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melancholy-of-nadia · 2 months ago

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behind hidden pages (m) | jjk

title: behind hidden pages (pilot series) pairing: art student!jungkook x writer!reader(f) rating/genre: m(18+) ; fluff, smut ; college / grad / coffee shop au summary: after being ghosted by your boyfriend with him disappearing off to a different country, it's not an understatement to say that it really crushed your heart and eagerness to ever be in a relationship again. well, good thing is that it leads to your first ever bestselling novel and peacefully working at your best friend jimin's cafe! however, someone appears out of nowhere to disturb your simple little life. enter: jungkook, a handsome young man with a hidden side to him who suddenly moves into the studio below you. when your paths collide and your heart is shaken by him, what more lies underneath the surface which will lead to more emotional turmoil?! warnings: no actual warnings for this pilot as it's very tame, but if I continue it, there will be: eventual smut (which you won't have to wait too long for it to happen), a lot of s*xual tension, a lot of smut, caught masturb*ting, dom! jk, jungkook's clingyness 50x, jungkook body worshiping reader heavily, exhibitionism, pwp, potential threesome, cheating (not jungkook or reader), best friend! jimin, ex boyfriend! seokjin, everyone's traits are slightly exaggerated/a bit out of character, a bit of angst note: loosely based on the korean novel and webtoon, trash's circumstance, i read it and thought this would make an interesting (and very messy, drama-filled) BTS AU but changed some aspects. i decided to write one chapter of it to see what you all think as a "pilot", and based on your response, I'll probably continue it. total word count: 5.3k drop date: February 16th, 2025 5pm pst ao3 link –

"A tenant will be moving into the basement today," Jimin says, his voice casual as he starts on an espresso order. The hiss of the steaming wand fills the air.

"The basement?" You glance up from your clipboard, where you've been noting inventory. Your fingers hover over the bags of coffee beans before you start counting them out loud.

"Yeah, so get rid of all your stuff down there," he continues. "It's all trash."

You pause mid-count, narrowing your eyes at him. "You do know there's one box that belongs to Kim Seokjin."

"I know," he says, unfazed, tamping the espresso with practiced ease. "So just clean it up."

"Because he's my ex?"

"Obviously."

"Rude." Jimin smirks, entirely unbothered, before his expression shifts into something borderline angelic. With a practiced smile, he slides a cup across the counter. "Your espresso is ready! And here's a cookie—on the house!" he says, voice suddenly dripping with warmth as he hands it to the customer.

The customer beams, thanking him before heading to their table, completely unaware of the menace lurking beneath that sweet façade. You, however, know better. Jimin has always been like this—blunt, sweet, and on occasion, bordering on heartless, but never without good intentions. You’ve known him since college, back when you were just another over-caffeinated lit student drowning in deadlines, and he was the pre-law major guy who somehow had everything together. He was charming in that effortless way—always quick with a teasing remark, but also the kind of friend who showed up when you needed him, no questions asked.

After graduating, while you floundered between odd jobs and your dream of becoming a writer, Jimin went ahead and made something of himself after working at a law firm. He opened this café, built a life around it, and when you were struggling, he gave you a place to stay. Rent-free, no strings attached—except for the occasional demand that you work the counter when he was understaffed, which, honestly, was often.

And now, apparently, he's renting out the basement. You roll your eyes, which Jimin catches immediately. "Y/N, stop spacing out and take out the trash," he chides, already moving on to his next order.

With an exaggerated sigh, you grab the garbage bags and push through the back door. The moment you step outside, the heat wraps around you like an oppressive blanket. Cicadas drone endlessly, their hum rising and falling in waves, amplifying the stillness of the afternoon.

As you toss the trash into the bin, your gaze drifts toward the basement windows. The glass is smudged with dust, the interior barely visible through the faint reflections of the street. The idea of someone actually living down there feels… strange.

For the past three years, the basement has been nothing but a forgotten space, cluttered with boxes, old café equipment, and—most importantly—traces of Kim Seokjin.

It’s at this moment that Jimin’s words echo in your mind: Get rid of all your stuff.

He wants you to clean it out, but just the thought of it exhausts you. Maybe he needs the extra rent money, though it’s hard to imagine him struggling financially.

Still, why now? Why suddenly rent out a place that’s been abandoned for so long?

That space has been nothing more than a storage room—a place where things go to be forgotten, including the remnants of your past with Seokjin.

You met Seokjin when he was fresh out of college, preparing for his master’s in literature. He had this quiet confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him. Handsome, soft-spoken, kind—someone everyone admired. And somehow, for reasons you still don’t fully understand, he chose you.

Not that you were insecure. You weren’t clingy, and he was always faithful. Your relationship was easy, steady—comfortable in a way that made you believe it would last at least three years of quiet stability.

Until one day, without warning, he left.

Jimin had dismissed it as a submersible breakup—a term he coined for relationships that sink silently, without a fight or a final word. Which felt, exactly like that.

It was during that time, while you were drowning in the wreckage, that Jimin, with all the money he’d stacked up working as a top-notch lawyer, decided to buy this building.

A quiet place in a calm residential neighborhood of Seoul.

This building which ended up becoming your home.

The second floor, where you lived.

The first floor, where the ”Butterfly by Jimin” cafe was born.

And the basement, once a roasting room and a storage space—now, supposedly, someone’s future studio.

Jimin had called it financial therapy.

"A new home, a new job," he’d said. "There's nothing like financial therapy to heal the wounds of a heart broken person."

You scoff, because he wasn’t even the one who was experiencing one of the worse lows of their life.

But a new home?

A new job?

It had actually worked. Maybe that, and the book you wrote in the aftermath—Falling Moon Under the Bridge—becoming a surprise bestseller had been enough to pull you forward.

