpredictable then why did he feel so familiar to her ?

“I know I have god-tier pectoral muscles but I’d appreciate if you stopped distracting me like that.” Red Hood quipped, sounding almost smug at her fascination. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly withdrew her hand, realising how inappropriate that must’ve felt and hastily clarified,“ I’m so sorry, I’m not a pervert I swear.” Y/N felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Hold on.” Red Hood skidded the bike across the road with a loud screech, making Y/N wince at the sound of the metal scratching against the gravel. He loaded his gun with one hand still wrapped around Y/N protectively and aimed at the tires of the approaching car. “I’d suggest for you to not look at it.”Y/N averted her gaze and moments later, she heard a series of crashes and explosions.

“Jesus Christ I thought I was going to die !” She exhaled in relief. Red Hood turned his face towards her slowly and looked at her as if deadpanning through the mask,“ I’m here you know. What makes you think I’d let you die ?” He retorted taking full offence of her words. “I- I didn’t mean it like that -” she stammered, partly scared to offend the vigilante.

"Whatever I'll drop you off." Jason rolled his eyes and patted the seat behind him. Y/N hesitated, remembering her mother's warning about getting on bikes with strange men, but given her current situation, she realized it was too late to dwell on that now. With no one pursuing them, the ride felt much more pleasant. The speed and the wind against her hair seemed to turn her blood to gasoline as the air dissipated from her lungs. Adrenaline fueled activities weren't for her, at least that's what her sense of self preservation told her. Y/ N pressed her cheek against Red Hood's back. Vigilantes had a symbiotic relationship with the city and as was a common saying in Gotham "The less bats you run into the happier your life is." She knew that this encounter might be a fleeting one, so she decided to relish the moment for now.

Feelings and thoughts were long forgotten, where everything faded into the background and only her physical self exists and the dancing lights at the hazy edges of her vision offered an intoxicating taste of freedom that was indescribable — stripped of obligations, responsibilities and consequences.

Y/N almost doesn’t notice when he stopped the bike. “Do you plan on holding onto me for long ? Not that I mind but we’re here.” Red Hood hopped off the bike and Y/N took off her helmet and hung it onto the handlebar. She scanned her surroundings, they were in front of a five star hotel with sports cars parked on either side of of the road. “Why are we here ?” The woman asked following behind the masked vigilante. “Well for one I don’t know your address so I can’t drop you home and second it’s too late so you should stay the night at a hotel and go home in the morning. It’s safer that way.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief,“ But I don’t have the kind of money to rent a room in a place like this.” Red Hood retrieved a key card from his pocket and placed it on her palm,“Who said anything about paying ?” The h/c haired took it reluctantly and slowly walked to the entrance of the hotel, looking back at him again and again. It wasn’t until she was inside the hotel that she saw him drive off. Y/N walked to the concierge desk and showed her the card. The receptionist eyed her with suspicion considering how she looked so out of place compared to her opulent setting. “Please fill this form. It’s for security purposes.”

The form asked things like her address and her phone number. As reluctant as she was, the receptionist looked like she wasn’t letting her through unless she filled it. Wary of the dangers of misuse of information, Y/N tried to keep her responses as brief as possible. Paranoia was the best friend of a Gothamite considering everything that went down in this hellhole. It was good to always assume the worse and subsequently prepare for it.

The receptionist offered her a tight smile and walked her to the suite. Calling it a suite was an understatement since it was the penthouse on top of the hotel. Just how rich is this guy ? Y/N assumed that the house was a property he didn’t live in because the place lacked personal touch. Either that or he was a real minimalist which was unlikely considering bat vigilantes’ love for theatrics. Y/N wondered if all the bat vigilantes were like a huge family with Batman as papa bat. Where would Red Hood fall in the hierarchy ? If she were to guess, she’d say he was probably the black sheep of the family. Y/N looked around the house, it was one straight out of architectural digests with its high ceilings and cool grey and white interior. She looked at the time and decided it was best if she hit the shower and go to bed and finally put an end to this crazy day.

Jason Todd checked into the hotel the next morning and was greeted by the overly friendly receptionist, personally he didn’t mind fangirls but anyone with even half a braincell knew the risks of being a vigilante groupie. She passed him the form that Y/N filled. He couldn’t help but smile at the form. Filling her work address and a phone number both which were most likely false give the conspicuous number of 7’s in the number ? She’s smarter than most civilians, he’d give her that. The penthouse looked almost unhampered with. His jacket was neatly folded on the dining table with a note reading “Thank you so much for saving me. Regards.” The tone of the note was clear ‘I appreciate you saving me but I hope we never meet again.’ Jason pocketed the note and left the penthouse. Fates had been kind enough to reunite him with his angel and he’d be damned if he let her get away .

“Yoohoo Y/N to earth. Anybody home ?”Y/N’s coworker snapped her fingers in front her face, snapping her out of her reverie. “Sorry about that Steph.” Y/N apologised with an awkward laugh. Stephanie Brown, albeit several years younger, was one of Y/N’s closest friends. She was a bubbly and cheerful soul anyone could tell that by the first impression she projected.

Since the night almost a week ago with the mysterious vigilante, Y/N often found her thoughts plagued by him. Curiosity of where he would be or what he would be doing right now. Her eyes often looked for any news of him while watching the news. I really have to stop thinking about him, even though they lived in the same city, the odds of them running into each other were minute.

The door opened and the bell on top of it clanged, announcing the arrival of a customer. “Mornin’ ladies.” The customer greeted. Y/N turned her attention at the newcomer at the counter. “Good morning detective !” she greeted the customer with a bright smile.

Dick Grayson served as a police officer under the GCPD and was one of the cafe’s frequents. From experiences of her own childhood, Y/N consider the police nothing but corrupt individuals on payroll of powerful people who bullied those weaker than them. But detective Grayson was one of the good and honest ones. He played a massive role in restoring Y/N’s faith that there were those in the police force who could be relied upon and ones that fought for a better Gotham.

"I'll go with the..." he glanced at the menu, a ritual he often performed. "the regular?" Y/N finished his sentence. He responded with a smile, revealing his dimples. "I never understand why you bother with the menu when you always order the same thing," she remarked. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying 'who knows.' A smile crept onto her face as she made his order.

“So how’s everything with the family ?” Y/N asked, making small talk. Beyond his consistent ordering and punctual 9:00 AM café visits, he frequently shared his sibling issues. "Oh, where do I begin? My brother is acting up, yet again. He pulled some crap about a week ago. He broke one of Dad’s rules, even though he said he did it to help someone but Dad was just not having it."

“ Which one ? The cool rebellious one or the little gremlin one ?” Y/N laughed sympathetically. She didn’t feel the need to probe and ask much but she always lent an ear to a friend so naturally she knew them by characteristics and not by name. From what she knew, Dick Grayson had three younger brothers - the broody rebellious one, the caffein addict smartass and the 4 foot gremlin edgelord from hell.

“The rebellious one.” he sighed wearily. Y/N placed his order on the counter, including a small pack of cookies. “On the house. You could use some sugar anyway. They’re free testers before we put them on the menu.” Dick accepted the coffee and cookie packet, flashing a bright smile. “Thank you so much. You’re an angel.” An odd feeling resonated within her when Dick called her that. That’s what Red Hood called her. Somehow the way the word rolled off his tongue seemed so different compared to when anyone else said it.

“Hey Dick do you mind if I ask you something ?” Dick nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What do you know about the Red Hood ?”

Dick choked on his drink and burst into a fit of coughs. It took him a while to compose himself. “He’s alright. I mean he does help the GCPD I guess but he’s too unpredictable and we don’t exactly approve of his methods. He doesn’t hurt innocents but he’s bad news. Why do you ask ?”

“No reason.”Y/N brushed off the inquiry, and although Dick seemed skeptical, he left after leaving a tip. There. Is your curiosity satiated ? Even Dick said he’s bad news now can we stop thinking about him ? Her inner conscience reprimanded her.

Y/N's weary steps echoed in the quiet street as she walked home from work at night. The flickering light from the street lights streetlights casted long almost sentient looking shadows. Her thoughts — a mix of the day's challenges, the longing for the comfort of home blurred into oblivion when a strange chill crept up her spine with a sense of foreboding. Cautious of her surroundings, Y/N constantly kept watch around herself. Just a few yards before her apartment building, she heard their neighbourhood strays agitatedly hiss to something near the dumpster. Not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Gotham had brought to her feet, she fastened her pace. Suddenly, a flash of vibrant red —the same shade she had been secretly craving to see in the past week, caught her eye.

“Red Hood ?” Y/N stepped into the shadows cautiously as if ready to flee at the first signs of trouble.

“Angel ?” He asked gruffly. Y/N walked closer and found him against the wall, clutching his side. His wound wasn’t a death sentence but needed to be tended to quickly. Her eyes widened in horror when she noticed the crimson coating his fingers,“You’re hurt !”

“ ‘Tis but a scratch m’lady.” He let out a pained laugh seeming to ease her nerves. “We need to get that treated.” Y/N urged. She knew that vigilantes couldn’t just walked into hospitals to get patched up because of the whole secret identity thing. And she also knew that taking it upon herself to treat him would go against every plan of self preservation she had. But she owed him his life. I’ll pay off my debt and we’ll never meet again. Y/N mentally decided and looked at him with newfound determination in her eyes. “My apartment is just upstairs. I have a first aid kit. Come with me.”

Red Hood gazed at her, momentarily lost in thought, then lifted his other hand to gently stroke her cheek. Y/N flinched at his touch, making him withdraw his hand. “Sorry I thought I was hallucinating you because from the blood loss. ” He admitted meekly. Y/N sighed and placed his hand over her shoulder. “Can you stand?” The masked vigilante nodded, rising slowly with a grunt.

Swallowing her rising concern, she brought him to her house and beckoned him towards her couch. Red Hood’s every step betrayed a hint of discomfort, his grimace almost visible even behind that signature mask. The second he dropped on her couch, she disappeared. He caught flashes of her running around the house like a busy bee at work. In seconds, she produced a first-aid kit and knelt next to him. “Lift your shirt.” She maintained her clinical tone, but the concern was evident with her eyes trained on the wound.

“Angel you know if you wanted to –” Jason started with a cheeky tone but was cut off by a stern glare, “Ahem yes ma’am”

Y/N breath hitched every so slightly when she saw the injury. It didn’t look like a bullet wound, the malformed spindle shape resembled a stab wound. “I’m sorry I don’t have any anaesthetic.” She didn’t look up from the wound as her cotton swab glided over the grevions injury. Shifting her elbow to his other hand on his thigh, Red Hood tilted his head seemingly questioning her,“ You can hold my arm and squeeze it if it hurts. I’ve heard that helps.”

“Appreciate the gesture angel but I’m pretty sure I’d snap your arm in half if I did.” His tone was both dismissive and endearing. Y/N didn’t insist, given his strength what he said was probably true. Vigilantes were exceptionally trained, surpassing conventional human limits. Unlike the caped metahuman from Metropolis, the bat vigilantes were more cryptid in nature. None would be where they came from and where they went. Invulnerable and insurmountable. Despite him being in a position that would render others vulnerable, he appeared unfazed, akin to a wounded yet formidable beast. There was a natural aura of dominance and power about him. They don’t call him the Prince of Gotham for no reason that’s for sure.

“You’re good at this. Like one of the best I’ve seen.” He spoke up, seemingly trying to come off as capable of being civil. “Well three years of med school. Some stitching is the least I can do.” She explained. Red Hood visible froze for a good second and inquired,“ You’re a doctor ?”

Y/N scoffed,“ Look around. Do I look like one ?” Red Hood looked around her apartment. Although well maintained, an ode to her efforts, the apartment was old and almost pitiful . Most of the furniture looked second hand and cheap. The curtain rods were rusted and the paint was peeling off from the walls with damp spots on the ceilings.

“You dropped out ?” He guessed. “Yeah. Couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled bitterly.

“Didn’t they offer scholarships or something ?” Jason was aware of Wayne Enterprises’ scholarship programs for talented students. When Bruce took him in, he assured Jason that if Y/N met the criteria, she would be enrolled in the program. Y/N’s intellect had always impressed Jason since childhood, he remembered that she would often sneak into libraries and memorise books worth of stories to recite them to Jason to help him sleep. There was just no way she wouldn’t be accepted into the program.

“They did but that didn’t pay bills. I needed to find a job to pay for my mom’s hospital bills.” She kept her response short, clearly not wanting to delve deep into the topic. “Work for me.” The statement was like a whiplash for Y/N. Work for him ? There weren’t many things Y/N had to take a double take for but this proposition was entirely unexpected. It caught her off guard, she stared at him incredulously with widened eyes. Red Hood was know for operating in the gray areas between legality and criminality and wasn’t exactly your quintessential example of a righteous lawful hero.

“Not in the way you’re imagining.” He hooked his free hand under her chin, gently closing her agape mouth. His tone was soft and reassuring,“ I’ve been meaning to find a backstreet surgeon to stitch me up. Comes in handy for a guy like me. I’m sure you understand angel.”

“B-but why me ?”Y/N stuttered, avoiding eye contact as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel a chill of nervousness and panic creep up her spine. What if he got angry if she refused ? Jason noticed the change in the air around her and the stiffening of her muscles in panic that she was clearly trying to hide from him.

���Because you’re convenient. Your place is easy to get in and out of undetected, you’re talented and most of all —“ He gently lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Y/N let out a shuddered breath as Red Hood stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “— you fear me enough to not go around squeaking to the wrong people about me. No ?” Jason couldn’t help but relish in the reaction he elicited to the feeling of the leather gliding against her cheek in a silken featherlight touch. How adorable.

Y/N swallowed nervously before nodding slowly. A beat of silence passed and she let out a small sigh, recollecting herself and weighing her options. “How much are we talking ?” She asked him in a low voice. Jason could hardly contain his excitement, grinning wildly under his mask. A sense of pride washed over him as her first question after his offer focused on the financial aspect.

“Let’s see how about 2 grand a month ? Too less ? 3 grand ? 3.5 ? That enough ?”he suggested eagerly. Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief, almost bulging from their sockets. Without waiting for her response, he added, “Plus, there’ll be extra incentives when I’m feeling generous.”

“All that for some stitching ? There has to be a catch.” She reasoned. It seemed implausible that he would offer such a substantial sum for such a minor task. Jason chuckled," You’re smart. I like that in a woman. And to answer your question, it’s not just stitching. It’s about your discretion and loyalty. It’s a complete package. Plus that sort of money is pretty much pocket change to me.”

“And if I were to betray your trust ?” Y/N asked in a hypothetical sense, of course she had more sense than to betray someone of his stature and power. “Do you really want me to answer that ?” He countered sounding equal parts smug and menacing. Y/N shook her head in negation and continued stitching his wound. The process of stitching became a meditative rhythm - the needle piercing the skin, the pull of the thread, the knotting, and the slight twitch of Red Hood’s muscles with each stitch.

“I’ll take it.” She muttered. Jason was grateful for his mask and injury otherwise, he might have been unable to hide his urge to jump up and punch air in celebration. Agreeing to his proposition marked just the beginning of his grand plan for making Y/N his and for now, everything unfolded according to his wishes and he couldn’t be happier.

Y/N wrapped gauze around the wound and secured it with a metal clip. “Normally I’d suggest a few days’ rest but I have a feeling there’s no point in saying.” Red Hood commented with a shrug as he inspected the injury. Y/N rose and fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the table. “If you’re trying to get me to remove my helmet, it won’t work.” he remarked. As much as his distrust stung, Y/N rationalised that it was typical for someone like him.

She retrieved a scarf from the coat rack, folded it and tied it around her eyes before taking a seat on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectable distance from the masked vigilante. "What's with the blindfold angel ?" Red Hood asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"Isn't trust earned through actions?" she responded. Y/N heard the thud of his helmet being placed on the table. Jason seemed genuinely impressed by her gesture. His gaze lingered on her figure as she remained motionless, noting how much she had changed since his childhood memory. Yet her kindness to those in need while still keeping herself guarded from those who would abuse it still remained unchanged. Jason’s hand twitched with the impulse to touch her. To hold her. He wondered how her face would look in his palms with her bare body melded against his own.

“ ‘Suppose it is.” Jason chuckled as he downed the glass of water and put his helmet back on. “I’m finished. You can remove that blindfold now, although it does look adorable on you.” He noticed her chest rise with a sudden hitch, and her cheeks flush red. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, knowing the other implications blindfolds carried. As she removed the scarf and looked around, Red Hood had vanished without a trace. Her window was open and it was as if disappeared into the wind just as he came. She got why the bat vigilantes were often likened to cryptid beings and phantoms. Y/N was left to ponder over the events that had unfolded. Under the glass of water she offered him three hundred dollar bills were tucked. “I suppose I’m now working for the Prince of Gotham now.” Y/N mused to herself, realizing her attempt to avoid getting involved had failed miserably.

Jason's parents engaged in another round of screaming matches, this time he decided he’d had enough and thought of running away. Despite previous fleeting thoughts of escape, each time night fell — he faced the harsh reality of lacking sustenance and shelter. Convinced that the streets offered a marginally preferable refuge to the shithole he was force to call home, he wandered aimlessly till he found himself at the dumpster of a bakery. He knew shops like those threw away left overs even though they could’ve given them out — Jason saw it as a glaring manifestation of selfishness of adults.

He hid behind the dumpster and waited for someone to come and throw away the leftovers. After waiting for almost half an hour, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Glancing cautiously from his hiding spot, Jason spotted a young waitress walking out. She was likely just a few years older than himself, a middle school or a high school student maybe, he thought to himself. As she approached to dispose of the food, she paused midway. No way did she see him ? Jason shrank back against a cardboard box, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.

“Hey kid you can come out. I already saw you.” the waitress said softly. Jason slowly crawled out and approached her. He eyed the tray of leftovers in her hand, wondering if he could snatch them and escape quickly enough ? The waitress seemed to notice this and raised the tray above his reach. “Against bakery policies kid. Where are your parents ?” She asked. Of course she wouldn't be generous enough to offer him any. In his mind, all adults were rotten to the core and selfish —why would she be any different ?

Jason scoffed,“ Does it matter ?” His statement was met with a sigh from the waitress, her expression conveying annoyance, a scene all too familiar to him. Bracing himself he said,“ Just do it already. I’ve had it from guys thrice your size.” Jason was well acquainted with the drill with diner employees — catch a few shoves and slaps, pretend to go away and wait for them to leave and then come back pick up the food.

He shut his eyes and waited for her to slap and swear at him to drive him away like everyone else. Yet moments passed but the expected blow never came. Instead, Jason felt a gentle pat on his head and looked up to see her smiling empathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. Wondering why she seemed so melancholic, he accepted the loaf of bread she offered and wolfed it down. “Won’t you get in trouble for this ?” He asked. With a forced laugh she admitted,“ I probably will but I can’t let a kid hungry now can I ?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” The young boy promised earnestly and she returned his smile. His gaze fell upon her nametag—Y/N L/N. Maybe not all adults are bad.

It had been barely four days since she last saw him that she heard from him again. In the dead of night, her doorbell rang. She approached the door cautiously and grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella rack as a just in case. She didn’t hear any movement on the other side of the door so she cautiously opened the door, peering out. To her surprise, she found only a small, shoddily wrapped parcel resting on the floor with her name written in red.

There was no one except a small poorly wrapped parcel on floor with her name on it. Retrieving it, she carried it inside. Within the parcel lay a modest yet exquisite golden necklace accompanied by a handwritten instruction manual. Observing it she realised it was one of those necklaces that acted as an SOS signal. The parcel also contained a big folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a map of Gotham City with specific locations ominously marked in red and the stark warning “DO NOT GO” emblazoned in bold letters. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, maybe this is not all that bad.

Over the following days, Red Hood would appear unannounced giving Y/N enough jumpscares for lifetime, when she would walk into her living room and find him bleeding out on her couch. He wasn’t much of a talker which wasn’t a surprise.

His injuries presented a variety of shapes and sizes each time he visited, but recently, his injuries bore uncanny resemblance the markings of knife wounds. Some were superficial, while others cut deeper. However, considering the depth, placement, and angles, Y/N questioned whether they were the result of his typical fights. "Are you testing my loyalty? Seeing if I'll betray you?" Y/N clenched her teeth with silvers of anger and frustration glinting in her eyes. Red Hood appeared slightly taken aback but remained silent in response to her outburst. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice ? Either that certain type of knife has become Gotham’s thugs number one choice or you're doing this to yourself. Why ?" She pressed further.