You’ve come so far, running in the opposite direction of your past. And yet, the weight of it lingers, like dust unsettled in the basement.

With a deep breath, you turn back toward the café, deciding that you’ll clean it out later. Since your shift ended, you head upstairs to get changed before you meet with your publisher later that afternoon for your audiobook’s recording session.

But just as you step inside, the bell above the door chimes.

A waft of something mild drifts through the air.

Fabric softener?

You glance toward the entrance just as a man walks in, catching only the back of him before looking away.

"I love the fabric softener scent, but it doesn’t mix well with the humid summer heat."

You arrive at the recording studio in the late afternoon, the faint hum of music equipment and muffled voices filtering through the hallway as you find the right room. This is where you’re meeting with your publisher, Kim Taehyung.

Taehyung, like Jimin, is an upperclassman friend from college. Since you were both in the literature department, you worked on a bunch of projects together as literary apprentices under your old mentor, Professor Jeon. He was brutal, and pushed you both hard during undergrad. But looking back, you know it was worth it. His strict guidance and high standards helped shaped your writing today.

After graduating, Taehyung started working as an intern at a publishing company, and now, well, he's one of the head publishers there. It’s crazy to think about how far he’s come, but honestly, it’s not surprising. He always had this sharp eye for detail and a way with words that made his work stand out.

After locating the room, you step inside and are immediately greeted by Taehyung, his signature easygoing smile lighting up his face as he holds out a familiar yellow carton of banana milk.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and appreciative as he presses the cold carton into your hands. "I really needed your insight on this. You always have such a unique perspective, and I didn’t want to make any big decisions without running it by you first."

You smile, accepting the drink and taking a seat in one of the plush chairs near the recording booth. Slipping the straw through the foil, you take a sip, savoring the familiar cold, sweet taste of the banana milk. "No worries at all," you reply, leaning back comfortably. "I’m actually really glad to be here. I’ve never sat in on an audiobook recording before. When does it start?"

Taehyung glances at his watch, his expression brightening. "Just in a bit! I’m having a friend of mine handle the narration. He’s got this incredible voice, and honestly, he was highly recommended by Professor Jeon. I think he’s going to bring something really special to the project."

As Taehyung speaks, you flip through the script he handed you earlier, scanning the highlighted passages and margin notes. Your best-selling book’s first half is from the point of view of a man named Haneul, who has a near-death experience and begins seeing a specific woman, Seo Yul in his dreams every night. Determined to find her in real life, he embarks on a journey that blurs the lines between reality and illusion.

You’ve always had a vague image of Haneul in your mind—his mannerisms, his voice, the way he carries himself. But could there actually be someone out there to fit his voice. The door to the recording studio opens with a soft click, pulling you from your thoughts. The sound of footsteps shuffles into the room, accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric and the clink of ice in a cup. A cool breeze from the hallway briefly sweeps in before the door closes again.

"Sorry I’m late, hyung," a deep, smooth voice says, tinged with a hint of apology but also a casual ease.

"That’s okay! Did you get here alright? It’s pretty hot out there," Taehyung replies, his tone light and forgiving.

"I drove and picked up an iced Americano on the way, so it wasn’t too bad," the voice responds, and you can hear the smile in his words.

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, you finally look up from the script.

And that’s when you see him.

He’s tall, with an effortlessly handsome presence that immediately draws your attention. His plain gray long sleeve shirt hugs his frame just right, paired with medium-wash jeans that look like they’ve been worn a hundred times but still fit perfectly. A silver lip ring sits on the corner of his mouth, catching the studio lights and glinting subtly as he speaks. His dark hair is slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it on his way in, and there’s a relaxed confidence in the way he carries himself.

But what stands out the most isn’t his appearance—it’s his voice. Deep and smooth, it carries effortlessly in the room, each word deliberate and weighted with a natural lilt that makes everything he says sound intentional, almost melodic. It’s the kind of voice that could make even the most mundane sentence sound captivating.

You consider greeting him, but he’s already caught up in conversation with Taehyung and a few others in the room—people who seem to know him well.

You decide not to bother. It’s a hassle to talk to and befriend new people anyway. You’ve never been one to insert yourself into situations where you might feel out of place, and right now, it’s easier to just stay in your corner.

But then, a shadow approaches, lingering just beside you. You glance up, your pen pausing mid-scribble.

"Hello, Sunbae."

Sunbae?

The word catches you off guard. You blink at him, your mind racing. How old is he? You quickly do the math in your head, trying to figure out if he’s younger or if he’s just being overly polite. Either way, the title feels a little too formal, especially in this setting.

"Oh hi there, I’m L/N F/N, the author of this book," you say, offering a polite smile. Your voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in your tone. You’re not used to being called sunbae—it’s been a while since you graduated, and you’ve always preferred a more casual approach to these things.

"Kim Jungkook," he introduces himself, holding out a hand. His grip is firm, warm, and there’s a confidence in the way he meets your gaze. "I heard you graduated from the school I’m attending. I’m an art major there. I’m looking forward to working with you."

You shake his hand, nodding slowly as you process his words. An art major? That explains the effortless style, the subtle edge to his appearance. But more than that, it’s the way he carries himself—like he’s comfortable in his own skin, unbothered by the weight of first impressions.

"Ah, it’s been a while since I graduated," you reply, your tone light. "And we weren’t in the same department, so just call me by my name." You try to brush off the formality, hoping to ease into a more relaxed dynamic. Titles always feel so distant, and you’d rather not have that kind of barrier between you, especially when you’re about to collaborate on something as personal as your book.

But Jungkook shakes his head, his lips quirking slightly into a small, almost teasing smile. "No, I can’t do that, Sunbae—" he says, his voice low but firm, leaving the sentence hanging as the audio engineer calls him over to enter the recording booth. He gives you a polite nod before heading inside, slipping on the headphones.

As Jungkook walks away, you glance down at your hand, flexing your fingers absentmindedly. The warmth of his grip still lingers, a faint echo that feels oddly significant.

Odd. That interaction felt strangely familiar, like a déjà vu you can’t quite place.

You’re certain you’ve never met Jungkook before—his looks alone aren’t easy to forget. The sharp jawline, the lip ring, the way his eyes seem to hold a thousand unspoken thoughts—it’s all too distinctive to slip your memory. And yet, there’s something about him, something that tugs at the edges of your mind, like a half-remembered dream you can’t quite piece together.

Your gaze drifts toward his plastic coffee cup resting on the table. The cup sleeve catches your eye, and you lean in slightly to get a better look.

Butterfly by Jimin Café.

Jimin’s café?

Wait—hold on.

Your breath stills for a second as realization dawns. The scent of fabric softener from earlier today, the fleeting brush of someone’s shoulder against yours in the crowded café, the low murmur of a voice apologizing as they passed by. It all comes rushing back.

Your eyes widen.

You lift your head, and across the studio, Jungkook is watching you.

With a smirk.

There’s something unreadable in his expression, something knowing, as if he’s been waiting for this moment, waiting for you to connect the dots that you do not know of. His lips curve slightly, and his eyes lock onto yours, holding your gaze for a beat too long.

Shit.

You quickly look away, pretending to be absorbed in the script. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You flip a page, your fingers trembling just slightly, hoping no one notices the way your composure has slipped.

The recording session begins, and Jungkook’s voice fills the space, steady and rich, effortlessly slipping into the role of the narrator.

["From the brief meetings we shared, I found that she was a woman who walked on eggshells, carefully maintaining her image for the public, despite the wounds buried beneath layers of fabric, skin, and deep within her heart. The dead of winter held no meaning for her—it was merely a reminder of those who had already left..."]

You sit there, struck still.

His voice is captivating. Deep, intimate, carrying the weight of every word with precise control. It’s like he’s not just reading the lines…he’s living them, breathing life into Haneul in a way that feels almost too real. The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing down to the sound of his voice and the way it wraps around you, pulling you into your own story all over again.

The staff murmurs amongst themselves, impressed.

"His tone fits the male lead perfectly," someone comments.

"He’s got that quiet intensity," another agrees.

Next to you, Taehyung leans in, grinning. "Isn’t he good?"

You nod slowly, but as Jungkook’s voice continues to flow through the speakers—deep, smooth, and effortlessly intense—you feel a rush of warmth creep up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

Shit.

You force yourself to look away, fixing your gaze on the script in your lap as if it holds the secrets of the universe. But the heat lingers, stubborn and undeniable, prickling at your skin. You swallow, praying that no one notices—especially not him.

After the recording ends at 7:30 PM, you, Taehyung, and the studio crew spill out into the warm evening air, the city lights casting a golden glow over the streets. The group makes its way to a nearby restaurant, a cozy but lively spot with wooden tables and the comforting aroma of sizzling food. The hum of conversations mixes with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere.

Plates of food quickly fill the table—crispy fried chicken, steaming bowls of tteokbokki, and an assortment of banchan that everyone eagerly digs into. Pitchers of beer are poured freely, and the mood is light, the kind of easy camaraderie that comes after a long but successful day of work.

Taehyung, always in his element when surrounded by people, is mid-story, waving an onion ring around as he speaks. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and his gestures are more animated than usual, a sure sign that he’s had a drink or two.

“The narration was amazing, right?” he exclaims, dunking the onion ring into a pool of ketchup with enthusiasm. “I mean, Jungkook just nailed it. Didn’t he?”

Mid-sip of your beer, you hum noncommittally, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah… well.”

Taehyung squints at you, his grin turning sly. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

You set your glass down, shrugging a little too casually. “I mean, it was really good,” you admit, your voice a little too even, a little too careful. You’re not sure why you’re downplaying it, but something about admitting how much Jungkook’s performance affected you feels… dangerous.

Taehyung leans back in his chair, clearly not buying it. “I’ve been working with a lot of student interns at the university, and they say he’s ridiculously multitalented. It’s crazy that he’s not just looks,” he continues, his tone teasing.

You give a small nod, but your thoughts are already straying.

Back to the recording session.

Back to Jungkook’s voice.

It had been deep, smooth, and filled the space in a way that was almost too good. Every syllable had weight, sinking into your bones like warmth on a cold day. Soft yet sultry. Intimate in a way that felt excessive.

Hold on. Do you have some kind of… voice fetish?

Shit.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. The thought alone makes your face burn. You swore off dating—hell, you swore off men—and now here you are, sitting at a bar, spiraling over some junior you just met. This is bad.

Taehyung must notice the way your expression shifts because he suddenly grins. “So, Bookworm, what have you been up to lately?”

The nickname makes you blink. It’s been ages since he called you that. He’s definitely tipsy.

“Just writing, working at Jimin’s café, and sometimes I travel,” you say, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“You’ve clearly won at life!” Taehyung announces, lifting his glass like he’s toasting you.

“Won?” You laugh, shaking your head. “I just live a simple life, day by day. Lethargic and exhausted by passion.”

The words come out more honest than you intend, but Taehyung doesn’t seem to catch on.

But someone else does.

Jungkook.

You feel it before you see it—his gaze. When your eyes finally flick over, sure enough, he’s looking at you.

Not glancing. Not idly observing.

Looking.

Something about it makes your skin prickle. Not in a bad way. Not in a way you know how to name.