“ I knew I shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”Jason wasn’t accustomed to others fussing over his safety. Typically he received, at most a pat on the back from those who worked alongside him, knowing he had endured much worse and could handle it. Her anger and frustration hinted at concern, echoing the tone when he would go and pick fights with boys twice his size.

“What’s that supposed to mean ?”

Red Hood let out a sigh and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, I enjoy spending time with you and I wouldn’t bother coming unless I needed medical attention. So you know —"

“— So you cut yourself ? To hang out with me ? What’s wrong with you ? What if you actually got into a fight with those injuries ? What if you got hurt for real ? You could really get hurt. How could you do that to yourself ? ”

Jason lowered his head in remorse, realizing he hadn't fully considered his actions. Despite understanding her perspective and acknowledging the wrong in purposefully hurting himself for her attention, he couldn't deny a secret sense of satisfaction. "I’m so sorry," he muttered his apology, genuinely meaning every word. Y/N released an exasperated sigh and took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "Next time, just ask. It's not that complicated."

Jason's head lifted with hopeful curiosity, resembling a puppy eager for a treat. " I can do that ?" he asked tentatively, unsure if her words were genuine. Jason blinks, and then smiles. Her words cause something to stir within him, a sensation of warmth and affection he hasn't felt in a while. Y/N nodded and got up to dispose of the bloody cotton swabs in the kitchen. Jason’s eyes followed her eyes, watching closely and to see if she was still mad at him. Y/N was a pretty forgiving person but in all honesty, he did mess up pretty bad. She returned and settled back down with a sigh, causing a slight nervous flutter in Jason. “So what do vigilantes when they’re not fighting bad guys ?” Y/N initiated as an icebreaker, much to Jason’s relief. It’s not like he could say ‘hey I’m in love with you please hang out with me with marriage in mind’. Wait marriage ? Where did that come from ? Images of Y/N in a white gown walking down an isle flashed through his mind. Y/N Todd. That had a nice ring to it, Jason mused silently. He had heard that Bali was a popular honeymoon destination but Y/N once told him that she always wanted to see the stargazing so the Atacama desert isn’t a bad destination either.

“Um earth to Red. You still here ?” Y/N waved her hand in front of Jason who seemed to have spaced out.

“Red ?”Jason asked sounding positively amused by the unexpected nickname. She shrugged and replied,“ Calling you Red Hood seemed too long, so Red it is. Not very creative, I know.”

Jason chuckled,“ I’ll allow it. And to answer your question, vigilantes don't have much time for leisure. When we're not fighting, we’re either training or passed the fuck out from exhaustion.” Y/N felt tired just hearing that, understanding the reasoning behind it, but the question remained: he wasn’t wasting time by being here, was he ?

“Seems like there’s no room for hobbies?” Y/N quipped, eliciting another soft laugh from Jason as he visibly relaxed. "I suppose so but pros can squeeze in time for special things here and there." he replied, his voice still quiet but now tinged with a smile. His body language seemed brighter and happier, and for the first time since she saw him actually looking relaxed.

Y/N reached for the TV remote, flipping through channels before tossing it onto his lap and standing up. “I’m going to fix myself something. Do you want anything?” she asked politely. Jason shook his head, declining, “I’m good.” Y/N walked to the kitchen and started making herself popcorn. What sort of movies and tv shows would vigilantes enjoy ? She guessed they might lean towards crime-related or action-packed content, but then remembered her friends’ complaints about the inaccuracy of such portrayals.

“Seriously Janet ?! There’s no way you’re picking that dress. Just cuz it would look good on Jessica doesn’t mean it would suit you ! I can hear the wails of the colour theory all the way from here.” Jason shook his head, sounding genuinely disappointed. He probably didn’t even notice Y/N shuffling closer to the television, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. So I guess that answers my question.

“That’s an interesting choice.”

Jason rolled his eyes and diverted his attention back to the television again. “What ? Can’t a man enjoy some good entertainment ?” He retorted. Y/N laughed lightly dismissing his remark,” No no it’s not that. Personally I’m more of a k-drama and anime girlie but I hold nothing against reality tv.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her preferences and resumed watching. Sitting beside him, Y/N observed as he commented on almost everything the people on TV said, finding herself amused by how much more entertaining his live commentary was compared to the actual show.

Minutes rolled by and after almost a couple hours, Y/N got up to go use the washroom and when she returned he had vanished once again, as was his habit. A small note lay where he had sat on her couch earlier. She picked it up and read, “Had a great time. Thanks for today - R” Y/N chuckled and shook her head, Damn these bats and their theatrics.

Jason would show up every three four days, most of the time unharmed thankfully. The two would do a variety of things like watching movies and tv shows together, playing board games and video games and just talking in general. At first it was just discussing their common interests but eventually he would sporadically divulged minor, unimportant details about himself. Some things she was able to piece together were that one, the bat vigilantes was a dysfunctional family with Batman as their patriarch. Second, the Red Hood worked alongside Starfire and Arsenal as his teammates. And third, that he had to be the biggest classic literature nerd she had come across.

“What do you mean your best friend tried to set you on fire while you were taking a shower ?! Didn’t you like lock the door or something ?”

“Locked doors don’t really do much to people like us angel.”

“So who’s your favourite bat sibling ?” Jason fell silent at her question, contemplating the answer. “Well that’s a tough question. I have my set of challenges and grudges with all of them. We’ve tried to kill each other atleast once. More so with my brothers than the girls. I’d say I get along pretty well with spoiler and batgirl. And if you ask about my brothers, I’d say Nightwing. He’s the funny nice one, Red Robin’s the smart, loyal one and Robin is the little obnoxious one.”

Y/N chuckled,“ Guess the article checks out.”

“What article ?” Jason asked curiously. Most of his intel came from law enforcement agencies databases, informants, surveillance technology, his fellow vigilantes and his own investigative work so he didn’t really feel the need to keep up with the cheesy articles in Gazette.

“The cinnamon roll tier list !” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“The what now ?”

“So there’s this popular meme going online,”she started to explain,“ so there are four categories - first, looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. In that category are the signal, the spoiler and nightwing. Second, looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you. That one is for Red Robin and the Robin. Third, looks like could kill you but is a cinnamon roll, that one is for Batgirl and the last is -” she paused because she knew the next tier on the list might potentially sting him.

“Looks like could kill you and would kill you ? Let me guess that’s one for me ?” Jason chuckled humorlessly, fully aware of the kind of reputation that preceded him. He wondered if she held the same perception of him. Y/N remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

"You know, you don't need to constantly worry about offending me. Believe me, I've heard far worse than anything your pretty mouth could say to me." Y/N couldn't help but feel upset, while his words were true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to express that she wasn't entirely afraid of him, but that wasn't entirely true either.

“Anyways – ”She interjected, clapping her hands once to shift the flow of the conversation,“ I got a new video game from a friend. Let me go get it. DO NOT DISAPPEAR. I’m serious it’s creepy.” Jason responded with her a cheeky salute,“ Yes ma’am.” Y/N disappeared into the bedroom briefly and returned with the DVD. When she came back she noticed Jason had reclined on the couch, appearing to have dozed off.

“Red ?” she asked softly, approaching him. She tried to get his attention again, but he remained unresponsive. He must’ve fallen asleep, she figured remembering what he said about his schedule. Retrieving a blanket from the side of the couch, she gently covered him. She sat there for a while, observing him as he slept. Watching him like this felt natural and familiar. Leaning back on the couch herself, she tried to unwind in the peaceful silence. Y/N couldn't help but admire him and all that he had achieved. Finding a friend in such an extraordinary circumstance was something she had never anticipated.

After a while, a somewhat wicked notion crept into her mind. She tried to shush the voice. Hanging out with Stephanie was sure working its magic, she thought to herself. It was a harmless little prank really, surely he wouldn’t mind. Against all logic and rationale, she decided entertained the idea. Tiptoeing to her closet, she retrieved the item from her closet and cautiously returned, double-checking if he was asleep. Here goes nothing.

[grlsbstshot]

NEON LIGHTS

Pairing (Original Characters): Jameson Lucas (Aaron Pierre) x Imani St. Cirie (Megan thee Stallion) Story Synopsis: 

R&B singer/songwriter, Jameson Lucas, is well known as a charming playboy. The latest in his line of ‘loved em and left em’ behavior? Imani St. Cirie, an emotive singer/songwriter herself. A common sense pulls them in opposite directions – friendships are tested, old flames resurface, and new opportunities threaten to tear them apart for good. In this industry, dreams can make or break you – but what happens when love becomes the gamble of a lifetime?

Chapter Synopsis: Jameson deals with being denied access to his heart's desire and flashes back to the start of their romance while Imani wrestles with her feelings present day. Warnings: Smut (18+), toxic relationship, possessiveness, profanity, usage of the n-word (if you're white and read it, you owe us $20), manual stimulation (fingering, okay?), dick size mention, dirty talk -- if we missed anything, let us know! Word Count: 5.3k // Divider Template: @cafekitsune Notes: The following characters are original creations. Their voice claims are Usher / Lucky Daye (Jameson) & Summer Walker / SZA (Imani). We have no affiliation to any of those artists.

There will be alternating POVs between our leads.

CHAPTER II: Someone to Love

he was blocked. jameson watched his repeated texts and calls go unanswered. the texts said delivered but never read. this was when he was supposed to decide if he was going to stick around for another round of bullshit with her. flashes of the night before came to mind...and he knew the answer was 'yes'. she was ignoring the fuck out of him but he knew imani loved him. she may be able to live without him...but she loved him. maybe that would be enough. "yo, are you listening to me?"

jameson blinked at his best friend, giving the man a blank stare. ellington dupree had been his friend and writing partner for damn near a decade. their connection was instant. where jameson was blessed with a wealthy and well-known mother, ellington had gotten it out the mud. he was a man that knew music inside out all his life. he had a work ethic that jameson envied. it was why he only produced music with ej -- they balanced each other out. where he allowed muse to take over, ej controlled the music. he didn't let it control him. even now, they were supposed to be working on a track from his new album but jameson couldn't seem to find his focus. all he did was wait for imani to call him back.

"yeah, i heard you." "then what i say?"

he gave ellington a glare before rising from his spot on the couch. "something about the horns." ellington tsked, kicking back in his chair before shaking his head. "i said that shit ten minutes ago, nigga. we on a whole nother track. what's up with you?"

jameson didn't answer -- instead he redirected his attention to his phone, texting imani again as he exited his friend's home studio. he heard ej calling his name but descended the stairs anyway.

he watched as another text went through and the message popped up delivered. jameson rolled his eyes, tossing his phone onto the couch as he stared at the ceiling with his hands on his hips. this girl was going drive him crazy.

"are you insane?" "i'm not in the mood right now, e." "yeah, no shit. but you need to get in the mood for something other than imani. YOU wanted to release this album at the top of the year. YOU said you were ready so they've already started promoting the shit."

he lifted his head to deny that he was stressing over imani but the realization hit him hard. "how the fuck you know i was texting mani?" jameson watched as ej rolled his eyes and made himself comfortable on the couch. "how the fuck wouldn't i know? you always get tense and weird over her. it's been a while since she had you fucked up like this though. what happened?"

jameson sighed, closing his eyes to avoid the look on his friend's face when he confessed the truth. he sat down opposite ej and leaned back onto the cushions.

"we fucked." "bullshit." "it's true." "WHEN?!" "last week." "i thought she was dating...what's that nigga name? the football nigga!" "they broke up two months ago." "how the fuck you know that?" jameson gave ej a look and avoided the obvious answer. "oh, you are insane." "it was random. we didn't plan that shit." "she probably didn't." "and what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" "fuck it sound like?"

his eyes opened as he frowned at ej. if anyone had seen how bad it could get between he and imani, it was ej. "i didn't go over there to have sex, man. i just...i wanted to see her. i've missed her all this time. i just couldn't take that shit anymore."

a flash of sympathy crossed his best friend's face but it disappeared within a moment. "don't do this, jamie. don't. you can't walk down this road with imani again."

ej was probably right, jameson knew that. but he also knew that he wasn't walking away from her again. he glanced over at the phone that he abandoned, willing it to ring or beep or something. anything to let him know she gave a shit. "can't help it." he murmured to his best friend. "i want her."

this was the biggest night of his life...and he found that he didn't care. his gaze was stuck on a woman who had walked past him. none of this shit really mattered anymore. he wanted to know her. he had a tony award. he had two grammys already. he was nominated for another three that night but as he leaned over in his seat to watch her saunter down the rest of the aisle, jameson found himself smiling for entirely different reasons.

"i want her." he said bluntly. only ej acknowledged him. he said 'huh?' but his gaze followed her the same way jameson's had. 'ohhhh' was all he uttered, giving a laugh.

she had her back to them so he had no idea who the hell she was but he had the urge to. four awards from his own and he wasn't watching the stage. he wasn't talking to his collaborators or friends to the right of him. he was watching her. a couple of people rose to let her into her seat and jameson found himself doing the same. he stood to his feet, adjusting his tux's jacket as he made his way towards her.

ej called his name but he didn't respond. this was more important. he got to the aisle and dropped to his haunches, learning forward to catch her eye. he recognized her then. imani. there were people next to her who peered over at him in confusion but jameson's smile was only for her. 

"excuse me." he said softly, bracing his hands against the seat next to him. she looked at him, eyebrow quirked at his audacity to interrupt her conversation. "hi. i just...i'm sorry. i just wanted to come tell you something you already know. you're the most beautiful woman i've ever seen in my life."

if she recognized him or was impressed by his attention, it didn't show on her face. jameson watched her give a little laugh and haughtily respond. "thank you." she said. "how many other women have you used that on tonight?"

"none." he replied honestly. "i saw you and next thing i know, i'm over here practically on my knees to talk to you." jameson ignored the woman next to imani clearing her throat. it was a public conversation but he carried it on as if they were the only two in the room. free from a relationship that had lost it's fire, jameson hadn't been looking for anybody. he wanted to invest in his career again and after two hit albums -- it was time for something new. money, cars, clothes, and women had been his life since he was eighteen and old enough to spread the thighs of any and every woman in hollywood. he'd been over it. but this was important. getting this girl felt like it'd be life changing.

he leaned forward, offering the woman his hand. "i'm jameson." he surprised himself by giving his full name. often, he introduced himself as james. nobody actually in his life called him jameson but his mother. he had the urge to hear his name from her lips. "i know who you are, ms. imani st. cirie. future best new artist winner." her eyes lit up at the fact that he had recognized her. she hadn't topped the charts yet but he knew it was a matter of time. her music was raw. real. she touched people and he knew her time was coming.

when she took his hand, he brushed his thumb against the back of her fingertips. the people they had their hands stretched across didn't matter. hell, he had forgotten other people could hear them when she responded. "nice to meet you jameson." she said. "you can call me ms. st. cirie. your face looks so familiar. i just can't put my finger on it."

jameson laughed out loud -- loud enough that people on the aisle in front of them turned to identify the sound. he'd been famous from birth. paparazzi shots of him hanging off his mother's hip had been tagged in people magazine. pictures of them at the park. his high school yearbook had been blasted across myspace and twitter. and when he started making music himself? well, he became a teen heartthrob at 19. he didn't believe her but he liked that she didn't fall over him. "that's strange." he replied with a shrug, slowly grinning at her. "but since you can't remember, maybe this is your chance to get to know me...personally. i'll be honest, ms. st. cirie -- i'm dying to get to know you."

her gaze roamed his face but her lips curved into a smile. "and why should i do that?"

"i heard i'm a good time." "and this is where the line of women come in, yes?" "we're not talking about other women. we're talking about you and me, ms. st. cirie."

imani gave her friend a look and the friend automatically rose, shifting down a seat. her gaze came back to him and she nodded her head, wordlessly giving him approval to sit next to her. jameson rose from his position at the end of the aisle, ignoring the ache in his calves and thighs. he'd been squatting for so long but hadn't noticed it. all he saw was the fact that he was making strides towards what he wanted.

"you don't feel this thing between us?" he asked her curiously. somehow, he had sat without losing contact with her for longer than a few seconds. he switched the positioning, holding her hand in his right. she tsked, yanking her hand from his grasp and shook her head. "i don't feel anything. i just think you're funny."

jameson leaned towards her, keeping his voice low enough so that it would take others effort to eavesdrop on their conversation. "i could tell you shit you already know. that you're the most beautiful woman i've ever seen. that i want you so bad i don't really know what to do with myself. would that help? i want you. and from the way you look at me, i think you want me too. so what are we going to do about it?"

"that was a good line, jameson." "i'm not giving you lines. i'm trying to get you where you need to be." "need to be?" "definitely." "you so fucking cocky." "i got reason to be. ms. st. cirie...will you go out with me?" "you don't give up, do you?" "no. not easily."

he could tell that she liked that. despite giving him a hell of a lot of attitude, her fingers fidgeted nervously on her lap. she either liked him or didn't know how to say no. jameson reached for her hand again, gently stilling her fingertips. she didn't seem alarmed or afraid then. she relaxed before meeting his gaze.

"no pressure. i think you're beautiful. i admire your mind. your music. your talent. give me one chance to show you that." determined to not miss out on the good thing sitting right next to him, jameson did his best to show her he was serious...but he took a risk and lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her thumb -- the first contact between them that wasn't totally innocent.

his gaze flickered up to hers and he knew he had her. she went soft, leaning in as if she were going to let him kiss her -- but she remembered where they were. "And the Grammy for Best R&B Performance goes to...U Don't Have to Call! James Lucas!"

jameson didn't move from his seat. he didn't take his eyes off her. imani looked between him and the stage, expecting him to go up but he didn't. this was more important. eventually, ej got up. his best friend gave the speech that jameson likely would have given but he didn't hear the words. imani leaned closer so he could near her, whispering "okay. one date." against his ear.

jameson smiled, turning his head to offer imani a kiss. not even twenty minutes after meeting and he was going for it. he had always been an ambitious man. just as he hoped, she took him up on the offer. she leaned in and their lips met. it was brief but served as the spark that ignited their obsession with each other.

it took two whole weeks for their schedules to line up. photoshoots, interviews, and a sudden trip to new york had kept him from what he really wanted. anticipation had been a bitch but they filled the time in between with texts and phone calls. he had discovered that imani was both smart and funny. she could make him burst out laughing over the smallest thing. she seemed to be a good person and that appealed to him. he seemed to really be into this girl. so much so that he browsed her instagram, constantly looking for things she liked. what flowers she enjoyed. people she liked having conversation with. knowing little things about her had spiraled into wanting to know everything about her. he was down so bad that ej had been disgusted when he walked into studio in the middle of the night and caught him giggling on the phone with her like a teenager.

finally, they got to see each other again. standing alone in the vastness of the getty museum, he and imani kept their fingertips intertwined. the only sounds were the soft echo of their footsteps on polished floors. The museum had been closed for the night, but the director had made an exception just for them — a private tour. No crowds, no distractions. Just the two of them and all the art they'd agreed to pretend they were paying attention to. jameson's kept straying to her. everything about her was mesmerizing. the way her hair fell into her eyes, the cute little way she'd snuggled into him when he hugged her when he met her outside. the sweet way she swung their hands as they walked. he was gone over this girl and didn't know what to do about it.

“so,” she said, breaking the silence with a teasing tone, “you go to museums all the time or is this just to impress me?”

he glanced around, his eyes glinting with amusement. “it's all for you. you got me stalking your instagram to see what you like. i saw you went to several museums around the world so..." he shrugged, looking at her to see she was surprised at what he'd said. “but what do you like?” she asked him. jameson laughed. "you." he answered easily enough.

she fell silent again as they continued on. the views of los angeles almost as magnificent as the art. they entered a gallery that seemed to be a study in light and shadow, with large, dramatic sculptures. he was comfortable even in the silence with her. felt like they were the only people in the world, the art surrounding them like a secret they were sharing, just the two of them.

“i think i like you too.” imani said softly. her tone didn't hold the same teasing as before. she was serious. jameson dipped his head to get a good look at her and stopped walking to face her. "why do you sound so sad when you say that?"

"because i don't know if i can trust you." imani said softly. jameson couldn't promise to be the picture of fidelity. he'd cheated once before in a relationship but that didn't seem to be the best thing to say to a woman you wanted to be with. "you can trust how i feel about you. i swear -- i have never felt like this in my life. you got me kicking my feet and twirling my hair and shit, girl. i got it bad." she gave him a short laugh, shaking her head, but he was pleased to see her smile again. "you gave me a chance for a date now give me a chance to show you that i want to be your man."

"my man? you moving kind of fast, ain't you?" "hell yeah. i'm trying to lock you down before a billionaire prince pull up on you out of nowhere." "you can't compete with a billionaire?" "absolutely not. i can't buy you a private island." "then what good are you?" "i can sing. i'm good looking. i give good dick. which reason work for you?"

"boy, bye!" imani pulled away, laughing abruptly as she waved him off. jameson followed closely, not wanting her to go too far from him. "where you going?" he asked her, holding on to her hand. imani snorted, pointing at the art across the room. "over there because you playing!" jameson's laughter echoed through the space and joined hers as she tried to shake him off. "nahhhh. come play with me over here."

her smile deepened, a challenge flickering in her eyes. "i'll play with you later." jameson stepped closer to her, pulling her close. "i'ma hold you to that." even in heels, she stood a few inches shorter than he was. he couldn't get over how fucking beautiful she was. pretty ass dark brown eyes. pretty ass nose that lead down to full, gorgeous lips. he couldn't even think about her body. he liked everything about this girl and acting like he didn't wasn't possible.

his hand moved to the small of her back, fingertips splayed as he kept her body against his. "you hungry?" imani nodded her head, her hands braced against his shoulders. jameson moved them side to side, swaying even though there was no music playing. "i got you. let me take care of you."

they ate dinner in the museum, specially made by a private chef --totally surrounded by art. jameson was pleased to see that she was excited. he was just as giddy. imani sat on his lap as they traded stories about work, their inspirations, and what they each wanted out of a relationship. they found they had several things in common -- big things and little things. family relationships, foods, even their favorite Disney movie. it was all the same. jameson wasn't the type to believe in love at first sight but he really did start to wonder if god put this woman in his life for a reason.

they left holding hands. he let her slide into his benz, intent on driving her home to complete an evening of being the perfect gentleman. the drive to her malibu home was filled with jokes, conversation, and singing along to songs on the radio. the tension between them remained but it was joined by comfort. they were truly starting to understand each other.

by the time they arrived to her place, he had made up his mind. he was going to give it all he had. he liked imani st. cirie -- and hopefully, she liked him too.

the warmth of the car enveloped them as jameson slid to a stop in front of her home. the chemistry between them made saying goodbye difficult. he didn't want to say goodnight to her. jameson turned the car off, attempting to gather his thoughts. he didn't want the last thing he said to her to be stupid. when he turned to say something -- he found imani was already staring.

it was like they moved at the same time. he unbuckled his seatbelt and before he could say a word, she had done the same. the world outside faded away as he damn near crowded her in the passenger seat. he could feel her heart race, each beat echoing in his head. he leaned in, their lips meeting briefly, before he heard her panting.

the kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if they were both savoring the sweetness of their new attraction. But soon, it deepened—hunger replaced hesitation. their lips moved in a rhythm that felt both familiar and foreign, pulling them deeper into each other's orbit.

imani moaned as his tongue found hers and jameson couldn't believe how good it sounded. he placed his hand against her thigh, grasping tightly as if he could pull her any closer. the middle console kept them further apart than he wanted them to be. when her hand came down and pulled his fingers higher up her thigh, jameson didn't hesitate.

her hands framed his face, thumb gently brushing his cheek as they kissed. his hand moved further up her thigh, brushing against the silk fabric of her dress. when the pad of his thumb brushed against her panties, she gasped.

it felt like an eternity before she caught her breath and gave him a quick moan. with expertise, jameson swept her underwear aside and pressed his thumb between her folds. she was already wet and made it easy for him to wedge his finger into her. imani's lips parted in surprise when he pressed against her. jameson took the opportunity to bite her lower lip -- brushing his tongue against it as her thighs tightened around his hand.

"i can't make you moan like that again if you don't keep your legs open. let me in." he whispered when he released her lip, pleased when imani immediately opened her legs for him. she reached down and pulled her dress higher, hips rising from the seat as she did so. he caught a flash of the thongs she wore as she pressed her ass to his leather seats.

they were both breathless, not taking the time to go inside her house or even move to the back seat. imani reached for him again, pulling his head across the space and kissing him deeply as jameson's hand went right back between her legs. she whimpered and moaned as he played with her clit -- teasing them both by thumbing and then circling the sensitive spot. by the time she was whining against his mouth, his dick was hard.

to his surprise, imani reached across the seat and placed her hand in his lap. the surprise spurred his fingers forward. his index and middle finger were soaking in her wetness as his thumb tapped her clit. imani's head fell back as he hissed, breaking the kiss to shake his head. "let me focus on you."

mani didn't pull her hand away. instead, she grasped his dick -- squeezing gently as her hips rocked onto his fingers. they slid in and out effortlessly. jameson twisted and delved deeply, pulling a variety of noises from the back of imani's throat. "she talkin' to me, mani." he prompted her. she groaned, riding his hand as quickly as she could. "you hear her? i bet i can make her talk some more."

the squelching and squishing echoed through the car. his palm and other fingers were soaked as the wetness ran down his hand. imani nodded her head, breath catching in her throat as he twisted his fingers and looked for that spot -- that one spot that he knew would have her screeching within the confines of his car. when he found it, she froze -- her whole body slumping back against the seat. "yes! y-yeah. just like that." she cried. jameson followed her, watching her face as he picked up the pace. he spread her juices across her clit with his thumb. when she shut her legs around his hand again, he used his free hand to grasp her thigh. "don't run from it. let me have it."

there he was, leaning over the center console, doing his best to make her cum less than an hour after their first date had ended. he kissed her lips gently, moaning with her as she shuddered. "i--i'm--cum" she whispered, words escaping her as she struggled to give him just three. "i know, baby. i feel it. let go. i got you."

jameson nodded, licking his tongue against her quivering lips. she opened her mouth for more and he sucked her tongue into his mouth, kissing her deeply as imani came around his fingers. she squeezed him tightly but he didn't stop. those two fingers kept thrusting, thumb kept flicking at her clit until she squirmed out of his grasp. her hand moving from his lap to grasp at his wrist. he was hard as fuck, eight and a half inches practically throbbing in his boxer briefs as he tried not to nut on himself.

he forced himself to slow down then -- pleased when she whimpered and asked for more kisses. jameson supplied them happily, stroking her insides with his fingers to calm her down. when she was sated and humming happily against his mouth, he pulled his hand back. they watched each other for a moment -- imani blinked at him as he licked his fingers clean.

jameson's gaze swept down her body as if he wanted to remember her just like that -- legs open, panties pushed aside, pussy wet and satisfied from his efforts. once his hand was 'clean', jameson reached over again and righted her clothing. imani still hadn't said a word. even when he opened his door to get out of the car. when he opened her door, he offered her his hand -- the same one he'd used to get her off.

imani took it and exited the car. she didn't seem to be in a daze anymore. "this was...a wonderful date." she told him softly. "i wonder what you'll come up with next time." before jameson could say a word, she pressed her hand to his chest and lifted her head to give him a kiss. he accepted it happily, greedily even. they stood like that for a moment, kissing on the sidewalk. his arms wrapped around her waist, fingertips finding their way to that delicious ass. jameson squeezed briefly and imani broke the kiss. "call me." she told him with a smirk before walking away.

he didn't know if she smirked because she could feel how hard his dick was when she kissed him or if she knew that he was going to call her as soon as he got in the car. either way -- he was pretty sure that this girl was going to be the death of him.

her best friend sat across the room, sketching designs for her portfolio. if she wasn't so distracted, she would have noticed imani scrolling through her texts. she had unblocked jameson and found a flurry of text messages.

how are you? i miss you. can we talk? baby, i think we need sit down and talk this shit out. i love you, imani. i'm not fighting it anymore. please call me

how is it that he made her want to forgive him? it was like when they were talking or when he was in front of her -- she forgot the horrible shit he had done. she forgot the affair, she forgot the way he confessed. she forgot the way he only seemed to give his all when he felt like she was moving on from him. she hated the way he infiltrated her mind when she was with someone new. it seemed like she was doomed to keep falling for jameson -- and the thought scared her.

"just do it. you know you want to."

imani's gaze shot up from the phone to see genie peering over at her from her drawing table. despite being gorgeous enough to be a model, genie adesanya preferred to design the clothes. her curls were pinned to the top of her head and the glasses she wore were circular -- making her eyes appear even larger and more adorable.

she was southern by birth but her father was a lakers legend. a jersey-hanging-in-the-rafters-at-staples-center kind of legend. everybody loved genie. even jameson. she and he had practically been raised together when his mother and her father spent a few years dating but ultimately decided to remain friends. as close as they were, once imani stepped onto the scene -- she and genie became best friends. she took her side over jameson's. always. despite being total opposites persona wise, nobody understood imani better than genie did.

"he's blocked so i do not want to do anything." imani retorted, wrinkling her nose at her friend. she didn't bother to deny that they weren't talking about jameson.

genie got up from her drawing desk, smiling at imani as she made her way across the room and bounced down onto her friend's lap. imani quickly shoved her off with a snort and the two ended up slap boxing each other. "don't lie to me, girl!" genie yelled at her, avoiding imani's hands as she rolled off the couch and onto the floor. "you've been moping and sighing around here all week. you hiding from him?"

of course she was. jameson knew where genie lived but imani hoped that if he approached her there, genie wouldn't let them sneak off together. she was sick of falling into the same pattern with him. fight, break up, fuck, fall in love again. wash, rinse, and repeat. "i'm tired of this shit with him, genie." imani admitted, sighing softly.

genie sat up and pat her hand against imani's. "i know. but...the heart wants what it wants, mani. i'm not saying you should listen to me. i'm bad at love. I've made so many mistakes. but i can see what you really want. i know you. it's why i know jameson has lived in your head rent free for years, girl. and you live in his. i'm not saying you gotta trust him immediately. just -- just text him back. maybe it's a mistake but what if it isn't? what if y'all get it right this time?"

a true romantic at heart, imani admired genie's belief in love. she just wasn't sure she trusted it. she remained silent as genie gave her time to process. she returned to her drawing table, picking up the pencil and finishing her sketches in silence.

imani fiddled with her phone for a moment before groaning out loud. if this man broke her heart again, she was going to fucking kill him.

[ imani ] : what are you doing next week? [ blockdt unless horny ] : nothing. you want me? [ imani ] : i guess we can talk then. [ blockdt unless horny ] : why wait until then? wya? i can come there. [ imani ] : i'm at genie's but don't come here. [ blockdt unless horny ] : why not? [ imani ] : i need a minute, jamie. i didn't expect this and i don't know if this is the right decision for me. [ blockdt unless horny ] : i understand. i do. but baby, you and me have something. i fucked it up before but i'm not gonna fuck it again. i can't lose it twice. [ imani ] : we can talk about it next week. [ blockdt unless horny ] : okay. what day? [ imani ] : Thursday. i'll be back from Italy then. [ jamie ] : i already miss you. [ imani ] : i'll miss you too 🙄 [ jamie ] : lmfao i'll take that. i'ma do right this time, mani. i swear on my life. [ imani ] : we'll see. [ jamie ] : yes, we will. i try not to make mistakes but when i do, i only make them once. i'll be the man you deserve. i promise. [ imani ] : i really want to believe you [ jamie ] : we can start there, baby. that's a start.

[eddiezpaghetti]

Okay, so my experience with Stranger Things is a weird one.

I didn't care when it first came out, started to watch it out of "might as well" in 2020, wasn't interested in it enough to make it past S2, forgot about it outside of going "oh, hey, cool, there's a lesbian in it now, I guess," in S3, got really annoyed when "Running Up That Hill" got popular from it because it was a song I listened to on fucking loop after one of my best friends died in high school and I fully expected its appearance in the show to ignore the whole survivor's guilt theme of the song (and was very happy to learn later that it did the exact opposite of ignoring the lyrics), saw people drawing Eddie, suddenly got a lot more interested, watched just the fourth season like a fucking psychopath because I was seriously only there for Eddie, then got interested enough to start the show over properly, having mostly forgotten what I did watch of the show before.

And let me tell you something from the perspective of someone who started with the complete fourth season, who wasn't there from the start, who wasn't tainted by ship goggles or this internal battle of hope and despair, who wasn't theorizing about what the painting could be or expecting Mike and Will to kiss when Volume 2 happened or rooting for Mike and Eleven's relationship to go down in flames or whatever the fuck. Just someone who went blind into Season 4.

It's really fucking obvious that Will and Mike are gonna be endgame.

Like holy fuck. It's so fucking blatant I don't even know why people are nervous.

No sane fucking person would shoot this scene this way if they wanted the audience to care about El and Mike as a couple. Despite being all blurry in the background, Will's reaction to what's happening here is smackdab in the fucking middle, clearly showing that the important part is what's going through his head here. What he's feeling. It's like the opposite of that scene from Kingdom Hearts II where Sora and Riku reunite and Kairi just fucking vanishes into the aether while it's happening because, despite the fact that she was standing between them when the scene began, she doesn't matter to the scene, so she's just kind of gone when the camera angle changes. Will could have been behind one of their heads, or so far in the distance he blends in with the background, but he's not. He's so obvious that despite being massively blurred out, he's still the first goddamn thing you look at. What, you think that's an accident? You think he's in the middle of this dramatic fucking scene because of a mistake? He basically has a big flashing neon arrow pointing at him with "THIS IS THE POINT" being screamed through a megaphone.

And then this?

They're paired up like they're taking fucking prom pictures. Each one of these pairs is so fucking close to one another and so fucking far from everyone else. It's not, "Oh, they're standing vaguely near each other in a group shot," it's fucking Noah's Ark out here. Again, there's no way to take this as an accident. It's not just a framing issue. If they wanted to make the shot look balanced while still not hiding anyone else behind El, they would have scattered people around much more naturally. Even if they wanted to keep Nancy with Jonathan and Hopper with Joyce, there's so much room on that hill for three people to stand on El's left and three on her right. But they didn't do that. They put Mike and Will together on purpose in the most obvious way possible.

Like I get that coming up with crackpot theories is fun in and of itself and I'm not blaming anyone for having fun. I totally get the appeal of arguing a point and reaching for every stupid little thing to pull into it because it's like a game, okay? I've done that. But if you're trying to actually convince someone (whether it's someone who wants to believe or someone who's pissed at the very idea that Mike and Will could be in love), stay away from blue and yellow lights, stay away from costume design, stay away from the existence of closets in backgrounds. And don't worry about whether Mike's gay or bi when he's in love with Will either way. I'll give you a little tip about persuasion: You're only as strong as your weakest argument. Even if you've got strong stuff in there, too, the person you're trying to convince is going to dismiss anything you say as complete insanity the second you start going on an entire tangent about the shape of a character's fucking pocket.

Sometimes, clothes are just clothes. Sometimes, there's a closet in the background because it helps establish that a character is in a bedroom. Sometimes, blue and yellow are just a couple of colors that look nice together. And sure, it might be set designers and costume designers and cinematographers smirking and winking at the audience from behind the camera. But if the show was just those things, instead of those things in the context of everything else, they wouldn't be saying anything of note.

But this?

This tells a story all on its own. Someone with no context can look at this and automatically assume that each paired person is standing with someone they care about deeply, seeking comfort as they watch some sort of disaster unfold. And yeah, romantic couples usually come in twos, and we live in an amatonormative society, so that's going to be the first association anyone makes seeing a bunch of people paired off.

It's the same reason you look at this

And go, "Oh..."

"Those two are probably a couple."

And I genuinely don't understand how people could have watched S4 Vol. 2 and gotten scared. Because as someone who went in with no investment whatsoever, I just looked at these two--

--and went, "Oh, those two are a couple. Good for them." And I moved on. Shut up about the trees for five seconds and just see the forest for what it is.

Oh, and if you're still nervous? Little thing from a storyteller here: You don't leave a hanging thread like "Will confessed his romantic feelings for Mike by projecting them onto El, but Mike either didn't understand or at least didn't say he understood," without coming back to that later. That's Chekov's gun hanging on the wall, babes. It's gonna fire at some point. If Mike was going to reject Will's feelings, if they weren't relevant, they would have had that discussion in Argyle's van. There'd be no reason to leave you in suspense.

[songmingisthighs]

Maudit

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. vi - a fox to catch

cursed!jongho × reader

wc : 1.8 k

genre : mythology!au, smau

rating : mature; crude jokes and filthy language

tw: mentions of death (wanting to die naturally), mentions of attempted suicide

buy me coffee ?

so long i've been here, so long are the stories i've written. of what i gathered and lost, loneliness becomes me and pain refuse to depart from me. i've embraced that which ate me away so when you came along, i had no part of me left to give.

Jongho never really liked going into the woods. Well, he used to be okay with it because he had no choice. But the modernization of South Korean civilization had coddled him with a cool AC breeze and mosquito repellant. Jongho would very much rather doing his responsibilities indoors where he won't end up sweating through his outfit and appearing with red scratch marks around his neck and ear. So he harboured slight resentment against the Fox Keeper who INSIST they meet at the forest behind a temple on the other side of town. No matter how much Jongho insisted that he had seen the Keeper in cafes, the Keeper still wouldn't budge. Not even a tiny bit, not even to meet up at the temple itself.

Whilst cringing, Jongho stepped into the vicinity of the sacred tree and stared up at it, "Okay, hyung, come out now because I don't have a lot of time," he called out.

Knowing that the Fox Keeper is mischievous, Jongho let his eyes roam in anticipation of the guy showing up. The last time he let his guard down, the Fox Keeper led Jongho into a trap and only let him go eight hours later.

Thankfully, this time the Fox Keeper showed himself by peeking out of the back of the tree whilst standing on one of its large trunks. "Hey! There's my favourite cursed human!" He teased, jumping off the high trunk and landing safely on the ground, "Feels like it's been three years since I've last seen you!" Jongho rolled his eyes but stepped closer to him, "That's because I try to keep our meetings rare and short hyung." The Keeper snickered and patted Jongho on the shoulder, "Is that why you still refuse to call me by my name?" Jongho scoffed but smirked teasingly, "No, Yeonjun hyung, I just avoid using it too much in case you work like Beetlejuice." Yeonjun rolled his eyes and detached himself from Jongho in faux annoyance, "Okay, first of all, that man is a fashion icon what with combining black and white and purple and neon green together. Second, I have better things to do other than waiting for one of you to call me up and bother me."

"Is one of those things you do looking for the reincarnation of Ahyoung?" Jongho shot. Yeonjun sighed and shook his head, "You really are a no-bullshit type of man, huh? Can't you spare 15 minutes of chit-chat and catching up BEFORE you shoot straight to the point? I mean for fuck's sake, Jongho, we've known each other for three hundred years, I would imagine we'd see each other more often than this AND outside of necessities!" he complained. Jongho could feel his whole left cheek muscle twitching at the older man's words and through gritted teeth he pointed out, "Well, had we met at say a cafe, I would have DEFINITELY be willing to spare 15 minutes- heck, even half an hour to talk to you about nonsense before we get down to the point but nooooooo you just HAD to meet at this mosquito-infested serial-killer playground." "You do know that they put up a shrine for the Fox Keeper here right? They sort of pray to me for protection and stuff?" "And you do know that I just saw one of your foxes piss on one of your statues, right?" Jongho deadpanned.

Annoyed (at how Jongho was pointing out the truth), Yeonjun scoffed and started walking, signalling for Jongho to follow him along.

Now side by side, Jongho and Yeonjun started talking about the thing that had got Jongho on edge. "Well, I still can't sense anything," Yeonjun started, looking straight at the forest, "All I could sense was your curse and even then, nothing was pulling towards it. Do you still have the bead bracelet I gave you?" Jongho raised his left wrist to show that he was in fact wearing the item in question, "Has it ever changed colours?" "No, never and like you suggested, I've never even taken it off," Jongho sighed.

Yeonjun halted his steps momentarily to turn and put a hand on Jongho's shoulder, effectively also stopping him in his tracks, "You... You've been out and about to meet the potential person, right?" Jongho frowned and nodded slowly, "Yes? I've been out and about?" he was confused by the question. "No, no, no, no, not just out and about, but you've actually been trying to look for her right?" Then he stopped mid-sentence, "Or maybe it's not even a 'her' after all. No, no, no, no, no, what if that sorcerer pulled another stunt and stuck you with a 'him'?" At that, Jongho pushed Yeonjun who was in the middle of thinking a bit too harshly that he stumbled and almost fell down. "What the hell are you talking about!?" Staggering, Yeonjun stood back up and raised both of his hands, "Well, we've never considered this before but is it not a possibility? This is the same man who cursed you to roam the earth until god knows when for funsies just because you shut down his business!" Hearing that, Jongho paused to think if it was even possible because, in all honesty, he had never considered that and as much as he wanna say no, it seemed like something a cruel man would do to punish him. "I can see the wheels in your brain turning. I think if I get close enough, I can hear it and if we wait a bit more I think I can smell the smoke," Yeonjun teased which earned him a (hard) slap on the arm from Jongho but he just laughed it off.