And yet, instead of breaking away, he holds it.

Your breath hitches.

You quickly turn back to Taehyung, willing your cheeks to cool, forcing your expression into something neutral. Jimin once told you that your eyes tend to wander when you’re deep in thought, but this is different. Why does Jungkook keep meeting them?

Is he curious about you? Just polite? Or worse—does he know?

Does he see how you’re reacting to him?

You shake the thought away, burying it under more beer.

It doesn’t matter.

You’ve been through enough to know that people like Jungkook—ones with easy smiles and a natural charm that makes everyone in the room lean in—are dangerous.

Because you’ve met someone like that before.

And it nearly destroyed you.

The alcohol isn’t helping now. It’s loosening your thoughts, making it harder to keep your guard up. You rub your temple, exhaling sharply, just as your phone buzzes in your pocket. You’re relieved for a distraction, until you see the name on the screen.

Jimin.

Of course.

You quickly stand, finger nearing to answer the call. “Hey, Taehyung, I’m gonna take this call.”

Taehyung raises a brow, his grin turning mischievous. “Jimin again? Man, you guys are always together. Are you dating or something?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Honestly, it’s more like family. He’s an annoying older brother.”

Taehyung laughs, nodding. “That checks out.”

You step away from the table, the noise of the restaurant fading slightly as you press your phone to your ear. “Hey, what do you want—”

“Why didn’t you clean the basement yet?!” Jimin’s voice is sharp, cutting through the buzz in your head.

“Oh, fuck.” Your stomach drops. “Completely forgot. I’m at a work dinner.”

“The tenant’s stuff is coming in the morning,” Jimin says, his tone exasperated but laced with concern. “Where are you? I’ll drive and pick you up.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “The Tavern Grill, near the recording studio.”

“I know where that is,” Jimin replies quickly. “Just come outside so I find you more easily when I wait for you on the curb. I’m on my way.”

“Fine, fine. Let me say goodbye first,” you mutter, already heading toward the door.

As you weave through the tables, you can’t help but glance back at the group. Taehyung is laughing at something someone said, his arm slung over the back of his chair.

When you return, Taehyung gives you an exaggerated pout. “Jimin coming to drag you home now?”

“Something like that.” You roll your eyes, already grabbing your things. “He said he’ll pick me up.”

Taehyung laughs, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “Tell him we need to grab a drink sometime. My treat.”

You grin, saying your goodbyes to the others—some casual, some playful.

Then, just as you’re about to leave, you glance over—

And Jungkook is still watching.

His fingers drum idly against his glass. He doesn’t move, doesn’t call out. But his gaze lingers, like there’s something he wants to say but won’t.

Your stomach twists.

You don’t know what it means. And you don’t want to find out.

So you turn away, stepping out into the night.

Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Jimin walks ahead of you as you both descend the stairs to the basement. The air gets cooler with each step, but something else lingers—an acrid, stale scent that makes your nose wrinkle.

You frown. “Did you smoke before picking me up?”

Jimin lets out a soft chuckle, barely glancing back. “Wow, you really have a sharp nose, Y/N.” Then, without warning, he reaches over and fluffs your hair, like you’re some small puppy that just sniffed out the right answer.

You groan, swatting his hand away. “You know I hate the smell of cigarettes, Jimin.”

“I know, I know. Just… let it slide for today,” he mutters, tone quieter now. “Had a bad day.”

You don’t push. Not yet, at least.

The basement door groans on its hinges as you step inside. The air is heavier down here, tinged with dust and disuse. Jimin reaches for the light switch and flicks it—

Nothing.

He sighs. “Great. Power’s probably cut off for this room since we barely use it. I’ll go check the breaker.”

You pull out your phone, switching on the flashlight. “I’ll start looking through things in the meantime.”

Jimin eyes you skeptically. “You’re really gonna be able to see anything with just that?”

You give him a pointed look. “That should be the least of your worries. I just don’t want to be cleaning all night.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back.” With that, he heads back upstairs, leaving you alone with the stillness of the basement.

The dim beam of your flashlight sweeps over the space. Piles of forgotten things are stacked haphazardly—old college notebooks, loose papers, manuscripts half-finished and never revisited.

And then—

Your stomach tightens.

That box.

It’s been shoved far away from the rest, as if even in storage, you wanted it out of sight. But it’s still here. A silent, patient thing.

You step closer. Your fingers hesitate over the worn edges of the lid.

Then, with a quiet breath, you open it. Inside, time folds in on itself.

Your fingers graze the first thing on top—a faded movie ticket stub. The edges are soft, curling, worn from being thumbed over too many times in the past. You remember this night. Your night. Seokjin had held your hand through the entire movie, whispering sarcastic commentary in your ear, making you laugh so hard the people in front turned around to glare. You’d buried your face in his shoulder, giggling, and he had just smiled like you were the best thing to ever happen to him.

Your throat tightens.

Beneath it, a polaroid. The two of you at some festival, Seokjin holding up a peace sign while you kissed his cheek. The colors have faded slightly, but you can still see how bright his eyes were, how effortlessly happy you had looked. You weren’t even thinking about the camera—just him.

You swallow hard.

All of these things mean something to you, or at least, they once did. But the longer you stare at them—the trinkets, the letters, the pieces of Seokjin woven into your past—the more you wonder if they ever meant anything to him. If he could leave so easily, so cleanly, then what were these memories even worth?

Can you really throw all of this away?

Your fingers hesitate over the box when you hear footsteps behind you.

Figuring it’s Jimin, you sigh, still lost in thought. “Hey, why didn’t you turn the lights back on? Is there something wrong with the breaker—?”

Before you can finish, you’re shoved, your back colliding against the wall with a thud. A strong grip pins you in place, pressing into your shoulders.