Soon, the two resumed their walk and they did it in silence, just so they could take a moment from the chaos of their lives.

"I don't know how much longer of this I can take," Jongho opened up. "Take what?" Yeonjun asked, "This... Being cursed to live too long while everyone who had ever mattered to me died and I still have to sit in anticipation of meeting her again after all this time," Jongho sighed. Yeonjun pursed his lips in contemplation, "I mean, it's not like she's gonna remember anything, you know? Like yeah sure, you'll be the one bearing all the pain, but... Are you even ready to meet her and face whatever comes next?"

Jongho never really took into consideration what will come AFTER he finds the girl. He was so caught up with well, trying to catch up with times, that he never really considered what that would entail. Back then, during the first year or two of him dealing with being cursed, all he wanted to do was to immediately reverse the curse so he could... you know, die like a normal person. It came as such a surprise for him when he tried to stab himself with his sword during the darkest time of his life. It was after Ahyoung died and the reality came crashing down on him. Luckily, it was then that he met Hongjoong, the reaper who came to inform him that his soul was indefinitely chained to the earth and after a meltdown, Hongjoong (with the help of Yunho and Yeosang) brought the unconscious Jongho back to the library. That "nap" lasted two days and after that, Jongho felt slightly better.

"Was anyone ever ready to face anything?" Jongho asked, chuckling to himself as some sort of a way to hide his fear. Yeonjun smirked and nudged Jongho on the shoulder, "Yeah, I remember you on the cusp of modern civilization, holding onto your horse and carriage, stating that you'll never get into a death machine and now look at you and your ugly ass Hyundai Palisade." Jongho threw a glare at Yeonjun and punched him on his shoulder again, "It's a nice car and my assistant recommended it, you jerk," he huffed.

Yeonjun rubbed his arm whilst hissing to ease the pain of the impact from Jongho's fist but even as he did so, he decided to point out, "For someone who complained about his assistant trying to keep him up with technology, you sure do listen to her like A LOT. How's it going with her anyway? And by that, I do mean when can I meet her because so far, she's the only girl I can sense off of you." There was a hint of red on Jongho's cheeks at the mention of his assistant leaving traces on him but Jongho was quick enough to turn away completely from Yeonjun, "I'm less concerned about her shoving a rectangular fruit-named phone into my hands and more about the fact that you seem to not be able to stop sniffing me even when you don't need to," he muttered to himself. Knowing that he got him, Yeonjun snickered to himself but kept all the comment he could threw in just in case Jongho decide to throw another punch.

As another silenced period washed over them, both Yeonjun and Jongho calmed down until they reached the edge of the forest and the backdoor of the temple was merely a meter or two away.

Yeonjun put a hand out to stop Jongho and stepped in front of him, "Hey man, look, no matter what, I'm... Sorry that I don't have better news to tell you. I would if I could and I did everything I know from the time I worked with sorcerers. Frankly, at this point, the only two options are to expand our search to another continent or... Find the sorcerer and... I don't know, torture him into letting your soul go?"

Despite the bad news, Jongho couldn't help but crack up a bit at Yeonjun's attempt to comfort him. So he nodded and gratefully patted Yeonjun on the shoulder, "I get it hyung. It's been... What? 500 years? If it's not happening then, it's not happening now and I just have to..." A sudden weight appeared on Jongho's chest and as he exhaled, his breath shook, "I have to keep trying and keep searching. I'll try to expand my search or something but... Thanks," he smiled and before Yeonjun could comfort him more, Jongho stepped around him and walked back to the temple, "Say hi to your friend the moon bunny for me!" Jongho called out, grinning as he turned slightly to look at Yeonjun. Yeonjun scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Tell that to him yourself, he's waiting for that gaming rematch and you better set up something soon or else Soobin is just gonna bitch at me!" Yeonjun called back out.

As Jongho walked back to his modern car, memories flooded his head and he couldn't help but think about how such a long time has passed and compare his humble beginning and his current situation. Looking down at the phone in his hand, he saw the last text you sent to him about his schedule and he couldn't help but feel his fingers tingling and his chest burning. The grin on his face dropped and his face turned sullen.

Truly, truly he was tired.

network :

@cultofdionysus @sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@dinossaurz @redzie02 @stayatinykatsy @tinyelfperson @allisonleannn @yukichan67 @phenomenalgirl9 @dawn-iscozy @aestheticsluut @krustycangrejo @teenyfinds @kirbrary @thedistractedwriter @gxlden-bxbyy @huachengsbestie01 @charreddonuts

@roronoas-wife

[classified-animations]

I made something for a theory I have for II 18 (I'm living in denial)

TW for bright/neon

What if bot and mepad (and possibly bow but idk if she would still be alive) go and try to do something (like 'save' mephone or smth like that) and that's how act 3 happens (literally my theory is what if bot or mepad does something so II 18 happens I'm delusional okay?😭)

[violetmuses]

Don't Look Back - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹

Tag List: @nelo0wesker @yassbishimvintage @nobodygetsza @peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda @amethyst-loves-bucky @planetblaque @sweettea-and-honeybutter @lovedlover @xjjawsomex @readingisahobby @kindofaintrovert 🏷

Part II ❤️‍🩹

___________

2024

With James McGrath outright dead, the Miami Police Department could work together and exonerate deceased Captain Conrad Howard.

“Be good.” Detective Mike Lowrey glanced toward his estranged son, previous criminal Armando Aretas.

“It's not up to you, Detective.” Aretas pulled confidence without smiling and fist bumped Lowery, trailing this motorboat to escape the federal government.

One evening, the doorbell rang when Lowrey and his wife Christine finished dinner.

Checking that RING Camera, Christine almost jumped through kindness upon realization.

“Mike, open the door!” Christine cheered with the biggest smile and nearly giggled for once.

Armando returned.

Standing on the porch tonight, Aretas held small luggage and waited.

“Hey.” Revealing slightly accented English, Armando greeted Mike for the first time since leaving.

“Come inside.” Knowing better than to overreact, Lowrey welcomed his son regardless.

______

By that next day, Armando plotted the guest bedroom located upstairs, yet few belongings took space when essentials grounded his spot.

Taking this much-needed shower, Aretas headed downstairs and joined breakfast, thankful to survive at all.

“Morning.” Mike clipped, sitting with Christine at the kitchen table.

“Good morning.” Armando spoke here, but wouldn't grin and quietly accepted this meal through silence.

*****

Sooner than later, red tape pulled strings when Armando finally came back to the police department.

“Nephew!” Marcus Burnett, Mike's longtime partner, almost shouted to look for Aretas.

“Ignore what's going on.” Mike rolled both eyes after taking off sunglasses.

“Okay.” Armando stopped himself from driving back home

Marcus shuffled footsteps across the room, but Mike shook his head.

“Uh-uh! Don't even hug him.” Lowrey warned his best friend.

“Aww, Mike! Why didn't you tell me?” Marcus set theatrics and nearly cried. “He's back.”

“We'll talk, all right?” Mike settled Marcus down and walked toward the briefing room with Armando.

______

Voices echoed when Aretas joined Mike near seating.

Despite everything, Armando glanced over and noticed you for the first time.

Perhaps time ruined his focus, but Armando couldn't help observing.

No matter what happens next, you look gorgeous right now.

“Who's that?” Aretas leaned toward his father, genuinely curious.

“Oh!” Joyful, Mike then raised one brow and smiled. “She's your partner. Hey, Rook!”

When Mike shortened one nickname, you glanced to see him waving closer.

“Hi! What's going on?” Smiling, you greeted both men.

“This is my son Armando.” Mike stepped back for the introduction.

“Hello.” Cordial beyond rumors and headlines, you shook hands with Aretas. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you.” Profesional, Armando wouldn't illuminate his expression.

Before anyone could move forward with their conversation, Captain Rita Secada stood behind the podium and began this meeting.

No games whatsoever. You thought.

_______

Sunset painted this Florida skyline as you left the building.

“Take care.” You stand near Mike's classic Porsche while Armando takes the passenger seat.

“Hey, c'mere.” Aretas gestured his hand and motioned calls.

“What's up?” You stepped closer and Aretas took out his new cell phone.

“Just in case.” Setting that number, Armando traded contacts.

“See you next time.” You leave, but Armando watches your car roll out.

*****

“Armando!” One loud voice screeched throughout the nightclub when Tabitha strutted past neon lights.

Oh, no. You've heard stories and Mike definitely explained Tabitha's wild card.

“Not the time.” Armando took charge, no longer wearing his Bud Light shirt with dirty jeans.

Sporting black, Aretas looped his arm around your shoulder for the mission.

“Oh, she's really cute. Do you want some money?” Tabitha scoped your appearance.

“No, thanks. Help out.” You then spoke up this time.

“What's the plan?” Tabitha sized you up and Armando stepped back regardless.

“Tell us the drop location or I'll shut everything down.” Your hand lingered this veiled firearm.

Another drug deal would poison this city if law enforcement couldn't move fast.

“Just a few blocks away, but are y'all fucking each other yet?” Tabitha stuck out her tongue and messed with you.

“Stop it.” You whispered, trading gum instead and leaving with Armando.

_______

Red and blue overcasts brightened all streets to end this caper. The AMMO squad hustled once more.

“You good?” Armando learned the habit of checking after missions took place.

“Tabitha asked me something stupid.” Your eyes rolled skyward.

“What?” Armando squinted past his brown eyes and you couldn't veil the truth here.

“She asked if we hooked up.” You immediately cringed right now.

“Not unless you wanna…I mean…shit!” Aretas caught himself moments later.

“Wait!” You playfully nudged his arm and ran in heels while laughing.

“My bad, I'm sorry. It was a joke!” Armando catches your footsteps, but you kiss his cheek, exiting the crime altogether.

[psychocharlie]

I had a dream last night in which Dethklok released deth-eyeshadow palettes. Everyone had their own personalized palette with colors that perfectly fit them and the names for each color in the palette were given by Dethklok themselves. Some refills had funny stamps embossed in the style of each of the band members, and the cover of the packs had their faces on it.

Nathan's palette was mostly black and blood red with names like Death, Murder, Crushed Skull (the only light color there, a milky white), Guts, Hatred, Bloody Vomit, and blue-black color named Abyss.

And when he saw Pickles' palette, he grumbled for a long time that his palette is "not metal" and looked gay, because Pickles' palette didn't have a single dark color, it had a few red-orange shades, but none of them were even brutal blood red (!!!). There was a neon pink shimmer called "Glam" in memory of snakes n barrels, a bottle-green shade called "Booze". The rest of the refills was some trippy bright colors with names like "Party", "Sex on the beach", and there were also a few drug-related named shades: I remember "Acid mushroom", "bad trip" and "cocaine". It looks pretty cool tbh. But Nathan was so fucking pissed off, he was like "Pickles, what kind of gay fucked up shit you put out, it's not even brutal! Okay with Toki put out his candy pink girl shit with glitter and unicorns, 'cause that's Toki, but what's fucking wrong with you? Now, of all the deth-palettes, only mine looks metal, it's fucked up!"

Toki's palette was cute and candy-colored, just the way he likes it. Ufortunately I only remembered a few color names – "Rainbow", "Candy Paradise" and "Magic Unicorn" and there were A LOT of glitter refills in his palette (besides Toki, only Pickles and Skwisgaar palettes had glitters in it, but even they had only one glitter per palette). The cover of the box showed Toki in a cat's body running through a rainbow like in the hamburger time song.

Murderface had the entire palette done in just yellow, ranging from regular yellow to acid yellow to a yellow with red streaks. All the shades were simply called "PISS", "PISS", "PISS", "PISS", "PISS", "ACID PISS", "BLOODY PISS", "PISS". A single black shade in the bottom right corner with the name "Self-hatred" stood out against this. The package was also done in yellow colors, a bit in the Planet Piss style.

Skwisgaar had a cold colors palette.  There were various cold white, gray and blue colors with names like "Ice fjord", "Snow vortex", "Northern wolf", "Viking". There was also a very beautiful golden glitter named "Golden god", Skwisgaar said that it was made of real gold particles. 

Anyway, it's an incredibly cool concept and I woke up feeling really sad that these eyeshadow palettes don't exist in reality because I want to buy them all 😭

Upd: forgot to add another interesting detail. Throughout the dream Exitus from Brendon Small's Galaktikon II was playing somewhere in the background (I didn't fall asleep with headphones on, the song was part of the dream and existed inside it). Namely the lines from "hold my breath, look in my eyes" to "and you live, you live in your heart. And we live, we live with you". So when I woke up I had those lines running through my head.

[rynnthefangirl]

Personally I don't trust anyone who refers to Rhaenryra's first three sons as Strong boys especially if they are Team Black.

Sure they might dislike them! You might even dislike them for the most basic and petty reasons like they're just boring or you just don't vibe with them. Perfectly fine.

I just want to know why if they don't like them for reasons that have nothing to do with their status as bastards they call them "bastard boys" 👀

I'm not judging then for not liking my favorites, I'm judging them because I see the neon sign of a retrograde prejudice that should be eliminated and they're lying to my face telling me which is not true.

It's the same as those who swear they don't dislike Rhaenryra for misogynistic reasons while judging her in contrast to Alicent following the Madonna/Whore dichotomy, they call her a whore (because three, maybe four if you think she did sleep with Laenor and not just Lana, Daemon and Harwin, without exchanging anything for consensual sex is without a doubt slutty behavior and not a misogynistic social judgment) and classify her as spoiled for wanting the same rights as a man.

No bias here! Just fair and objective shots 🙄

Nah FR though! As soon as I see “the Strong boys” or “the Bastards” it’s like, oh okay I’m dealing with one of the THOSE people. It’d be like people who dislike Tyrion persistently calling him “the Imp” or “the Dwarf” in fandom. Why are you using the insults of Medieval bigots, it’s weird.

Some people just fail to grasp that there is a difference between saying something like:

“I don’t like that Rhaenyra had bastards because that causes further succession issues, and for the sake of stability it’s best that a true born son sits the throne instead of Jace.”

And saying something like:

“Rhaenyra is such a selfish whore. I hate the bastards and can’t wait for them to die. Bastard blood must be cleansed from the throne!”

Or rather, I don’t think that it’s that they fail to grasp it, but they refuse to ACKNOWLEDGE it. Because they are haters and want to use the most extreme tone and language to express their hatred. Which— hey, I get it, I’m a TG hater and love to trash talk Aegon II, Aemond, Alicent, etc. But can we at least acknowledge that you ARE using prejudiced language and embracing medieval bigotry, and understand how weird of a choice that is?

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 2

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 4.2k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up!

Past (ii) - You

[16 & 17] - THE CAPITOL

The man before you has a ten-year streak of picking which tribute will win. Or, at least, that’s what he’s been claiming for the past twenty minutes or so. He said it has something to do with a lot of strategic planning and background research, but at this point, he could say it had something to do with the phases of the moon and you’d still nod along. You had tried to listen closely when he first started talking, but—well, okay, that’s a lie. Everything these Capitols say goes in one ear and out the other. Actually, it doesn’t even make it as far as the first ear.

“I know how it sounds, but it’s definitely more than luck, I can assure you.” His hand catches your shoulder in his attempt to hold your very fleeting attention, trailing down your back more and more in his excitement. “Well, I won’t bore you with the details, they might be a touch too complicated for you to understand.” He laughs and you smile coyly, sidestepping his touch. You’re no stranger to the heavy-handed petting of men and women with ulterior motives, no matter how innocent they try to play it off as being at first.

It’s nighttime in the arena, and most of the tributes are getting a spare few hours of sleep before the nightmare continues. Meaning this watch party has turned into an actual party. Honestly, you don’t even know how you got trapped in a conversation with this guy.

You sip delicately from your straw, eyes roaming over the room of mingling bodies and wall-length screens depicting the games live—eager to look at literally anything but him. And that’s when you spot him: your saving grace walking by himself with his hands in his pockets.

You make eye contact with Finnick and smile, waving him over. He only hesitates for a split second, but it’s long enough that you worry he’ll leave you to fend for yourself. A fear that’s only abated when he calls out your name and approaches with a mystified grin.

“Finn!” Thank god. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” You exclaim in the most sickeningly saccharine Capitol voice you can muster. He stares with wide blue-green eyes, bemusedly mouthing ‘Finn?’ at you but you ignore him in favor of turning back to the man who somehow looks more starstruck than before.

“I’m sorry, but Finnick here promised me a dance.” You explain, pulling an excuse out of your ass. You loop your arm with Finnick’s, practically hanging off of him, and you hope beyond hope that Finnick is good at reading social cues. It should be obvious, right? You’re a big neon sign flashing ‘HELP ME’ in no uncertain terms. 

“I did?” He asks, clearly confused at such a friendly greeting, but you stare up at him pleadingly and you must be projecting enough distress that he gets the memo. His back straightens in understanding and he smiles at the other man. “I did. But you know us victors, as slippery as an eel.” The other man lets out a flustered laugh. Finnick tilts his head as the band starts up. “Oh, I love this song. You don’t mind, do you? Thanks.”

You only have a few seconds to wonder what the hell an eel is before Finnick takes your glass out of your hand and hands it over to the sputtering man.

Your arms are still looped together as he leads you to the area where the other couples have decided to dance. 

“May I have this dance?” He teases and you get a strong sense of déjà vu.

“Well, we’re already here, aren’t we?” You laugh. You loop your arms behind his neck, and big hands grab either side of your waist. 

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” He sighs, any chance of him being serious is shattered by his smirk.

“What do you mean?” Your brows furrow before raising to touch your hairline when he spins you.

“You know; you being a damsel in distress, and me saving you by being dashingly handsome and charming.” He clears his throat obnoxiously and puffs up his chest playfully. You’re sure if his hands were free he’d stretch to flex his muscles.

“Mhm,” You hum doubtfully. “Those are…certainly words that could be said with your name in the same sentence.” 

“...I think that’s the most roundabout way anyone has ever insulted me before.” His jaw drops before he grins down at you in amused surprise. You laugh at his face, sobering up a little.

“But thank you, Finnick. Seriously. I’m sorry I keep relying on you to pull me out. It’s just…” You don’t know what else to do.

“No, it’s alright. It’s fun, honestly. We rarely get to exercise the little authority we have over them.” His mouth shrugs instead of his shoulders, an endearing motion. “Better enjoy it while you can, right?’’ 

You nod.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He straightens up subtly as your probing stare looks him up and down. “Don’t take this the wrong way. You look great, but you don’t really seem like a suit kind of guy.” There’s nothing about his outward appearance that gives away how uncomfortable he is, but you only need to talk to him for a few minutes to know this isn’t the sort of thing he’d choose to wear. Not that he looks bad in it; far from it. The coat is tailored to sinch at his waist and a few buttons of his undershirt are undone. The color of the jacket complements his skin tone quite well and the little pocket square makes his eyes pop. 

“Thank you. Try telling that to my prep team.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently, telling them I feel like a circus monkey playing dress up isn’t enough to dissuade them, so I might need a second opinion.”

Circus? "Wait, you’ve seen a monkey before?” You ask in awed disbelief. His mouth moves wordlessly at your enthusiasm.

“Well…not in person, per se.”

Past (ii) - Finnick

[16 & 17] - THE NEXT DAY

Finnick pours the rest of his drink into one of the potted plants he walks past, unbuttoning his suit coat once he's out of sight. This really is the last time he's letting his stylist dress him up in this getup. He rubs his temple in an attempt to soothe his growing migraine. As far as he's concerned, his job here is done. He has no reason to keep watching the games. His tributes already died. He pushes the doors open to the wide balcony and stops in his tracks. Of the many things Finnick expects to find out here, your crying isn't one of them. His first thought is that you're mourning your tributes. His second thought is that Snow got to you. It's an odd time for Snow to drop that kind of proposition on you. There are too many people here, too open for that kind of conversation. He scratches that out and circles back to his first thought. When he wasn't busy rubbing elbows with sponsors, he was keeping an eye out for your tributes. Switching periodically from his kids to yours and he can't, for the life of him, explain why. They got pretty far, considering they were malnourished and had no combat training. The boy got crushed under a tree after an earthquake and the girl stayed with him until he died. Though, it wasn't long before a Career shot an arrow through her head. The balcony door shuts behind him, and you whip around. Neither of you says anything as you rush to wipe your face. There’s an awkward lull as you both silently assess each other. "If you tell me it gets easier, I will push you off this balcony." He doesn't answer immediately, instead taking a moment to look at you. God, you're beautiful. Even now, wiping away your tears and your hurt, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He doesn’t say any of that. "I wasn't going to." He raises his hands placatingly. He waits for you to tell him to leave, but the demand never comes. He almost offers to but decides against it for no other reason than not wanting to leave you out here alone. Instead, he moves closer and leans against the railing. It's quiet between you both as you try to hide your tears. He looks at you from the corner of his eye a few times and scratches an eyebrow with his thumb. It’s odd to think the two of you were laughing and enjoying each other’s company only yesterday. "I cried in a supply closet the first time my kids died." He glances at your surprised face before looking back down at the view. He clears his throat around the words trapped in his throat. He’s never told anyone this before, he’s never wanted to. "A fourteen-year-old girl named Dahlia, and a sixteen-year-old boy named Nyle. They didn't even make it out of the Cornucopia." Nyle was decapitated by a tribute from One and Dahlia's throat was slit by a tribute from Seven. Finnick remembers crying so hard that he threw up in a mop bucket. "Why are you telling me this?" That is a good question. One with an answer Finnick doesn’t want to look too closely at, though it might—scratch that, it definitely has something to do with your big watery eyes staring up at him ingenuously. 

"Your first game as a mentor is always the hardest, and it doesn't get easier. But,” he shrugs and pulls the artfully folded, blue handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and hands it to you. Turns out this suit is good for something, "you do learn what to expect. You get used to that hurt, build up a tolerance to it." At least, he hopes so. This is his third year as a mentor and the burn is still there. How much longer until he tries to extinguish it by using substances? The Morphlings lasted two and four years, respectively. Haymitch lasted two months. You look between him and the handkerchief for a second before using it to wipe at your eyes. "It's completely different than being in the games. It's different watching." You whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. "Yeah. It is.” That's another thing they don't mention when you become a victor. The after is often worse than the during. It’s a thought he had when he saw you at your Victor Tour celebration. He doesn’t know what exactly made him ask you to dance, it could have been the tenseness you carried in your shoulders like a wounded animal being surrounded, or maybe it was the way your pretty face cracked and shattered like glass the longer the Capitols talked to you.

You were a commendable actor, sure, you’d certainly have fooled anyone else. But you just, you had looked so alone—completely overwhelmed with the piranhas circling you. So he threw you a line.

Your words swim through his head. 

And you want to save me? He didn’t say your assessment was right, in fact, he had ignored what you said entirely. But he never said you were wrong either. He doesn’t suddenly have a savior complex or anything, he’s got no delusions of being some kind of hero. It’s just. He knows how much he would have appreciated it if someone had stepped in on his behalf when he was fourteen, even for just a moment. It would have made all the difference. But there hadn’t been anyone. So, if he has the chance to change that for you—stop the crippling despondency before it sweeps you away—why wouldn’t he?

Finnick won’t overestimate his influence. If Snow gets to you, there’s very little he can do about it. But.

It doesn’t seem like he’s made you the offer yet. Doesn’t that mean something? Snow is nothing if not punctual, very cut-throat in that regard. If he wanted something from you, he would have asked already, right? So maybe, he lets himself think, maybe you’re safe.

He looks up to the sky. One of the many things he hates about the Capitol is the smog. They're in the mountains, but the sky is so polluted it's hard to even see the moon sometimes. "Can you see the stars well in Eleven?" He asks, waving off your attempt to hand him back the handkerchief. You can burn it for all he cares. "Yeah,” you nod. "We focus on agriculture, so there are no mills or factories to pollute the air." You move closer to where he's leaning and look up. It feels almost instinctual to copy you, to get closer and fall into your orbit. "Hmm," he hums, "same for Four. Ships come in and out of the harbor, but I don't think they do much damage." The calmest he's felt in his entire life is when he's staring up at the sky at night, sand under his feet, and waves crashing in the background. "A friend of mine loved looking at the stars. She never knew any of the constellations, so she'd make up her own with stories to go with them." Mags loved telling him all the stories she made up when she was his age. Even after the stroke took her ability to speak, she'd point up at a constellation and have Finnick retell them to her. "My dad knew the real constellations." There's a small, prideful grin on your face that he doubts you even know is there. But he does. He is very aware of it. "He'd tell them to me whenever we came back from harvesting." "The real constellations, huh?” He glances over his shoulder at the glass door leading inside. The game is down to its last few tributes. No one should come looking for either of you. "How about for every real story you tell me, I tell you a made-up one?" He grins at you, the bar of the balcony digging into his back as he turns around. Odd. He can’t remember the last time he’s been alone with someone—someone other than Mags and Annie—and has kept all of his clothes on. "Won't they miss you in there? I mean you’re definitely the main attraction in every room you're in." You nudge him gently with your elbow, looking up at him through wispy eyelashes. Your eyes are still a little red from your earlier crying, but they’re heavy and focused entirely on him. He's used to people flirting with him. Hell, he does it almost as readily as he breathes. But he isn't used to you flirting with him. That tentative way of yours makes him nervous. It’s nothing he’s used to. It feels too real. "I don't care what they think," he shrugs a shoulder, biting his lip to stop from smiling too broadly, "The real party's out here, anyway." You tilt your head, smiling up at him and his ears go warm. This is probably the fifth time he's talked to you and you've never smiled at him like that before.

“Deal.” You hold up your pinky to him, something so openly childish that he can’t help but laugh. 

“Deal.” He locks his pinky with yours and you nod at each other before dropping your hands.

"You see that up there? Those tiny clusters of stars," he watches your finger draw a W between five stars, "are called Cassiopeia. And those five stars above it are called Cepheus. They were husband and wife, queen and king. Cassiopeia offended Poseidon by saying her daughter, Andromeda, was more beautiful than the sea nymphs—close friends of his. So he punished her by sending a flood and a sea monster that would destroy their country unless they sacrificed Andromeda." Finnick looks from the sky to the side of your face as you continue talking. He follows the line of your jaw up to your mouth and watches as your full lips form the words of your story. The moon is full, the sky is bright, and he's entranced by more than just the stars. “After they died, Zeus put them in the sky together because Cepheus was a descendant of one of Zeus's lovers. A little weird, honestly.” Your face scrunches up in a decidedly cute way at the thought. “Cepheus sits with his scepter, and Cassiopeia sits chained to her throne as a punishment by Poseidon. As if having to sacrifice her daughter wasn’t enough. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?" 

“Yeah.” The yellow lights from inside blanket you from behind, while the moon’s white glare reflects in your eyes. “They are.” You catch him staring and look at him expectantly. You're starting to fidget and he realizes he’s been quiet for a concerning amount of time. “My friend…” he pauses and makes a quick decision, "my friend Mags, she calls that one the Turtle and the Fish. Eros was mischievous and vain, as most gods are. He wanted to show off to a sea nymph, so he made a turtle and a fish fall in love to prove his power transcended species. But fish don't live as long as turtles, and once its lover died, the turtle mourned for one hundred years at the bottom of the sea. Poseidon, who felt his subject's grief, put them together amongst the stars for all eternity." He turns to you and finds you staring at him. "What?" He asks with a laugh, embarrassed for whatever reason. "I know it’s pretty simple compared to yours, but—" He cuts himself off when you smile at him again. "No, I liked it." You nod at your own words like you're agreeing with yourself. "It was sweet. Your Poseidon is way nicer than mine. Maybe you can tell your friend one of my stories. To show her how different they are." You shrug like it's a dumb, throwaway idea, before turning away from him in a haste to look back up at the sky. 

He doesn’t understand. How can you just offer something like that like it’s nothing? You clearly loved your father very much and he picked up on the past tense when you talked about him. These stories are quite personal to you and he had assumed you hadn’t wanted them to be shared, but…Maybe he will tell her. 

“Oh. Good. I just—I’m not much of a storyteller, so…I might’ve completely butchered that.” He swears it sounds much better when he retells it to Mags.

“It was great, Finnick. You were great.” You pout up at him and it’s the most unfair shit Finnick’s ever seen. Made even worse by the fact that you’re defending him. To himself. “Can you tell me another one?” You ask guilelessly, and who is Finnick to say no?

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Present (ii) - Finnick

[ 23 & 24] - District Four 

"Mags: milk and cinnamon," Finnick places two tea cups before the two women, "And, Annie: a spoonful of honey." Mags smiles up at him in thanks as Annie takes a sip. He walks back to the kitchen to pour his own cup. It’s odd. He hadn’t always been a tea drinker. But now he practically puts on a new cup for every occasion, entirely your influence. He rests against the counter, letting it dig into his hip. It wouldn't be long before Snow announced the stipulations for the third Quarter Quell and Finnick can admit in the safety of his own mind that he's nervous. There were whispers among the Capitols and none of it painted a pretty picture. One of his clients informed him about a new Gamemaker, supposedly some kind of creative genius. He rolls his eyes at the thought. Yeah, he bets the guy is absolutely brilliant at torturing children. He drops five sugar cubes into the tea before grabbing a licorice root to stir it with. He joins them on the couch, staring at the sliced berries floating in his cup. There's something in the air. Word travels fast in close circles and it's no secret that there are more and more riots breaking out in the districts. Katniss and Peeta's win is still fresh on everyone's tongue. Snow has stayed quiet and with the Quarter Quell on the horizon, Finnick knows it—he can feel it in the atoms of his very being that it's going to end poorly. Or at the very least, worse than normal. What fresh hell will Snow come up with this time? Snow appears before a cheering crowd, foreboding even through the TV. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the seventy-fifth year of The Hunger Games. And it was written in the charter of The Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against The Capitol." He places his cup on the table and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by Games of a special significance. And now on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell," Mags grabs onto his arm, frail fingers gripping his wrist. He wonders if she can feel the pulsing of his rapid heartbeat, "as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of The Capitol. On this, the third Quarter Quell Games the male and female Tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each district." Annie lets out a blood-curdling scream and it echoes past Finnick's ears. Her glass shatters on the ground and scalding tea splashes on his feet. He doesn't flinch. Normally, whenever Annie got like this, he would comfort her—talk her through it, but he can't move. The tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors and all of the victors of District Four are in this room. Mags’s physical state and Annie’s mental state guarantee one thing: regardless of who gets picked, they won't survive it. He'll be losing someone either way, and that's if he survives. If he survives, because Finnick is the only male victor for Four. There's no doubt, no one volunteering for him. He will be reaped and that, that was just— He rubs at his eyes with the base of his palms, fighting back a migraine. He makes a mental list: he'll be picked, Johanna and Blight will be picked, Chaff will be picked and— His hands move to pull at his roots. There are only two female victors in Eleven. There are only two, but Seeder loves you like she raised you herself. There's still hope, still a chance that you won't be picked, that she'll take your place if you're reaped. You'll be safe. And then, he remembers: Seeder is a mother, she's a wife. There are people that need her. He won't put it past Snow to rig the outcome for Eleven. He'll put Seeder's name in twice and pat himself on the back for seemingly ensuring your freedom. When, in reality, he's only ensured that you'll be in the arena. 

Finnick knows this because he knows you. Better than he knows anyone, better than he knows himself. He knows that you're brave, that you're stubborn enough to put a cabezon to shame, that you're stupidly compassionate. He knows that you'll never be able to live with yourself if you don't volunteer in her place. 

His head falls to the back of the couch. That's one thing he and Snow have in common, the only thing. Their love has damned you. Annie is mumbling to herself, having screamed herself hoarse at this point. But she keeps making jerking movements as if she wants to run. He steals a few breaths, taking a moment to gather himself—his fears, his hopes, his anger—he gathers it all and stores it away. "C'mon, Annie. Let's go outside for a walk." A stroll along the shoreline usually calms her down and he gets the allure. At least with the cooling breeze and the ocean mist from crashing waves, Finnick can close his eyes and pretend to be someone else. Someone unburdened with the fact that Snow was right, they are more similar than he'd like to admit. Because Seeder may have a family that relies on her, but Finnick can't find it in himself to care. He'd put her in the arena himself if it meant your safety. He stands, stepping around shards of glass and pools of cooling tea, pulling Annie up with him. He doesn't get far before Mags grabs his hand. She's worried, he can see it in her frown. She has every right to be. “I'm,” not fine, far from it, “right here, Mags. Don't worry about me.” He leaves behind Mags's concern and the sound of Caesar Flickerman's excited voice recounting Snow's speech. He pinches the skin between his thumb and index finger, pressing down until it hurts. Then he presses down until the muscle throbs. The sea breeze hits him in the face when he opens the door and he thinks. The boat is sinking and he can only swim for so long.

-

A/N: Side note, that was "stubborn enough to put a bull to shame" but I figured Finnick wouldn't know enough about bulls to know they're stubborn. So I picked the fish equivalent of a bull.

[winterrrnight]

make up part II

PAIRING: drew starkey x best friend!gn!reader

SUMMARY: You and Drew finally recite your love for each other, all thanks to Cigarettes After Sex.

WARNINGS: little intimate moments between the reader and drew, but of course nothing sexual, drugs, alcohol, small mentions of anxiety + ignore any grammatical/spelling mistakes!

EDITH SPEAKS: this is requested by @totalswag, thank you so much for the request lovie, I had so much fun writing this! thank you for also giving me a plot idea on how you would like to see this part progress :)

please like and/or reblog if you like this, feedback is highly appreciated! 🌷

This is part two to make up! So for more context, make sure to read that first :)

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You're sitting next to Drew in the passenger seat as he's driving you both to the party. The tension from before is still lingering around you and is suffocating you. The only sound in the car is from the radio playing unknown music softly in the background.

You lean your head against the window and watch the trees and the houses rush past; your desperate attempt to get your mind off the thick tension. But it doesn't work. You cannot stop thinking about how peaceful Drew looked while you were doing his make up - his eyes closed and soft breathes escaping him - he looked like the epitome of serenity.

And then there was you, with your heart beating so fast you were worried it will just jump out of your chest. You felt your fingers slightly tremble as you brushed your fingertips over his eyelids and cheekbones. It was a miracle how you didn't mess up his look.

While you were doing your own make up look, unbeknownst to you, Drew was watching you intently as you brushed your own face with the similiar blush you used for him. He was in awe; your hands moving so perfectly it almost looked effortless. No doubt he felt the same tension you did, he was able to keep a cool front while really he was going completely crazy on the inside.

Drew takes a quick look at you, your focus completely on the sights outside the window. He wants to say something; anything to kill this tension between you two.

But he doesn't know what to say, he's at a loss of words, just the way you are. Drew tries to find his own distraction by only thinking about the music playing on the radio and keeping his eyes on the road.

Pretty soon, you and him are near your friend's house. She definitely has a big group of friends, so you know there won't be less than atleast 200 people in her house. The neon lights from her house can be seen flashing from the distance, and the bass of the loud music thumps against your eardrums.

You and Drew stand outside her house. There are some people outside in the gardens, with their weed and alcohol to keep them company. The door is wide open, so you both just welcome yourself inside.

With the amount of people you and Drew are trying to navigate your way in, you already start to feel overwhelmed by it all. The heat, the sweaty bodies, the reeking smell of weed all around the room starts to get to you.

Drew knows how nervous you tend to get in places like these. He is quick to grasp your hand in his, intertwining your fingers so you don't lose each other, and to provide you some comfort in this tough situation.

At the sudden skin to skin contact, you tense for a second, but relax almost immediately. His hand, just the right temperature, just the right size, feels so perfect holding yours.

You turn to take a look at Drew, who has a reassuring smile on his face. It's okay, I'm here, is what he's trying to convey to you. I'll always be here for you. I'll never let anything happen to you.

As you both continue to walk through the big crowds of people with the dim lighting gleaming your make up in the most ethereal way possible, you finally find yourself with all your friend group.

"Heyyy!" Your friend, Amber - who's birthday it is, says as she waltzes over you two. You can already see she has had one too many cups of alcohol. She comes up to you and wraps your arms around you, locking you in a hug. This causes your hand to break apart from Drew's.

You plaster a smile on your face as you pull from the hug. "Happy birthday darling!" You wish her, and Amber just swiftly kisses both your cheeks. She goes to meet Drew and you go ahead and catch up with the rest of the group.

↶ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊˎ-

It's been atleast an hour, and all of you are slumping on the couches with alcohol buzzing your systems. One of your friends, Jasper, goes ahead and fills up all your cups with some vodka but none of you say anything to him.

You found yourself on Drew's lap, yet again. This time, his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, like he never wants to let you go. With the alcohol spreading in you like a plague and blurring all your thoughts and emotions, you lean into his body, his chin resting on your shoulder and his breathes softly fanning your neck.

One of your friends - Avery - suddenly gets up from her seat and downs all the contents of her cup. "Let's go dance!" She yells over the loud music. You look over to the dance floor to see people swaying to the beat.

With the same enthusiasm as Avery all your friends decide to head to the dance floor. You start to get up from Drew's lap but he pulls you back in.

"Where you going?" He mumbles in your ear. You turn your head around to look at him; your faces so close just the same they were in the evening, and your want to kiss him comes back, more strong and more powerful than the last time.

"To dance, you wanna come?" You whisper back, your eyes closed as you softly nudge his nose with yours.

"Nah I'm all good. You go," He says, despite his heart only wanting you to stay with him. With all the willpower in him, Drew lets go of you and you get off his lap. The sudden loss of warmth encased you in a coldness - which doesn't feel so good.

Nevertheless, you catch up with your friends and all of you head on the dance floor, your cups in your hand as you find your bodies moving to the melody of the song playing, the beat setting you free.

Some other guys along with Drew were still at their places in the couch, as they talked about some random topics.

"Did you catch the game last night Drew? It was so worth watching," One of his mates, River says. But Drew doesn't listen to him; he's way too busy looking at you across the room dancing so carelessly with your friends, the brightest smile gracing your lips as you scream the lyrics.

"Drew? Drew?" River says, concerned as he shakes his shoulder. Drew suddenly snaps out of his daze and directs his attention to River.

"Yeah man?" He asks, a quizzical look on his face.

"Nothing, I was just wondering if you watched the game last night," River asks, sipping on his drink.

"Oh uh, no I didn't, I was uh... a little busy," he clears his throat and directs his eyesight back to the dance floor, trying to find you.

Jasper sighs at this sight. "Why don't you just go and confess? You have fallen so hard man,"

"Oh you know I can't do that Jas, I don't think my feelings are reciprocated I mean..." Drew sighs. At this point, the feelings Drew has for you are overflowing in him. One little flick of the switch and they'll start bleeding out non stop.

"Take this," Jasper offers Drew a cup with one his unknown concoctions in it.

"What's that?" Drew asks, eyeing the cup in his hand but not taking it.

"Liquid luck," Jasper nudges the cup closer to him. "Come on, take it man! No one needs it more than you."

Drew looks at the cup and then at Jasper, who is determined to make him drink it all. "Fuck it," he mumbles as he takes the cup and downs the entire drink in a single go. Grimacing at the bitter taste, Drew gets up from his seat and starts to make his way to you.

He squeezes in through the sweaty crowd of people until he finally stumbles upon the group of familiar people. Your back is towards him as you're dancing around with Amber. Drew takes in a deep breathe and walks up to you. You unknowingly take a step back and crash into him.

You turn around to see Drew, which causes the biggest grin to grace your face. You instantly wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you, his arms instantly latching onto your waist.

The song in the background suddenly changes from an EDM one to 'Sweet' by Cigarettes After Sex. The mood of the dance floor changes immediately, and you and Drew find yourself dancing slowly to the melody of the slow song.

It's so sweet, knowing that you love me, though we don't need to say it to each other

Your eyes are lost in his, as the only thing you can think about his him. He's always been there for you, he's always been so in love with you, he cannot imagine himself with anyone else except you. You lean in your forehead against his, your eyes closed as you feel the music in you and Drew's scent completely encasing you.

Knowing that I love you, and running my fingers through your hair, it's so sweet

The gentle instrumental plays in the background and you and Drew feel like you're the only ones on this planet. You're his, forever and ever.

"Drew?" You whisper, and he just hums in response. You open your eyes and lean your head back. Your gaze falls onto his lips, so soft and so sweet, just waiting to feel yours against them.

And I will gladly break it, I will gladly break my heart for you

You lean in so painfully slow, but finally, your lips meet his halfway and you feel little euphoric firecrackers set off in your stomach. His lips, tasting like honey and berries as you crave the taste more and more with each second. You're melting under his touch, and he only holds you closer, impossibly closer, as his lips trace yours, your lips feeling like the most delicate flower softly brushing their petals against him.

You pull back, and lean your head against your chest, a content smile on your face.