Your pulse surges.

“What the fuck!? Who are you—”

“Why are you rummaging through someone else’s shit, you thief?”

The voice is sharp, accusatory. And absolutely not Jimin’s.

Your breath catches.

And then, the lights flick on.

Your vision adjusts, and when you see who exactly has you caged against the wall, your stomach flips.

Jungkook.

Wait. Jungkook?

His dark eyes widen the second he recognizes you, hands retreating from your shoulders like he’s been burned. “Oh, fuck.” His voice drops into sheer panic. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t know it was you!”

You blink, still trying to process what just happened.

He looks mortified, hands hovering near you like he wants to check for injuries but doesn’t dare touch you again. “Shit, I didn’t hurt you, did I? Are you okay?”

You exhale, still slightly dazed. “Ah… it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not,” he interrupts, eyes flickering with concern. His fingers ghost over your arms, searching for any sign that he might’ve been too rough. His hold, once bruising, is now careful. Deliberate. “I grabbed you way too hard. Are you sure you’re fine, Sunbae?”

You look at him properly now, still catching your breath. Damn.

His face is stupidly attractive up close, his brows knitted in pure remorse. His scent—clean, like fresh laundry mixed with something slightly musky—hits you all at once, making your stomach do something annoying.

He’s exactly your type.

And that realization makes this moment so much worse.

“You’re Kim Jungkook, right?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Jungkook straightens, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Wait… you don’t remember me?”

He sounds almost offended, tilting his head slightly.

You furrow your brows. “Sorry, I’m not good at remembering names or people for that matter.”

He blinks, then lets out a scoff—part amused, part incredulous. “Seriously? I recognized you the second the lights came on, but you forgot about me?”

Your lips twitch. Is he really pouting?

Whatever. You’re still processing the fact that you just got manhandled by this guy. He needs to take about five steps back.

You cross your arms, clearing your throat. “What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“Oh.” Jungkook’s expression shifts, his stance relaxing as he rubs the back of his neck. “This is my studio now.”

Your stomach drops.

“…What?” Your mind stutters over his words.

His studio?

Your eyes drift over the scattered boxes, the dust-lined shelves, the scent of old paper and forgotten memories lingering in the air. When Jimin had mentioned a tenant renting the basement, you’d barely paid attention, brushing it off as another small change in your life. But standing here now—with Jungkook, of all people—the reality sinks in with an unsettling twist in your gut.

This is his space now?

Before you can fully process the implications, footsteps echo from the stairwell, followed by Jimin’s familiar voice.

“All right, the power’s back on—” He stops mid-step as he takes in the scene, his gaze flicking between you and Jungkook. His brows furrow slightly, his usual easygoing expression dimming with curiosity.

“Oh, you two have met,” he says, a little slower than usual. “Y/N, this is Jungkook—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupt, still distracted by the realization. “We met earlier today during the recording session.”

Jimin’s brows lift. “Oh?”

“But what are you doing here, sunbae?” Jungkook asks, his tone shifting to something lighter, more casual. “Do you live nearby?”

“I’m cleaning out some of my stuff down here for… well, you, apparently.” You exhale, motioning vaguely to the clutter around you. “I live upstairs.”

Jungkook blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

Jimin, however, is less surprised. He crosses his arms, fixing Jungkook with a sharp look. “But, dear tenant, what are you doing here?” His voice dips into something more pointed. “Didn’t you say you’d be here tomorrow at noon?”

Jungkook barely flinches under the scrutiny. “I had something to check on.”

Jimin eyes him for a moment before sighing and letting go of whatever was on his mind.

“Do you want any help?” Jungkook asks, turning back to you.

Your pulse spikes. Oh, God.

The last thing you need is him digging through your things—especially the one box tucked carefully behind you. The one filled with Seokjin’s remnants.

“No!” you blurt out, too quickly. His brows raise, but you force a casual shrug. “I’m good. I’m just going to throw it all away anyway.”

Jungkook hums, glancing at the mess. But then, his eyes catch on something.

A photograph peeks from the top of one of your boxes, slightly askew. Before you can move to block it, his gaze sharpens, lips curling into something almost unreadable.

“Then I can throw it all away for you,” he says, voice smooth but laced with something just a little too amused. He meets your eyes with a slow tilt of his head. “You don’t need it, after all. This place is mine now.”

Something about the way he says it—the lazy drawl, the faint glint in his gaze—rubs you the wrong way.

Your stomach tightens.

Just hours ago, he’d been nothing but polite, apologetic even. But now? There’s something else beneath the surface. A hint of something sharper, something laced with an unspoken edge.

Is this actually his true nature?

This doesn't sit right—yet, at the same time, you can’t shake the curiosity gnawing at the back of your mind. You know better than to let your guard down, but part of you is pulled in, drawn to the enigma that is Kim Jungkook.

And so, without knowing how or why, you find yourself standing at the beginning of something unexpected.

This is how your story with Jungkook begins.

– TBC?

a/n: if you decided to check out this story, thank you so much! feel free to give me your thoughts, questions, theories (yes, kim jungkook is intentional in this story and you'll know why if i continue this series hehe). jungkook is also the same age as reader but still in college (because he started college a bit late due to enlistment). also happy belated valentine's day. i meant to upload on valentine's day, but i got caught up in trying to make this more detailed.