It's so sweet, knowing that you love me, though we don't need to say it to each other

This is it. You finally have what you have always wanted.

Him.

↶ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊˎ-

TAGLIST: @runningfrom2am @ragingsammie @maybankslover @totalswag @madelynie @chenslucy @ietss @elle-mp3

(If you want to be added, check out the 'join my taglist' post on top! + send in requests if you have any, but please read the 'requests' post first!)

[oldwritingm]

Hi. I thought the platonic Cole and baby reader was absolutely adorable. Do you mind doing a part 2? Baby reader is absolutely adorable and precious, and he can't help but buy a baby sling and takes her out on patrol, like they just take a walk around Ninjago city. Or a cute moment in the Monastery with paranormal baby behavior where baby reader can crawl on the walls but it's too cute to stop because baby reader is basically baby Spider Man.

Here ya go love!

Word count: 769

Ninjago - Cole Adopts a Mystery Baby (You) Part II

Part I here

“Y/n, you are going to lose your little mind,” Cole chirped eagerly. The baby in the high seat before him cooed, letting the dry cereal in its hands drop onto the plastic tray.

Cole plunged his hand into the shopping bag he was holding, hesitating to pull out whatever it was he wanted to show the baby. Then, in a sudden jerk, he yanked out a black baby sling and held it high with a huge grin.

“There were other colors, but I chose black because it’ll match my gi. Hope you don’t mind. Anyway, I bought it because I know you get upset when I have to leave to go on patrols, so I figured I could use this to bring you along! What do you say?”

The baby stared at him with wide eyes. After a few seconds, it giggled and slapped the plastic tray, sending cereal raining onto the floor.

“Awesome! Finish your lunch, then we can go.”

Cole was beaming as he walked down the street. The baby strapped to his chest was wagging its head from side to side, trying to capture every little detail of the massive city.

“Pretty nice, isn’t it? You should see it at night. You’d like all the pretty neon signs.”

Cole was grateful for the relative peace today; he wasn’t looking forward to having to fight with such a precious package on his person. He’d much rather spend the time showing the little baby around Ninjago city. Maybe he’d even have time to take them to get noodles.

“Oh my goodness!”

Cole turned around, mentally preparing himself to face some fans. This was basically part of the job by now, though, so perhaps he should’ve been anticipating it.

Two young women were speed walking toward him, phones already in hand for photos. Their eyes doubled in size when they noticed a little h/c baby on his chest.

One of the women, the one with darker hair than her companion, gasped.

“Whose baby is that?” She squealed, bringing a hand to her cheek as she admired it.

“Mine,” Cole boasted, relieved that his baby was getting more attention than him.

The women looked at each other, sharing some unspoken communication that was undoubtedly something gossipy.

The woman with lighter hair crouched down so that she was on eye level with the baby. “What’s its name?”

“Y/n.”

Y/n reached forward and grabbed a strand of the woman’s hair, tangling the golden hairs in its sticky fingers. The woman giggled.

“What a sweetheart.”

“Aren’t they?”

Suddenly remembering their original purpose, the women asked for their pictures and, after fawning over the baby in one last burst of affection, they bid Cole a good rest of his patrol.

Their well wishes didn’t last long. Cole decided to head for one of his favorite noodle shops, hoping to get some food after wrapping up the patrol, when he heard a loud commotion from an alleyway.

He rushed into the dark alcove, ready for action. Two ruffians were manhandling an old man, who was begging for mercy.

“Hey!” Cole boomed, assuming a fighting stance. “Didn’t your mommas ever teach you to respect your elders?”

Abandoning their current victim, the attackers charged at Cole. He was lost in the excitement of the moment, and he fought as if there were not a soft-bodied child attached to his chest. When both of the assailants were downed, he remembered this with a gasp.

“Are you okay, Y/n?” He asked, grabbing at the baby’s arms and legs to check for wounds. The giggle he received in response calmed his nerves.

“Thank you, young man,” the old man said, shuffling his way out of the alley to meet the police. “I already called the cops,” he explained, gesturing to their cars.

After meeting with the police, Cole was finally able to get his noodles. He ordered an extra large bowl so that he could share with the little baby sitting in a high seat across from him.

He laughed as it widened its e/c eyes at the first bite. “What’d I tell you? Best in town.”

About halfway through the meal, he noticed the baby’s eyelids drooping. He looked out the front window of the shop to see the sun setting.

“Okay, we can go home now,” he assented, scarfing down the remaining noodles before heading out.

The baby was asleep before Cole even reached the monastery. He placed it in its cradle, a sigh escaping his lips.

“I hope you had a good time today, little one,” he grinned. “I sure did.”

Thanks for the request! And thanks for reading, have a good one sweeties <33

(divider by saradika)

[radiowallet]

I Can

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter and Marcus meet a second time. WC: 4K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Explicit sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists, handjob, dry humping, dirty talk, praise kink, a smidge of edging. Mentions of food and drug use. Small angsty moments. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy).

A/N: A Saturday night fic drop? Why not? I'm literally just a chaos demon at this point. Big thanks to @writer-wednesday for this prompt and for inspiring me to revisit my boys (and basically create a whole entire universe for them). This is a follow-up to my random little drabble You Can. I have wanted to revisit these boys for so long and when the inspiration struck, I couldn't help but run with it. Thank you to my beloved @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning for listening and encouraging every unhinged thought inside my head. The very best of enablers.

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

----------------

Dieter refuses to spend another meal in some stuffy, overpriced hoity-toity bullshit restaurant. Ever since his plane touched down at JFK he’s been dragged from meeting to table read to some supposed ‘life-changing’ meal and back again. Which, okay, there are worse things in life than a $100 dollar plate of food, but the pretentiousness of it all was starting to eat away at him. 

And the problem with the meals in particular is that even if they were somehow able to change the trajectory of his life, there were only so many tiny portions of shaved truffle caviar foie bullshit he could eat. 

No. Tonight he needs something else. Cheese, and bread, and beef. Something warm and comforting and covered in just a touch too much grease. Something he can purchase with a 20-dollar bill and bring back to his hotel room to eat while he watches something trashy on television, before downing an edible or two, and jerking himself off until he passed out. 

Marissa, thankfully, was a manager who knew when he had hit his limit. She waved him away with only two reminders of his call time for tomorrow and a promise to send a car. Dieter half mumbled his acknowledgment before slipping out of the lobby that housed one of the many studios he had met with that day, turning left and disappearing into the crowded streets of downtown Manhattan. 

This was Dieter’s favorite part of the city. Sure, it was too loud. Too busy. Too bright. But hiding in plain sight? That became easy. Even in his most outlandish of outfits he blended in, able to make the walk to his hotel in relative peace. 

He passes a myriad of carts on his way, each one smelling better than the last. He’s not sure what he’s craving, but Dieter is positive he’ll know it when he sees it. The sun has completely set by the time he turns the corner, the city lights guiding him towards the Park Hyatt just up ahead. And there, across the street, was a cart, neon signs for gyros and knish calling to him. 

The line was only one man deep by the time he jaywalked his way over, the street light shining down like a spotlight, catching the actor’s attention almost immediately. Dieter stops short at the sight of him, the breadth of his shoulders and cut of his jaw enough to drag up a memory that has his toes curling and his belly swooping low. The memory of a frustrated frown shifting into a soft smile, brown eyes wide beneath thick glasses, a kiss that should have lasted a lot longer than it did. 

He’s traded the tux from that night in for a black leather jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans, his head bent low, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. Dieter smiles, stepping in line with a little more bounce in his step, his lips caught between his teeth, his appetite suddenly shifting. It seems he’s finally figured out exactly what it is that he’s been craving. 

— — —

Marcus doesn’t really know how he feels about New York. He thinks maybe in another life he would hate it; one where he had a family at home waiting for him, someone to share the day-to-day mundane things with after all the superhero crap was put to bed. He probably would have pulled every string in the book to bring along this hypothetical family, and that thought alone takes his mood from sour to rancid. As it was, home, New York, Paris. It hardly mattered. He just wanted to wrap up the last of this press tour shit and get back to the real work. 

There was only one more round of interviews tomorrow, most of them with the entire team. God willing, he could get away with a few quick answers and then nod along as the rest of the Heroics did the heavy lifting. 

He was supposed to be out with the team right now. Drinks and dinner that he had (sort of) politely begged off, content with something hot and cheap to eat in the solitude of his hotel room. The smells from the Greek-themed cart had been calling to him since he first walked out of the Hyatt earlier that day and he was intent on stuffing his face full before passing out to the sound of some trashy reality show playing in the background. 

He’s just starting to rationalize ordering one of everything, the Heroics Amex card already in the palm of his hand when the flick of a lighter and the smell of a cigarette catch his attention from behind. He wants to frown as the smoke invades his senses, the nasty habit once something that turned his stomach. But now all it does is drudge up a memory, almost 6 months old, but still there at the back of his mind; a dimpled grin and a searing kiss that left him aching. 

He breathes in deep, letting the smell fill his lungs, humming at the bitter taste that coats his tongue. If he closes his eyes, he swears can almost feel the warmth of a breath on his neck, a man much too free for Marcus to keep, but who he wanted to anyway. 

A loud cough yanks him back to reality, a gentle nudge urging him forward. 

“Your turn, Heroic.”

Normally the call out would make his skin crawl, a signal to the beginning of either a very uncomfortable fan encounter or a 20-minute lecture on the interference of government sanctioned vigilantes. But the tone of the man is neither fawning nor judgmental, instead a teasing warmth that almost feels familiar. Marcus turns, an apology on the tip of his tongue and….

“It’s you.”

Dieter Bravo smiles around the cigarette dangling from his lips, all teeth and dimples and Hollywood charm, just as Marcus remembers. 

“And it’s you.” 

— — —

They end up ordering enough for two small armies, both men overtipping the patient cart owner enough that he promptly starts closing up shop the second they step away with their food. Marcus shrugs, the bag held tight to his chest, compelled to offer an explanation that Dieter didn’t ask for. 

“Superhero metabolism.”  

“I get it,” Dieter hums, wanting to put the other man at ease. It’s clear he’s wound just a bit too tight, the pressure of whatever responsibilities he carries with him not so much weighing him down as they do hold him up. Dieter thinks, assumes, the joy of being a hero left Marcus Moreno far too long ago, and he wonders if he could help him save just a tiny piece of it. Or at the very least get the man to smile once before they part ways again.

“I’m up for this gladiator thing. I have a feeling once I get back to L.A. it’s going to be all protein shakes and boiled chicken and green-colored juice. Probably best to indulge while I have the chance.”

Marcus frowns, shaking his head. “That’s not right. Starving yourself to hit some sort of stupid unattainable body image that was set by others.”

“Yeah,” Dieter hums, poking Marcus in one of his firm shoulders. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

The other man blushes and shakes his head. “Mine’s mostly genetics. Which…hearing out loud just makes me sound like an ass.”

“Mmm, I actually think your ass could use a bit of work,” Dieter clicks his tongue, eyes drifting around to Marcus’s backside. 

His blush only darkens, and Dieter can’t help but delight in the reaction. “I’ll be okay, Heroic. All par for the course! Besides, it’s a 6-month shoot in Morocco. It’s been ages since I’ve been back there.” 

“Oh, well…if you need help…I mean before you leave. Shit. I’m pretty handy in the gym, I mean,” he stammers out, hands clinging tighter to the greasy brown bag in his hands.

“Do superheroes make house calls?”

Marcus grinds his jaw to the left, his eyes shifting as far from Dieter’s as they can, but the blush remains.  “If it’s something important.”

— — —

They’re staying in the same hotel. It shouldn’t surprise Marcus. Honestly, nothing should at this point, serendipitous coincidence managing to bring the two men together again despite all odds. They cross the street side by side, the doorman quick to open the door with a nod and a wave. Their steps echo through a seemingly empty lobby, most of the hotel guests having stepped out, their nights just getting started. 

Dieter moves easily, the hand holding his food swinging back and forth in time with his steps. His jaws works effortlessly at the piece of gum he traded with the cigarette he had been puffing at, the tip of it crushed into the side of the hotel perfectly in time with their entrance. Marcus watches from the corner of his eye, admiring the way the other man moves, as if he’s dancing, each movement as fluid as the last. 

The actor chatters beside him, an endless barrage of words that would be easy to write off as nonsense but despite that, Marcus finds himself listening with rapt attention. The actor talks about his meetings tomorrow, a chemistry read he hasn’t quite prepared for, an interview with Variety magazine scheduled directly after. Then he talks about the painting he had started before he left L.A. How he hopes the inspiration is still with him when he gets home. 

By the time they get on the elevator, their shoulders brushing in the tight space, Marcus knows the type of bike Dieter owns (a 10-speed he likes to ride down to the pier), how he likes his toast (just shy of burnt, butter and jelly), and his plans for the night (food, edible, jerking off). 

Marcus had even been caught up in the moment briefly, his own surprise at seeing the other man loosening his tongue just as it had all those months ago. He had stammered and stuttered in a way that he hadn’t since high school. He can’t seem to decide if he should be embarrassed or not, so he settles for quiet instead, only muttering his floor number once the elevator doors slide shut. 

Dieter eyes him over his shoulder, the flecks of grey in the scruff of his jaw illuminated in the low light and mirrored walls. He leans closer, just enough to nudge Marcus’s shoulder, his smile slipping into something more tentative, mint and menthol and something sweet hypnotizing the heroic. He can’t help but match the other man’s movement, leaning in and licking his lips, trying to capture the taste on his tongue. Dieter doesn’t miss it, brown eyes flickering to Marcus’s lips and back again. 

“Would you like some company?” 

— — —

They ultimately decide to go to Dieter’s room, a joke about seeing the Penthouse tilting the actor’s grin to just this side of wolfish. Marcus is instantly drawn to windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, the whole city lit up, a glaring shine just beyond the glass. 

“It seems brighter from up here.” 

“The lights are so bright but they blind me,” Dieter sings beneath his breath, spreading out the food with careful dedication. 

Marcus smiles at the sound of his voice, marveling at the sudden domestic turn his night has taken before placing his attention back on the skyline. Dieter moves around the couch to join him, carrying that same intoxicating smell with him. 

“Haven’t you seen it from rooftops?”

Marcus shakes his head, eyes still glued to the sparkling spectacle in front of him. “The world looks too dark from that angle.” 

Dark. Or Ugly. Honest. Yeah, Marcus can see everything from the rooftops, but none of it glittered. Not like this. Not like Dieter Bravo. 

The tip of a finger, softer than he expected, touches his chin, the pressure light but insistent, impossible to ignore. He turns to find Dieter watching him, brown eyes reflecting the city stars back at Marcus, and he fights the urge to blink and miss what comes next. They move in together, almost close enough but not, and Dieter laughs, a soft chuckle that rumbles in his chest. 

It reminds Marcus of that first kiss, so very long ago, down a dark alleyway, both of them pretending, for just a moment. He takes in a breath, a quick pull of air that steadies his nerves, before finally, finally, closing the last of the distance between them. 

The kiss is soft at first, a brush of lips and a scrape of stubble. It’s faint, the sweetest shade of something new between the press of their lips, the taste of mint and menthol permeating his senses. Marcus can’t help but take one more, letting his lips linger on Dieter’s, his hands fitting perfectly along the dip of the other man’s hips. 

It’s Dieter who deepens it, one palm sliding along the curve of Marcus’s cheek, the other grabbing where his leather jacket hangs open, fingers clenched into the fabric and yanking him closer. It’s the slip of a tongue between his lips that breaks him, a moan parting Marcus’s lips, the sound only encouraging Dieter to continue. 

The hand on his hips pushes him back gently, one, two, three steps before they stop. Marcus pulls away to catch his breath but Dieter keeps him close, soothing the pad of his thumb across the flush of his skin. 

“I missed you, baby.”

He wants to laugh, to point out it was just one kiss, and how? How could he miss him when he barely even knows him? But the endearment has him dizzy, the roof of his mouth tacky with desire, and all he can do is nod because yes. Of course, Marcus missed him too. What else was there to do but miss him? 

He swoops in for another kiss, this time meeting Dieter’s tongue with his own, tasting him full on and groaning into the feeling. The noise seems to startle something awake in the other man, the grip on his cheek growing tight, his own strangled whine rising up the column of his throat. 

When the kiss breaks, Dieter leans in, the scratch of his mustache rough where he hums his request in Marcus’s ear. “Can I take you to bed?”

“It’s been a while,” he can’t help but blurt out, pulling back to watch Dieter’s face carefully, preparing himself for the laughter and the teasing. “Almost 2 years.”

Still, Dieter doesn’t say anything, and Marcus can’t help but explain himself just a little bit more. “Most people can’t handle it.” 

Marcus hates to say it. Hates the way it sounds and feels and tastes, the words bitter and biting on his own ears. The harsh, unrelenting truth that what he is will always be overwhelming for those that dare to love him. That the painful responsibilities that were forced upon by the realities of his genetics will always be the barrier around his heart. Most days it was easy enough to ignore, and in the time since had last felt another’s touch, Marcus had found a way to cope, where loneliness was just another weight he would bear in order to do what was right.  

Dieter nods, eyes wide and frown small, an equal mix of understanding and pity marked across his features, as if to say ‘yeah, people can be assholes.’ 

And then he actually says it. “Assholes.” 

There’s another kiss and then another, their bodies moving slowly back towards the couch. Dieter's fingers are skilled, pushing and pulling, Marcus’s leather coat hitting the ground seconds before his own. Those same fingers find their way beneath his shirt, mapping the planes of his stomach, the quiver of muscle chasing Dieter’s touch. 

Marcus can only cling to the other man, refusing to part from their kiss for more than a second, breath traded back and forth, the only oxygen he ever needed between Dieter’s lips. His touch is insistent, smoothing at his heated skin, fingers digging into the flesh, the almost bite of his nails leaving Marcus gasping high and bright into their kiss. His glasses are pulled off somewhere in the fray, finding a home on the floor behind them. 

“The …t-the bed?”

“Figured I’d take it easy on you,” Dieter grins in time with Marcus’s knees bending around the couch cushions.

They fall down together, Dieter immediately crowding into Marcus, his large hand palming where he strains beneath his jeans while he takes care to kiss each and every freckle scattered across Marcus’s. His hips buck immediately, even the gentle touch enough to send him lurching. Dieter is quick to soothe him, teeth nipping at his ear as he coos sweetly, the press of his hand only growing more insistent.

“Patience, baby. We have time.”

There it is again. That little endearment. Sweet and small, and so so much that Marcus can only moan, head falling into the crook of Dieter’s neck. Somewhere above him there is a chuckle, the sound vibrating from one man to the other, and Marcus can only hold on tighter as Dieter tugs at the zipper of his jeans. His breath hitches as the sound of it echoes inside his head, and he feels Dieter pause, only the brush of his thumb on the head of his leaking cock ground them to this moment. 

Later, Dieter will confess, sweat cooling on Marcus’s temple, the actor's lips kissing the slick of it away, that he was watching him carefully at that moment. Desperate to see him fall apart, anxious to know if he needed to pull back. It’s then that they promise to say it. Always say it. Exactly what they need and what they want. 

Secrets have never done either man any good. 

Marcus leans into the light touch, awkward and needy, lips fusing to the curve of Dieter’s neck. There’s the musk of his cologne, something earthy and real clinging to his senses, mixing with the smell of smoke that always seems to burn around the other man’s edges. Marcus is ravenous for him, marking him with a bruising kiss, the steady chant of mine, mine, I wish he was mine thumping inside his chest. 

Dieter doesn’t falter, pulling Marcus’s aching length from the confines of his jeans, a loose grip around the base as he continues to stroke the tip softly, gathering the bead of precum with the pad of his thumb. It’s more intimate than he expected, reputations always proceeding those in the limelight. Marcus should have known better, the camera always giving away more falsehoods than beautiful truths. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Dieter teases, not an ounce of cruelty in the words. Another kiss is gifted to Marcus’s neck, the drag of Dieter’s tongue follows, his own groan pouring out of him. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”

The effect of his words is maddening, and Marcus takes care to muffle his whine into Dieter’s neck, teeth and tongue still working along the salt of his skin. The actor is only encouraged by this, continuing to purr little drops of filthy encouragement into his ear as he starts to stroke Marcus from base to tip. 

“Been too long since someone made you feel this good,” he hums, twisting his wrist lightly each time he strokes up the length of Marcus’s cock, the velvet heat of his skin catching on the other man’s palm. The friction is almost too much, a staggering sort of gasp breaking past his lips as Dieter’s voice continues to coach him through each and every stroke of his hand. 

“You look so good like this, baby. So good. You can fuck my hand if you want. Go on, use your hips.” 

The prompt is all Marcus needs, his hips canting up to meet Dieter’s touch. His fingers dig in hard, one hand finding purchase on Dieter’s forearm, the other wrapped around the curve of his shoulder. He anchors himself to the other man, fucking up into his fist faster and faster and faster still. 

“Feel good? Hmm?” Dieter asks, the hook of his nose pressed into Marcus’s temple, lips teasing the swell of his cheek. “Fucking someone else’s hand instead of your own?” 

Marcus stutters out a ‘yes’ the word lost between his cries of pleasure. Dieter continues to indulge in the noises, each one helping to shift the weight of his touch, the grip around Marcus’s cock soft then hard, the pressure building faster than he can take in breaths. He tilts his head, eyes searching frantically, a desperate plea tumbling from his lips and hanging thick in the air between them.

“Kiss me.”

And Dieter does, lips molding to Marcus’s, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam until finally, he parts beneath, another moan for him to swallow. All the while, his pace is consistent, up and down, faster then slower then faster again. It’s indulgent, the way Dieter touches him, relishing in each pulse, every sound, and Marcus loses track of how long it’s really been. The pleasure is blinding, keeping him tethered to the edge of the cliff, release blissfully out of reach.

“Bet you look so pretty, all cock dumb, hmm? I’d love to see that,” Dieter teases and Marcus agrees, can only agree, something ragged taking over his sensibilities. 

He continues to move with the other man, rising up into the open air, hips awkwardly meeting each and every caress of his hand. Dieter moves with the same freedom he had in the hotel lobby, his own hips grinding up and down, the length of his cock hard and pulsating where it presses into Marcus’s side. Their kisses only grow more wild, just a sloppy press of lips, off-centered and well-intentioned, as they both work closer and closer to the crest of arousal. 

Dieter remains focused, his own pleasure secondary to that of the Heroic’s. The kiss breaks just in time for something white hot to settle at the base of Marcus’s spine, everything grows tight and bright and so so sweet. Teeth scrape along his jaw, the tip of a tongue soothing the same path, Dieter’s words coaxing him up to the top of the hill. 

“You’re close, baby. So close. Go on, you can let go. I’m right here.”

It’s all Marcus needs, the last of his strength giving out as everything burns, thick ropes of white cum spilling out of him. Dieter hums, using his seed to smooth out his strokes, and continues to whisper little bits of praise into Marcus’s ear.

“I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good. Tell me if it’s too much.”

It is. It is too much, the way Dieter keeps stroking his cock, half hard and still dribbling drops of cum around the curl of his fist. But Marcus refuses to stop him, leaning into the painful overstimulation until the tips of his fingers go numb, his moans breaking out into sobs, tears tracking down his cheeks to mix with his sweat. Dieter decides for them both then, his hand finally slowing, giving Marcus a chance to adjust to the light touch before pulling away for good, the palm of his hand sliding a sticky trail up his cheek.

It should feel filthy, Marcus’s own cum pressed into his skin while Dieter grinds his cum soaked pants into the dip of his hips. But even now, Marcus can feel his cock twitch in interest, the moment so very decadent and dirty and leaving him hungry for more. Dieter grins, licking his lips, clearly agreeing with whatever look that is crossing Marcus’s features, swooping in for one more kiss, this one there and gone, a fleeting breath of him that leaves him whining. 

But Dieter doesn’t go far, his hand smoothing up to push back an errant curl, brown eyes impossibly deep, and he takes his time to kiss away each and every tear. When he pulls away, it’s only to whisper a quiet promise. “I can.”

Marcus tilts his head, his confusion unspoken, the haze of his orgasm still gripping tight to his senses. Dieter takes it in stride, his smile growing, confident and cocky with how dumb he’s rendered the heroic. 

“I can handle it,” he clarifies, dragging his hand down to rest his thumb where Marcus’s lips part, the faintest taste of himself waiting there. “Can you?”

And all Marcus can do is nod. Because. Yes. Of course. Of course, he can. What other answer is there? 

----------------

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

Dedications:

To my dearest, my wonderful enablers @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning who have listened to me talk about these boys ALL. WEEK. Literally, every random thought I had about Dieter and Marcus, together or separate, was blasted into their DM's. I have become a woman possessed. The best friends a girl could ask for in these trying fandom times. Thank you both, for loving me and my boys.

[thatone-brightstar]

Before You (Carmen Berzatto X Fem!OC)

It was Isaac before Carmy, and it was Ross before you.

Part I. // Part II.

Part III: February.

words: 5.8k

a/n: I'll be gone for a while. Enjoy this ferewell gift. Not proofread, couldn't bother to.

 “What’s Vygotsky’s theory?”

“Uhm… the one where a child’s cognitive development and learning ability is guided by their social interactions?”

“Yes, good.” Carmy whispers back with a gentle smile. “Okay, now gimme the four stages of Piaget’s cognitive development.”

Sensorimotor… preoperational, concrete operational and… shit.”

Her head goes blank, lids heavy with the weight of the day and the darkness. The only source of light coming in from the green neon light continuously strobing behind his flimsy curtains.

“C’mon, you know it…” He reassures from his space in the mattress, legs crossed and bare back resting against the wall.

Ross throws herself face forward and groans against the plushness. School and her job had extended the day longer than usual, and now with the post-sex study session not being part of her plan, all she wanted was to finally give her drained body a rest.

“Formal-” She jolts her head up from the bed, hair an even bigger mess around her. “- formal operational!”

Carmy nods, his own messy hair swaying to the rhythm of his soft movements. “Fuck yes- see, told you you could do it.”

She falls back against the covers with a pleased smile and stretches her limbs out in a way that reminds him of a cat- confident and graceful. His shirt feathers delicately around her upper thighs, cotton taking the place of where his lips had met the tender skin not so long ago and he can still feel her soft flesh rub over them again.

“Last one-” He tries to say but is interrupted by her groan. “-it’s the easiest one c’mon, first rule of patient confidentiality?”

“ ...snitches get stitches?” She whispers, doe eyes boring deep into his from her laid down position.

Her answer yanks a chuckle from his overworked chest and he nods down to her, repeating the phrase back. “Yeah that’s… actually correct- snitches do get stitches.”

He contemplates her closed eyes and relaxing features for a couple seconds, how every slow breath takes her deeper into her subconscious and away from him, before closing her binder and standing to turn off the bathroom light. 

Ross stirs in place, slight frown forming when the mattress dips heavily beside her, and the weight of his body has hers rotating a few inches to his side. Carmy remains still, hands by his sides and making little effort to move or even breathe as the act of sharing his bed is still one of novelty. Ross hadn’t spent too many nights over, always creating an excuse to exempt herself from the situation. 

On days like these, though, when she’s too worked out to make the drive back home and the warmth radiating off her is enough to chase the winter chill away, Carmen feels an unnerving sensation flourish deep in his chest. He would associate it as melancholy, although he doesn’t know what he’s melancholic for exactly. 

Maybe for being given a glimpse of something that had been unknown to him until now, something he knew wouldn’t last him long. Like mourning the death of a loved one long before it happens, the inevitable loss. 

“What’s the original beef?” She mumbles half asleep, pulling him from his head and he swallows back down the thick goo bubbling in his stomach once again.

“Hmm?”

“There’s like… five shirts of ‘em in your drawer.” Her voice is thick, mostly speaking past the veil of sleep. “Is it like a band?”

He breathes out a thin laugh- a lighthearted sigh- and remembers the multiple blue shirts hiding in the bottom of the drawer he let her pull a shirt from. “No… it’s uh- the family restaurant.”

“Hmm, that sounds really cool…”

“A restaurant?” He scoffs.  “You work in one…”

The girl’s voice is such a quiet whisper, that he can hear the light crinkles and whistles of the vowels forming on her tongue. “No… a family one.”

The warmth of her hand slides timidly over the sheets, pointer finger wrapping shakily over his cold pinky and eradicating the few inches left of the glacier wall she had been unknowingly calving at since before New Years. With her euphonic laughs invading the service area anytime she walked to the back; and with her short temper terribly disguised behind expressive eyes. 

With a shuddering exhale and eyes glued shut behind a creased brow, he hooks his finger around hers and gently drapes her limp hand over his abdomen. His other palm and volatile pulse cradle it tenderly, rubbing a calloused thumb over the velvet knuckles until he drifts peacefully asleep.

It felt almost like slipping into a warm bath. Comfortable, fragrant, embraceful. His kind words flickered bright on the wicks of the candles he lit just for her, painting the steam across a matted gold.

It felt like soft kisses over shoulder blades, uneven digits tracing goosebumps across a bare back, hair brushed to the side. The sweet mumbles pouring from her lips fall on paper boats, rocking on the choppy water over their joined thighs. 

It was soft and slow and silky. Like the taste of roses and soap invading her mouth with each gentle stroke of his tongue and the gasps she takes when his hips snap up. Her hand slips from the edge of the tub, wrapping instead over golden tendrils catching the lowlights. One of his arms circles her waist while the other has disappeared between them, past the pink shimmering liquid.

She braces herself for the wave of shivers the contact will arise, but it never comes. Instead, the walls seem to be growing taller, making space for the water that’s beginning to surpass her waist. 

Ross pulls around the tightening arm to make an escape but it’s useless against the growing strength of Carmy’s hold, almost pushing the last bit of air from her lungs. She wants to scream at his face- beg with burning tears that he let her go- as the water rapidly bubbles around the shoulders he once sweetly kissed. There’s rocks in her mouth, thick and heavy ones that roll down her esophagus and ground her back to the porcelain floor.

With a blurry sight and tear stained cheeks, she tries to quickly read his hardened expression for any trace of apathy or remorse, but any of it is gone. He sees through her, past her ghost, like you would a glass window in a café while awaiting the arrival of somebody else.

It’s the haunting expression of nothingness that breaks her out right after the water devours them both. 

The strobing green neon light outside his window flashes in her widened eyes once awake, though not fully conscious. She pries the deadweight of his arm off her waist with all her strength and rolls to the side in a heaving fit of dry coughs that will surely wake him up. Throat burning dry, Ross reaches an arm back to his chest, feeling the accelerated rhythm of his breath and while her coughs subside, she turns to catch the pained expression looming over a sweaty brow.

A croak similar to his name scratches the walls of her throat as she aimlessly crawls over the covers to his tense form. She grazes her trembling hands over his face and pushes back the strands sticking to his cold forehead. “Carmy- hey, c’mon wake up-”

His words are a mumbling mess, mixed between sighs and desperate inhales failing to pass through his tightened jaw. Strained tendons bulge from the sides of his neck and the scattered movement of his eyes behind the thin lids raises her panic even  higher. Her logic hangs off the window railing, next to the flashing sign, as she moves above him and pulls his head to rest on the soft of her thighs. 

The room is silent, apart from his struggling breaths. “Carmen, please… c’mon hun, you gotta wake up-” She mutters close to his face.

Ross leans down to press her lips over his temple, repeating his name over and over while rocking him side to side. She does it until the salt in her tears combines with the one on his hair and the messy sheet has ribbed her sensitive knees. 

In a short instant, Carmy takes in a sharp breath, catapulting his upper body off the mattress. Ross pushes back with a hand flying over her stammering heart as her eyes scan over him. His look is wild, unstable as he searches around the darkened room. With a shaking hand, she barely graces her fingertips over the tense muscle of his shoulder. 

“Hey-It’s okay-”

He flinches back as if her skin stung his own and he whips his head back with the sound of her voice. His scattered gaze flickers over her face, eyes wide in fear, as if he’s still stuck inside his nightmare and doesn’t recognize her. Her hand hovers inches away from him, not daring to move any closer.

“You’re okay, Carmen.” She pulls her hand back, down onto her folded thighs and guides him with the best blank tone she can manage. “You’re safe. Breathe…”

He follows the rising movements of her chest, unblinking eyes orbiting back into reality with every inhale. She sneaks a tender ‘You’re okay’ in each exhale.  She doesn’t stop her words until she sees his heaves have gone down to slow intakes and his brow isn’t as pinched together anymore.

Carmy mumbles a ‘sorry’ that muffles with the skin of his palm. He takes another inhale, rubbing harshly over his features, then finally opens his eyes to hers. “So-sorry…” 

Ross immediately shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

“Are- are you okay? I didn’t hurt your or anythin’- right?”

The bruise forming over her stomach is beginning to hurt, though not as much as the hole his preoccupation for her creates. Despite waking up from what appears to be the worst of night terrors, he still asks her if she’s alright, and she’d rather conceal the aching palpitation over her abdomen with a lie than break him any further.

“No-no. I’m… I’m good. You did scare the shit out of me though…”

“Good… good.” He adds, absent minded and following her nods with his own, then he winces at his response, “Sorry- I mean, good that you’re okay- not that I scared you- that’s… fucked.”

All she can do is offer a thin smile and another low “It’s okay.” because she’s not sure of what to say or even if she should say anything at all.

The silence grows long and heavy. His eyes unfocus to an empty space on his wall, past her head, where he’s probably recreating fragments of his nightmare once again, trying hard to tell reality apart. 

Ross swallows hard- the action nipping at her sensitive abdomen for only a moment- then she moves her cramped legs from under her and lays on the space by Carmy again. With a gentle tug to his wrist, she’s able to draw his attention back to her and it doesn’t take much convincing to have him sprawled out back at her side. 

“Do you know how to make pasta from scratch?” She asks in the silence, both sets of eyes holding up the ceiling with their unwavering stare. Ross feels him nod beside her and she can tell his head is still clouded with the mirage of his subconscious. 

“Tell me how?” She whispers again, turning to his side with an arm tucked under the pillow and drinking in the strong silhouette of his nose and jaw. 

Carmen swallows to alleviate the thin ache the scream left in its wake before he answers. 

“It’s, uh, kinda easy…” He begins to list the ingredients by heart, unaware of the subtle drowsiness behind his voice as he reaches the kneading process; or the lulling motion of her nails raking along the inside of his arm. Soon, his pauses grow longer and his tone lighter, until his soft snores fill the room one after another.

He goes dreamless for the rest of the night, at least the few hours he had left before his alarm blares from somewhere in the bed. Once he finds it and turns it off, an arm instinctively reaches to her side, but finds only the messy sheets and a lack of warmth in its wake. The cold covers let him know Ross has been gone long before he even woke up, maybe even hours ago. He searches around for a discarded note or his phone for a  text, but there’s nothing when he remembers he doesn’t have her contact, and his chest is once again constricted with the stinging sense of melancholy that replaces her absence.

**********

Ross hadn’t been able to hold anything in all day. The sole idea of food was a passing thought that couldn’t stick to the anxiety ridden walls of her brain. Her last try had taken place that morning, under fluorescent lights and dawn barely breaking past the skyline. Through a caffeine induced awareness and a heavy sleep deprived haze, she managed to drag her way across the exam, though not really remembering any of the questions soon after. She tried to concentrate, truly did- it was her future in the form of paper after all-, but each segment seemed to be written in Simlish and no amount of re reading helped getting the information in. 

It also didn’t help that in each microsecond of her tired blinks, all she saw was a haunted stare behind baby blue eyes. The lines had blurred too far, too deep, too out of her grasp and control and now the idea of the unknown occupied her every thought. 

To leave him in the middle of the night, with the fear that he might have another nightmare and she wouldn’t be there for him, was a hard decision to take. She had swayed on the balls of her feet for minutes, just staring at his puffing chest from the corner of the bed like some sort of creep, before quickly padding forward and planting a goodbye kiss on the center of his forehead. She felt the stress of being suspended over a tightrope with only a flimsy string tied at the waist each time the idea that it might not be just a fling slithered into her mind. 

Seeing him the way she did, almost in agony, would naturally have her cutting ties with anyone else, ghosting them without a second glance. But she couldn't do that to him, not sweet Carmen. Not to him, who asked her if she was alright seconds after having what looked like the worst of night terrors. To him who made her dinner after a long night of cooking for others and still explained every step with patience.

“-you just gotta keep stirring so it doesn’t stick-” He commented from the other side of the tiny unused kitchen, curls bowed over the bubbling pot of mac & cheese. “-are you even listening?”

She nodded out of habit, though her thoughts were flooded by the view of tight veins trailing up his arm as he slowly moved the wooden spoon around. Carmy couldn’t help the small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth when his eyes found hers on his body.

“Totally listening…” Ross added, then blinked a few times to chase away the dirty thoughts. “I know how to make mac & cheese y’know, it’s not rocket science.”

“It’s also no Kraft’s” He joked back and followed her movements with his eyes, how she rounded the small island then hopped to sit on the surface beside him, the slick skirt rising higher up and exposing her thighs. 

“Hey, don’t shit on Kraft like that-” She responded with a small laugh that pulled his gaze up to her face instead. “-it’s easy and delicious. Plus it’s the first thing I ever learnt to cook.”

“Oh, yeah?” Carmy asked and she nodded with a proud smile. “How old?”

“Uh… four, I think.”

“Damn, that’s young. How’d you reach the stove?” He asked, taking his eyes off her only to turn off the flames. then leaning on his hip and giving her his full attention.

“I had a uh, milk crate, that I’d drag around the house.” Ross tried to hide the drop of her lips behind her palm by rubbing her finger over her cupid’s bow, but the slight sadness in her tone didn’t go unnoticed to his ears. “You?” She asked suddenly.

He contemplated her question for a long moment. “A… step stool.”

“Ooh, fancy.” She mouthed, pulling a chuckle from him.

“Very self-sufficient of us, huh?” He praised after a few seconds of silence, 

“Had to be.” The girl said with a shrug and a forced smile.

It was the way he was looking at her that gave her a sense of solace, the silent comprehension between two people bonded by similar childhood experiences. His eyes bore big and weighted over her for an eternity, under the dim light bulb above his stove. It’s not like he’s never looked at her before, but the glow behind them was different the closer he moved towards her still form.

“So is it done?” Ross whispered, no need to speak any higher in their limited space.

“What?”

A slow smile unrolled over her lips at the way his eyes flickered down. “...the mac & cheese, Carm.”

Carmen blinked a few times and cleared his throat with a choked laugh. “Right, ye-yeah it’s done.” He pushed off his side and pulled open a drawer to take out a spoon. “So… I uh, only have one spoon.” He reached up to rub his neck embarrassed.

“You’re one person.” She teased back, making the tint on his skin grow darker. “It’s fine, we’ll share-” She shrugged. “- it’s not like I haven’t tasted your spit before…”

Her insides flutter at last night’s memory. It was the first time she had ever felt a single doubt about someone, it was uncharted territory and it made her absolutely fucking terrified.  It was the reason why she had been avoiding the back of house all night, filling her bottle at the bar instead and passing any requests through Meg, who couldn’t stop huffing with every ticket her way.

“Hey- ‘member there’s a birthday on 32, please.” She calls out to Meg, seeing her pass through her peripheral vision, then throw her head back with a groan.

“Dude just go in yourself, I’m swamped-”

“I can’t, my scores will be up any minute and this is the only place with good wifi.”

She snatches the paper from her outstretched hand. “Test scores my ass- just admit  you don’t wanna see him and move on.”

Meg leans slightly on the wooden desk that separates the entrance hall as she keeps her eyes on the bustling dining room. 

“Thought you were swamped…” 

“I lied.” She shrugs and leans her head in closer. “So what, did he give you the ick? Called you baby girl or some shit?”

“No…”

“Then what, is his dick all wonkey lookin’? Y’know, like when it curves to the side?”

Ross keeps tapping at the tablet in faux concentration, hoping that the lack of an answer will drive her friend away. 

“Oh my god, of course- it’s not him is it?” The almost blind tension in her jaw is enough of a response. “You actually like him!”

“Shutthefuckup Megan-” Ross snaps, turning her head back to her friend who couldn’t seem to hide the gleam on her face.

“Oh god- you so do!” She whisper-cheers, throwing a hand up to cover the wide smile threatening to burst at the seams. “Dude, I thought it was just a fling!”

“It still is… I think- I’m not sure anymore-” She shakes her head a bit too hard and closes her eyes to erase the little spots beginning to form. “I’m just gonna cut it off tonight. I don’t have time for that shit.”

“Oh c’mon, seriously? How ‘bout you tie your laces together while you’re at it.”

“What?”

“If you wanna self-sabotage that’s easier, don't you think?” Meg explains and Ross rolls her eyes, turning back to the tablet.

“Well what would you rather I do then?!”

“I dunno, take ‘em and run! Ross, he seems actually decent- better than anyone else I’ve ever met you-, plus he’s really cute…” She teases, both hands wrapped around her forearm and shaking excitedly.