➸ let me know what you think OR join the taglist for future works! ➸ check out my masterlist for other fics I have made

#bts fic #bts #yoongi x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #bangtan #bts fanfic #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook smut #webtoon #jimin x reader #jin x reader #kpop fanfic #fanfic

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san8ny · 11 months ago

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Intermission

Ellie Williams <3

Synopsis: Ellie and you haven’t spoken since highschool, you two never really that close. One day, the all-star hits you up upon getting kicked out. You down to help her steal from her own childhood home or nah?

w.c: 4.1k / warnings include: Ellie is a bit rude in the beginning, some Joel slander, she’s just hella uptight, mutual pining, kissing, she makes out with your hooha, but it’s hot. ;-;

“Am I even doing this right?” you mutter down at the pocket knife you had angled, poorly sharpening it’s blade with the edge of the worn-down whetstone you and Ellie happened to find upon arrival to Joel’s cabins.

She gives you, and both the board, a once-over before turning back to the picture frames lined up on the wall, “Sure.” Rolling your eyes, you throw the knife onto the counter, “You know, I didn’t know he had such a swanky place.”

“Yeah. Reeaal swanky.” She huffs, scrunching her brows in annoyance when the clatter of the knife you’d just thrown doesn’t quiet down immediately, “You find the checkbook yet?”

Ah, the checkbook. You almost forgot she recruited you out here to practically rob her adoptive dad blind.

I mean, fuck, had you had the luck of being in her place— living so lavishly, you’d let the bastard yell at you all he wanted.

Dragging your finger tips across the wooden counter, careful to not splinter them, you push yourself off where you were leaning, and walk towards the stairs, “Doesn’t it make sense for him to like, I don’t know, have it upstairs?”

Ellie runs a hand down her tired face, letting out a huge sigh before turning towards when you stand near the railing, your foot already placed on the first step. Why didn’t she think of that before? She gives you the green light, following behind as you ascend up the stairs. She finds her breath hitched and her eyes closing in further irritation when you suddenly stop, her face parallel with your lower back due to the step-to-height difference.

“Is that you?” You say, a smile stretching on your face as you point towards the meek framed photo that hung above the handrail, depicting a pre-teen Ellie in a science museum tee, Joel slightly crouched behind her with two thumbs up. You almost would have missed the small smile she has in the snapshot had you had nor squinted, “Didn’t know you had a dimple. Do still have it?” You ask, turning down towards where she stood.

“No. Now move.” She huffs, bumping your shoulder as she takes lead, climbing up the rest of the stairs. Rude. Nonetheless, you follow her as you enter into the main hallway. How the hell was a cabin this big? you’re only in it for, like, less than a season— Right? Not like you would know, the fanciest thing you’d ever seen was the time you went to Dina’s Bat Mizvah down at the community center and got to see a chocolate fountain, granted it was years ago, it’s the closest thing you’d ever experienced comparisable to ‘upper echelon.’

She seemingly notices your distant stare, harshly bringing her palms together in a large clap thus pulling you out of your thoughts. Clearly taken aback, you meet her blank gaze, “You take the attic, i’ll take the main bedroom”

“Where—

“Down the hall, to your left. You’ll see the ladder cord hanging.” She cuts you off, already walking away and into one of the many doors you could only assume led to Joel’s bedroom. Okay! This should be easy!

It was not easy.

On your hands and knees, you cough uncontrollably from the dust that blocks insulation. It errupted when you pulled the damn ceiling ladder cord down. All this money and they couldn’t fucking dust it once in a while? Wait, when was the last time this place was even entered? That was the question you asked as you slowly tip-toed up with wide eyes. immediate, you’re met with U-haul boxes, plastic dinosaur figurines and some comics.

In that moment, you smile a bit as you kneel on the floor, grabbing the Stegosaurus and T-rex as you gently knock them against eachother, playing with them.

Though you swear you were being satirical when you began toying with them, you couldn’t help thoughts drift to a younger Ellie playing with these like you were. She’d probably always call dibs on the Carnivore, giving the other person an eyeroll when they cry at how unfair she was being for never giving them a turn at being the razor-bearing predator. ‘Skill issue’ she’s also snicker when the kids run back to their parents.

When you finally put them down after some time, you walk over to one of the several moving boxes. Some tattered, some dirty and some even still closed up. It was wrong for you to have been snooping around her childhood home, sure, but she’s also stealing from her own said home— so you can’t be that bad. Reaching into the closest one near you, you pull out a small velvet belt. One that stroke resemblance to the ones you’d see in the cheesy karate-cop movies your dad had been a fan of. Another, and another and shortly, you have a large array of belts, with at the very bottom of the box containing a small plaque of achievements, ‘Ellie Williams’ printed in fine, gold lettering, ‘Graduate from the Jackson institute of Martial Arts.’

Of course, she was a prodigy at everything. What wasn’t Ellie good at? She’d been your highschool’s valedictorian a couple years back when you both were about to graduate, given the golden chance to speak at the commencing, well, was. That was before passing the chance onto the second runner without a second thought; she claimed she wasn’t the talking type and just casually went about her day, like it wasnt the opportunity most students would have killed for. Students like you, who spent all night and day to even make a dent in the social stratosphere that was highschool.

Given now you both were in your early 20’s, you still hold admiration for Ellie. Maybe that’s why when she randomly called you to hangout after years, you didn’t question it, or even second guess yourself.

How long Ellie had been standing there watching you coo over her baby pictures was something you, and both she couldn’t answer. Originally wanting to smack you on the head or scare you, she couldn’t help but lean against the attic wall, eyeing the way you carefully place her achievements down like they were the most important thing to you.

You’d always been like that since Ellie can recall meeting you. Always so nice, so sensible, always the first one in the room to make light out of nothing. You definitely would have been burnt on the cross or something for just how smiley you were if you were alive back in that day. Ellie found you interesting in ways she couldn’t configure why.

She and Joel had a falling out a couple of weeks ago. He cut her off of all financial support, insisting she get a job or a higher education like her peers were. A few profanities and insults were thrown around, leading eventually to her getting kicked out. Funny. Though she never cared about being embarrassed or the opinions of others, she did feel some sort of seeping humiliation. So, with the money she had, she booked a hotel and called you up. She chuckles when she remembers the first time she sent the address, your hesitancy to type back as you get the wrong, but expected idea,

‘ .’.im not fucking u lol’

‘wth no I got kicked out’

‘OHHH srry!!! D: ‘

The chuckle that hears behind startles, your grip seemingly loosening on the picture frame you had in-hand meeting the floor in cruel shatters. Quiet consumes you both with your hands shaking erratically, “O-oh my god? i’m so sorry, I don’t even know why I did that. fuckfuckfuck!! It was an accident. I can pay for that! Like, i’m so so sorry—l” you frantically plead with her, your eyes alternating from her and the bloody gla—bloody?

“You’re bleeding.” Ellie sighs, softly reaching forward to grab your wrist, pulling you around the mess you caused. You didn’t even realize you were until you felt the blood drip from your ankles down to your shins, staining your bleach-white socks in scarlet droplets.

“I messed up, Ellie, i’m really sorry.”

“Can you like, stop apologizing? It’s fine. Didn’t even know when that picture was taken anyways.”

Somehow, her words worsen your hysteric state, you sinking down back onto your knees as you sob. Oh god, she didn’t even know when that picture was taken meaning it’s that long ago. Ellie stares at you clearly with a panicked look, not really knowing how to comfort you— or anyone for that matter. Again, you were more of the sensible one between them, even if you two hadn’t exactly been all that close growing up in the same town, school and similarly interconnected friend groups. ‘What would you do?’ So, Ellie slightly crouches down, her squeaky sneakers noising as she awkwardly encircles her arms around you. Clearly taken aback by this gesture, you peer up from where your head was buried inbetween your knees and instead, at Ellie, who’s usual laid-back expression is replaced with furrowed brows, her eyes not meeting yours and some reddening on her cheeks. “Y-you’ve seen the picture frames around, man, I see myself all the time. It’s fine.”

You sniffle abit before giving her a coherent answer that isn’t just hiccups, “Im sorry.” She sighs before slightly reaching up to pat your head, “Please stop crying, I think i’m more off-put by your ugly cries than you breaking shit.” That tugs a laugh out of you, pushing Ellie away as she matches your grin. “I mean look, you ruined my tee.” She wasn’t lying, you look down to her white tee and it was absolutely soaked with shed tears belonging to you. You gently run your thumbs over her chest in a bad attempt to wipe your embarassingly smeared mascara off, but it only recieves a small whine from Ellie, who backs away immediately. You’re left confused when she gets up, clearing her voice. “We should continue searching.” With that, she leaves the attic, leaving you up there and with multiple. How could ones demeanor change that often? You almost noticed the sensitivity in her chest.

“Pfft, softie.” You mutter, a smile on your lips as you follow her down. Eventually, Ellie is the one to find the book, it’s placed inbetween some folded jeans. ‘Fuck yeah..’ She bites her chapped lip as she flips through it. Enough pages for her, and a good forged signature she’d mastered when he’d be too lazy to sign her field trip permission slips— guess something did pay off. You stand there with crossed arms, feeling a bit squeamish all of a sudden, like the thought had hit you finally, Ellie is moving away. She notices you when she lifts her gaze up, puzzled with your stance, “I told you it’s okay, the picture frame can be replaced.”

“I don’t want you to move away.”

“What.”

“I won’t repeat myself.” You shake your head defiantly, standing your ground when she towers over you, all these years and when you two have somewhat of a bond, she wants to move away? And maybe yeah, you had it coming, being easily-attached to somehow who’d you’d only started recently hanging out with. “What makes you think I care?” She mocks, looking at you like you’d grown an extra head, she’s almost astonished with your stupidity, why would she have dragged you all the way here to just, stay? Something with the way she says those words churns humility deep in your gut, who were you to even admit that to her? You flail around your arms passively as you back away, a croak in your throat, “Just something I said. You’re a cool person.”

“Right, well, I got the checkbook meaning we can get the hell out. Seeing this place almost makes me want to not drain Joel’s pockets.” She yawns, throwing you the book before retreating into one of the previous rooms, though before, she asks, “Say, where’d we put the keys?”

Who had the keys?

Comically enough, sirens began to faintly hear in the back, and your gaze locks onto Ellie’s, “Fuck— find the keys.” She says, running back into the room. How petty was her dad to call the police on them? Well, petty enough to have alarms laying around incase his thieving daughter comes around. You, instantly begin to eye around for them, palms growing clammy at the aspect of being arrested now comes into plan as the sirens grow closer. Finding them, you call out to Ellie who seemingly was already on her way once she heard the jingles of them, “Out the back. You’re gonna run, and not turn back, ‘alright?” She whispers, grabbing you and running towards the kitchen door once the front door is knocked.

Once it’s kicked in, Ellie manages to get out with a groan, definitely a bruiser, but nonetheless, they make it out of the area without getting caught. While she hasn’t broken a sweat yet, you were coughing up a storm like you were earlier, eyes tearing up as you let them out in fits. She gently rubs your back, looking around for where their parked car was, it was a good idea they’d parked so far away- granted it was flawed in multiple ways, it came out in their good favor. Once you’d caught your breath, Ellie hums, “You know where we parked?” You nod, looking around, “Yeah. near the marked tree, you smeared my lipstick over it..” She scrunches her nose to prevent a loud laugh from coming out, your sadness over lipstick being funny to her, “Right. That way.”