With a heavy-hearted sigh, Ross shuts her eyes hard enough that the stars behind her lids block out the deep blue.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can-”

“No I can’t- you don’t get it Meg. He- he’s really good, like too good-” She can faintly hear Martin's voice travel towards them behind her rambling, but that doesn’t make it stop. “-he makes me food n’ he’s sweet and-”

There’s sweat beginning to accumulate on the palm of her hands, making the pen she’s constantly tapping on the desk extra slippery.

“-what if I fuck it up?” She finally admits, eyes screwed shut. “What if he doesn’t feel the same, or- or he does- and I end up fuckin’ it up catastrophically cause I’m just like them and I don’t know how to properly show it”

“Okay, chill and breathe or you’ll puke on yourself-“

Ross shakes her head a bit too hard as her breath comes out in short gasps. “Can’t- there’s nothing to puke out.”

“What? When’s the last time you ate?” Meg asks again, ignoring Martin’s second call. 

“Last night, I think. I was too nervous- couldn’t eat.”

Despite knowing this, her mouth begins to develop the excess saliva that comes with the contractions of sickness. A thin layer of cold sweat forms over her forehead and through the light haze, Ross can hear Martin’s consistent stomps move in their direction.

“Megan, did you not hear me?! 37’s been waiting for their third course for almost ten minutes-” He stops shouting long enough to spot Ross’ disorbiting gaze. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry Martin, Ross isn’t feeling well and I’ve been trying to help her-” She half lies, heavy hand dramatically palming around the moisture on her friend’s face. 

“I’m good- probably just need some air.” Ross puffs out her cheeks and swallows down the thick liquid in her mouth.

“Alright, you heard her- she’s fine, go watch your tables.” Martin shoos her off with a motion of his hand then turns back to his hostess with a creased frown. “You, go to the back and take a breath, I’ll keep watch here. Maybe drink somethin’ sweet- you look like shit.”

“Yeah, thanks.” She mumbles, too tired to make a sarcastic comment, and moves blindly around the perimeter of the room to avoid bumping into any of the servers.

The sensation only intensifies once she crosses to the back of house, as hundred different smells bombard her senses and twist at the already tight knot invading her stomach. She doesn’t stop or look up from the non-slip matts while crossing the narrow hallway to the back. 

She’s crouching and heaving dryly by the wall before the door even finishes closing. There’s just the repeating sound of hard contractions leaving her throat, but nothing other than that exits her body. It’s still torture, but the fresh bruise decorating her midrift distracts her enough from the multiple shakes. When her gut finally stops, Ross spits out the bile coating her tongue, wipes her mouth and leans back against the cold wall, all puffy-eyed and sniffles. 

Her hard puffs materialize in the February breeze, little clouds of vapor that caress her reddened cheeks only momentarily, then disappear into nothing, almost poetically. She stays glued to the cold bricks while her pulse de-escalates, only to spike up again at the sound of the door slamming hard beside her and another figure running out a few feet away.

She watches immobile how he paces in the small space, hands shaking by his sides then raking painfully hard through his hair. He’s breathing hard enough that she can hear it from her space by the entrance and despite the alarms ringing in her head, she can’t stop her feet from moving forward.

“Hey, you good?”

He stops abruptly at the sound of her voice, head turning in her direction for only a second, but it’s enough for her to see the fierce emotion bubbling behind his eyes, a more somber one than what she’s used to.

“Not now, okay-” He snaps still pacing, hands moving wildly because the anxiety coursing through him doesn’t allow a second of peace.

She stops a few feet behind and tries hard to ignore her own bubbling stress. “You gotta breath, okay-”

Carmy shakes his head again, gaze still lost. “I’m fine.” He shuts his eyes hard enough to crease his forehead. 

“Carm, you’re not-”

“Jesus fuck, Roslyn- can you just leave me the fuck alone for one minute!” 

The strength in his voice makes her take a step back. “I know you’re pissed but-”

“Can you not fuckin’ psychoanalyze me right now-”

“-I’m not.” Ross cuts in immediately. “I’m not- I-I just wanna help-”

“- well, I don’t need your fuckin’ help, okay?” He spits. “I said I’m fine.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Her mumble drips with sarcasm as she straightens her posture and moves back.

“What- what’s that supposed to mean?” She can hear the edge in his voice as she stares down at the gravel under her feet. “Ross-”

“Nothing- you’re right, it’s- you’re totally fucking normal…”

Her shoes turn on the crushing gravel as she takes a step towards the exit, but his anger moves him faster, stepping in between her and the door, heaving chests almost touching. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Roslyn?”

His eyes grow cold, anger clinging with its nails onto the last bit of sensibility.

“Nothing.” 

Carmen takes a step in her direction and the gravel creaks again as she takes another back. Once her eyes meet his face, she can see the tightness of his jaw and the way his shoulder square tall, like an animal ready to pounce.

“No, go ahead- you got somethin’ to say, go ahead and fuckin’ say it-”

“You’re being a dick.” She finally snaps.

“What?”

“I said you’re a dick! I spent all of fuckin’ last night trying to stop you from choking on your own breath, Carmen. So maybe a fuckin’ thank you would be nice instead of tryin’ to pick a fight.” She rolls her eyes and pushes past him, reaching for the door, but he takes another step and once again blocks her way.

“That’s the fuckin’ problem? Shit- well thanks for the fuckin’ breathing exercises.”

Her head snaps up to his face and tilts with a hardened expression. “Y’know, what- next time, I’ll just let you choke on your own tongue, how ‘bout that, huh?”

“Nobody asked you to do it, y’know?” There’s no space between their puffing chests as they stare each other down, flight no longer an option. 

“I was trying to help you, asshole-”

“I don’t need you’re fuckin help, alright!” He shouts back. The words pierce her skin, like falling knees first over sharp glass, each letter digging into the frail skin. “D’you think just cause we fuck around that makes you my fuckin girlfriend or somethin? Cause it doesn’t, so just- back the fuck off.”

The force following his words hit harder than the bruise and knocks the last bits of composure from her. “You know what- thank fuck for that, because why would I ever want to be stuck with some egotistical jagoff with seriously rooted mommy issues-”

“-You don’t know shit about me.” 

“Oh, I know enough. I know you’re too fuckin’ stuck trying to prove your worth to others, but you don’t really believe it yourself-” Carmy’s jaw grows even harder, hooded eyes drilling a hole on hers.

“Stop-”

“You can’t really believe you deserve anyone that actually likes you so you do this-” She says, hand pointing between them. “Push anyone away with hurtful remarks and a shitty attitude, then wallow in self pity because that’s what you’re comfortable with.”

The city is eerily silent, or maybe it’s the anger ringing behind her ears that deafens the noise around her. Whatever it is, seems to drag on forever in the narrow space.

“You’ll find someone one day, Carmen. Not me, of course-” She dismisses with a wave and a bitter taste that she’d never let herself admit. “-but you will. And if you never learn to let go of all the crappy traits that make you a crappy person, you’ll end up just another sad and bitterly lonely man,”

Ross doesn’t wait for an answer back, not even just to hear a last ‘Fuck you’. She brushes past his side for the third time, but this time he doesn’t try to block the door and she makes no effort to stop. At least not until the warm air circles her and the sound of the pans grounds her again. The knot left back on her throat resembles the rocks from her nightmare and she’s quick to painfully swallow it back down before anyone can catch her.

There’s a small tickle over her cheekbone, one that travels slowly down her skin. She swats away the tear with the back of her hand, sniffling, then takes a deep breath before moving forward and out the back of house. She tries to resume her shift as best she can, counting down the hours left until closing and busying herself drawing flowers at the bottom of a discarded ticket while saying goodbye to the diners.

The phone rang at around 10, when most of the tables had started to clear out and she was busy collecting the menus that she almost didn’t catch it. The woman on the other line seemed worried and tired, on the verge of breaking down as she asked for her brother.

“Berzatto, I think he works there- I called his cell but he’s not picking up.” She explained through rushed words. “Please, tell him it’s urgent.”

“Uh yeah… he’s kitchen staff.” Ross answered a bit disoriented but hoping to maintain calm for the lady on the line. “I think they’re just finishing up, but I can call him over, just give me a sec-”

With her stomach in a knot and hands glued together, she called over for him, swallowing her pride. The kitchen was half empty by then and he even seemed surprised to hear her call for him after the fight. 

“Someone on the phone. She says it’s urgent.” She spoke softly, leaning on the entrance.

He nodded lightly, stepping around the counter and wiping his hands on the towel he managed to keep pristine all night. Just before walking past her, he stopped as if he had something to say but couldn’t find the words.

“Can we talk later?” His tone sounded shy, eyes darting around the half empty space, then landing on hers. “Look, I know I was a dick- and I’m really sorry. It’s just… this is really nice and I don’t wanna fuck it up-”

“I’ll wait for you here, yeah?” She places a hand on his shoulder to push herself up and plant a kiss on his cheek, the anger disappearing with a look of his clear baby blues.

He whispers a sweet ‘okay’ as he watches her fully move into the room and lean on the granite bar to wait for him, a thin smile pulling at his features before turning to the swaying doors.

The wait seems infinite but she tries to pass the time by pushing at the now cracked gel on her nails. Ross turns several times towards the far wall where the clock sits, hoping he’ll show up under it. Five minutes turned to fifteen and the knot in her stomach grew again with each tick. 

By the twenty minute mark, her worry was too overwhelming and she pushed herself past the doors and to her area. She expected to find him there, still on the phone, but the desk was empty. No note, no Carmy, no worried woman on the phone. There were still a few servers left as she moved again to the back to see if maybe she had missed him, but the lights in the kitchen were already off by the time Ross stepped back in.

He doesn’t reappear all night, not when she takes her bag from the lockers, nor is he standing by her car when she reaches it parked at the end of the block. He doesn’t show up to work the next day either. Or the day after that, or any of the days after. 

At first she tries calling in hopes he’ll pick up with a great explanation on why he went m.i.a., but he never does. So on a saturday morning, she shows up at his place. It seems crazy and invasive in a way, but she’d rather have him think she’s crazy than not know if he’s alright, or alive.

With nervous hands, she reaches up to knock. The door beside his opens up instead, letting her see a short woman cradling a Tabby in her arms.

“He’s not there.” She answers before Ross even has a chance to ask.

“Sorry?”

“If you’re looking for the boy, he’s not there. Fled a couple days ago, in the middle of the night.”

“Fled?”

“Yes, girl, fled- slamming doors n’ all- little disregard for anyone else with a decent sleep schedule…” Is all Ross could hear before the lady slammed the door shut.

The stone steps to the entrance of his building turn her skin cold and the light wind bites over her cheeks. Her trembling hands cradle the thin phone opened up on his contact and her finger hovers over the call button one last time. A sigh escapes her chest once more as she opens her emails instead. 

The approbatory message glows with the artificial light and there’s an ache in her chest that she did not expect would come with the good news. The news she had waited so long to receive, she had passed. All her effort had finally paid off.

Ross felt happy, to an extent. She tried not to think about it too much. Because everytime she did, the memory was polluted by late night dinners, sleepy study sessions and a wave of nauseating blue that reminded her of him.

She stands off the dirty staircase and wipes off the dust from the back of her jeans. Then she readjusts the zipper over the washed out blue shirt and pushes her cold digits into the warmth of her pockets. Ross throws a last glance at the neon sign flashing just beside his empty window and sighs deeply, slowly making her way back to her car with an empty chest.

*********

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne, @beebslebobs, @harrysmatcha, @yum-yahgurt, @pussy-f41ry, @kirakombat, @redsakura101 , @hobisunshine13 and that’s it lmao

[hookedsworks]

Edge(ING) Fitness - Chapter XXXII

Ivy's POV

CW/TW: men having sex again.

ao3

masterpost

No one who was going to rip my heart out would beg for my company on a six A.M. run, would they? Ivy readjusted his sweatshirt. His heart was racing. III had been perky over the phone and really had asked him to come run. Maybe it was because he’d been openly affectionate when he had seen III a few days ago. Thoughts circled his head, and he could hear II talking about being able to see the steam coming out of his ears, so he stopped. He made sure his running shoes were tied and strode out the door so he could get to III’s place. III actually, funny enough, only lived about a ten minute’s drive from Ivy, so he was pulling into the space next to the Mustang within almost exactly twenty minutes. III was leaning on the trunk of his old car. He looked edible. He had those loose running shorts on, and a thin jacket that outlined his torso. Ivy had noticed the other day as well, though III was pretty much stick thin, he had well defined arm and back muscles that were now pushing against the wind breaker fabric of his jacket. He wanted to test the limits of III’s strength. He wondered who would win in an actual fight, and wondered if III would let a fight dissolve into sex. Ever since he’d slept with III, kind of, he’d wanted to sleep with III all the way. He was just, as always, worried about getting hurt again. On that morose thought, he jumped out of his Jeep and walked over to III. III stopped the morose thoughts. 

“Morning, beautiful,” III immediately embraced him. “Thanks for coming over here,” 

“You’re making me coffee later, right?” III snorted. 

“You’re just like Ves,” he then leaned down and kissed Ivy right on the mouth. It was sweet and affectionate and Ivy loved it. 

“Nothing wrong with being like him. He’s nice,” 

“Well, I didn’t exactly set out to date my best friend,” III fired back. He was always so quick. Ivy loved it. 

“Well, maybe when you get sick of me you can give him a go,” III shot him a look when he said that. Oops. 

“I’d never get sick of you, honestly. I like you far too much for that,” III’s voice had dropped into a more serious tone. Ivy felt suspiciously like he was being scolded. “But, I wouldn’t be opposed to adding Vessel into the mix,” he flashed a delicious grin at Ivy and then started his run. 

“H-hey! Wait! What the hell does that mean?!” Ivy took off after him. Damn his irritably long legs. Ivy had to focus on catching up, and he couldn’t interrogate III anymore. 

“C’mon slowpoke!” III shouted back at him. He huffed as III led him into one of the local nature trails. III had to slow down just a bit to dodge an overgrown root, and that gave Ivy the window for him to catch up. “Do you want to know why I run marathons?” 

“Is there a reason?” Ivy was thrown off. He still wanted to ask about what III had meant by ‘adding Vessel’, but now he was curious about this. 

“Um, yeah, there is,” III sounded nervous. “But..um. It’s kind of sad. And heavy for so early in the morning,” 

“Well, you don’t have to tell me. Damn, how do you run and talk so smoothly?” he felt like he was huffing and puffing his words out, but III sounded like he was sitting still and talking. 

“Well, but I want to. I mean, if we’re going to be dating and all. Oh, also, do I have to ask or are we just dating?” 

“You have to ask. I demand a big rose wall, a neon sign and everything,” he snorted at his own joke. “No, I mean. We can be dating, if you want to be dating,” 

“Well, yes. I want to be dating,” 

“Okay, then we’re dating,” III stopped running, turned and kissed him. He could feel his head spinning, and his heart racing. III seemed to be taking this really seriously. Like he really really liked Ivy. Like this could even actually go somewhere. That was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. “So, tell me then. Why do you run marathons?” Ivy remembered to return to the earlier topic. 

“Oh, right. I forgot I said that,” III gave him a soft smile, and squeezed his hand. “I have to run while I tell this story,” 

“Okay, then we’ll run,” they pressed on, but III stayed at his side now. 

“So, uh, when I was sixteen, my mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. She had been given about six months to live, and she was forced to stop training for a marathon of her own. Me being sixteen, I decided I was going to run it in her place. I did. I got a real taste for running too. Cleared my head, you know? I was so scared, I mean, I was going to lose my mom. Then, I heard about one where you could collect donations for people with cancer. So, I jumped on that one too. Now, I run at least two marathons every year, always to somehow raise money or awareness for cancer,” 

“I…holy shit, dude. Um,” III cut him off. 

“Yeah, no one ever knows what to say to the ‘my mom had cancer’ story. She did make it, by the way. That time. I got another seven years with her before a recurrence. Medical miracle,” III squeezed his hand. “She was ready, you know? By the end. It hurt, but. Well. She was ready, so she went,” he inhaled and tugged III to a stop. III’s eyes were dry - this was a story he’d told before. 

“I’m sorry won’t be enough. So, thank you for telling me. I can’t wait to see what your time is on this marathon,” III squinted at him then. Ivy watched tears well up in those beautiful eyes. Oh fuck. 

“You’re like the only person who has never treated me like I’m made of glass when I tell that story. You’re weirdly perfect. Where did you come from?” he blinked back a tear or two of his own. He knew he couldn’t respond to that. Perfect was essentially the opposite of what he was.

“Let’s finish your run,” good job man. Not saying a single self deprecating thing.  

The rest of the run was spent in an oddly comfortable silence, for the heaviness that III had just spoken on. The air was heavy with the rain that would be around later. Birds were waking up. It was serene. He could understand how this sort of thing would help III clear his head. Toward the end of the nature trail, III slowed for a second. 

“What do you say to a little wager?” 

“Wager?” he could feel his rugby instincts flaring. 

“Bet I beat you back to my place. You can see it, right?” Ivy nodded. Immediately, he shifted gears and was so ready to send noodle boy marathon runner packing. 

“I’ll win,” 

“You win and I’ll let you do anything you want to me,” 

“I’m so gonna win,” Ivy took off before III said anything else. He had a devious little prize in mind already, and he was going to win it against all odds. 

“Hey!” III shouted as he scrambled to catch up. III almost pulled even with him, but he dug in hard and sprinted. He made it to the door a whisper before III did. “Jesus, man! I had no idea you could run like that off the field,” III was panting. He was sweating. He could smell the sweat coming off of III. A switch flipped inside of him and he lunged, slamming III up against the door. He buried his nose in III’s neck and inhaled before kissing every inch of skin available to him. Sweat and rain and body wash flooded his senses. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he groaned into III’s neck. III fumbled with the key, trying to open the door with arms full of Ivy. 

“Is this the prize you want, Peaches?” Ivy thought he knew exactly how to make III crazy with want. He turned up the begging tone, the groaning, the whining. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, just, you smell so good, and you look so good, and we’re dating now, and you’re my boyfriend, and I wanna be inside you so bad right now, I’ll do anything, please,” he begged into III’s neck. III exhaled a soft laugh that made him harder. III got the door open, and then basically hauled him into a messy bedroom. 

“Well, when you put it that way,” III threw him onto the bed. He immediately turned the tables and got III on his back. 

“I wanna look at you,” he ripped III’s pants off. “Is this okay?” he paused, realizing he hadn’t exactly asked if III was fine with being manhandled. III blew a strand of hair out of his face and assessed Ivy. 

“I’ll stop you if something isn’t okay,” he nodded at III and continued tearing his clothes off. III reached over and threw something at him. Lube. He winked at III. He coated two fingers in it, thanked any god that was listening that he’d freshly trimmed his nails back so he wouldn’t hurt III, and started stretching III open. He tried to take his time. He really did. III was so hot and tight and he was writhing on his fingers. “That feels so good,” he added more lube anyway. No such thing as too much. “I want your cock though,” III grinned. It was so sexy, and hearing him ask for that was almost enough to make Ivy cum then and there. 

“Yeah, babe? You want me inside you? Ask nicely,” III huffed, annoyed. But he changed his face so he had a pout and big eyes. He leaned close to his face then, kissed him, licked along the seam of his mouth and begged right into his mouth. 

“Please put that fat cock I’ve been staring at for the last fifteen minutes inside of me right now, before you cum. I can see you fighting it off and I want it inside of me,” 

“Fuck,” he couldn’t help groaning. He pushed forward then. III was hot and wet and the slide was perfect. He wasn’t going to last very long at all. III’s eyes rolled back in his head and then Ivy lost it. His hips snapped all the way forward, and III whined. He had to hear that noise again, right fucking now. He slid out slowly and pushed back in, listening to III get more unhinged with every thrust. 

“You need to go faster,” III nearly snarled. 

“As you wish,” Ivy did exactly as he asked. He also wrapped a hand around III and jerked him in time with his thrusts. Neither of them lasted particularly long once he set up a rhythm. His orgasm came about five seconds before III’s. 

After, in the early morning sunrise, III turned to him. 

“Would you want to go see an opera with me?” 

“An opera?” kind of out of left field. 

“It’s this coming weekend. Vessel is coming to my marathon the weekend after, so I always make it a point to go to one of his gigs,” 

“This coming weekend? I can’t,” he did not remember II mentioning Vessel being in an opera. Does II know? “I have a rugby game down south, I’m so sorry,” then he got an idea. “Take II,” 

“Ivy, my love, that may be the best idea you’ve ever had,”