You both find the car and enter, ellie starting the car as she backs up and maneuvers around the various tall trees it was parked around before getting onto the main road. You don’t say anything for the majority of the one hour ride, those 60 minutes feeling like the longest ones to Ellie who’s gotten use to your talkitive habits. So when she asks you if you want aux, you shake your head— deflating her mood. She sighs, lighting up a cigarette at the light and rolling down the window. You just lean your head back and rest your eyes, emotions running through that you couldn’t even seem to process. Tiredness, embarrassment of her flat out saying she’d never stay for you, getting almost booked by the police, and just ones you didn’t want to acknowledge at all. You wanted to just, go to sleep.

Ellie, on the otherhand, feels nothing but anxiety gnawing at her. Why does she care so much whether you talk to her or not? She’s never even liked talking, and somehow, the thought of never speaking to you again after this makes her feel nauseous. Would you text her? Call her? Visit her if she left? Would you buy the nearest train ticket if she told you one day to come when she settles into her new place? Or would you just move on? Would you move onto some cooler girl in town to befriend? Some other girl you’d look up to, some other girl who would show you the hidden gems around town you’d been asking her to, Fuck— some other girl you’d give all your affection to. Ellie swerves the car, and had it not been your quick-wit to pull the steering back, she might have crashed the vehicle.

Pulling over, she places her head lightly on the leather wheel while you stare at her in bewilderment, “Are you crazy?! What was that?!” You say with a slight twitch in your eye at her loss of control.

“I don’t want to move away.”

“You literally have to, we’re on the side of the road and your emergency lights aren’t on so.”

“I’ll stay.”

“You can’t, that’s like, against the rules. I don’t know, my permit is expired.” First order of business, obtain a license.

“In Jackson. I’ll stay in Jackson.” She mumbles, lifting her head up to stare at you. This feels like a joke to you, like Ellie might just begin laughing at you when you show the tiniest bit of you of relief. So, you just match her stare, tiling your head. “Why?” Why? What do you mean why? Ellie wants to scream, why don’t you look happy? She’s staying for you.

“Just..wanted to.” She says after a beat or two, pulling the car back onto the road as she nears your house. Giving a curt nod, you look out the window, your knees feeling wobbly like a teenage girl all over again as you suppress asking questions to the clearly disoriented freckled girl. Once on arrival, Ellie expects you to leave and slam that door but instead, you sit there for a bit.

“My mom isn’t here.” You say, chewing your inner-cheek.

“You don’t have a spare key or ‘sum?”

“No no I do, it’s just— want to come in?” You ask her with big eyes, your hands folded on your lap like a child on their best behavior to get something.

“Did your mom bake that pie you got me last time?” She’s referring to the Cherry Pie your mom made last time you two hung out.

“Is the sky blue?” You say, with a smile, trying to lighten the mood that’ll need more than just that to recover.

“It’s grey but I see your point. I’ll go park, leave the front door open.” She smiles when you nod, skipping out of the car and into your home.

When she does so, and enters your door, she’s met with a warm wafting smell of baked goods. Ellie might gave been fairly thin, but she had a nose on her, leading her to the kitchen. You’ve changed out of your dirty clothes, she notices, you now wearing some small pajama shorts and a tanktop. You’re bent over the oven, grabbing the treats out of the pre-heated oven your mother had likely left them in to retain warmth.

“You’ve got to stop doing that.” You mutter, almost dropping the tray of food while Ellie smirks

“Can’t really promise accepting an apology if you dropped those.” She says, walking on over to where you stood by the kitchen island. Something in the way she says that so..flirtatiously, makes you look back at her twice. “Whatever. Do me a favor, take the plates out while I cut the pieces.” Ellie nods, walking over to the several arrays of cabinets. Though, upon doing so, she notices your refrigerator, decorated in colorful magnets, children’s literature and most of all, a picture of you, and an older woman. You were younger, hair a bit longer than you had it now, and a wide grin with your front tooth missing. You couldn’t of been older than 6, Ellie thinks. Smiley.

“This your mom?” she asks, running her fingerpads alongst the smooth film while you hum, nodding. “Yeah, it’s my mom” You say, handing her a slice of piece when she gives you the plate, “You look alike.” Ellie concludes when you two begin walking upstairs to your room.

It was certainly your room, is what the auburnette thinks as she sits on your bed. Messy bedsheets you never got to make, clothes scattered near your closet and other things you never got to clean up when she’d called you up this morning at such an ungodly time to divulge you in on her scheme,

though now, upon her decision to stay in the town, it seemed a bit for nothing. It’d be a funny story to tell with you. With you, she thinks, watching as you chew the treat and sit on the rugged floor as you flip through TV channels. Eventually settling on some show Ellie never knew was still even airing. She quietly sinks from the bed, onto the floor herself, sitting close to you as your gaze stays glued to the blaring screen, flashes of color reflecting onto your face as each scene passes. Ellie finds herseld staring at you, a person she once found so inconspicuous now becoming the very reasoning she stays in a town she hates so much. Whatever you had the girl under needed to be looked at.

“Do you like me?” Is what she wants to ask, but “Do you have a boyfriend?” is what she settles for.

You turn to her, meekly shaking your head. Since when was she sat so close to you?

Ellie nods, looking back at the show to get you to, before asking another question, “Girlfriend?” You shrug, “I mean, I use to talk to this one girl..”You mutter, before Ellie finds herself furthering it, “What happened?”

You sigh, before pointing a finger, “Don’t laugh.” you glare. Ellie smiles, nodding. “She told me she was straight after like 2 days AND THEN, i saw her kissing on Judy.” Ellie snorts, “No fucking way, Judy the librarian?” You nod, burying your face in a nearby throw pillow.

“I need a drink.” You mutter, getting up and leaving the room with Ellie in it. You return shortly after with a bottle of wine and some glasses. The girl groans as she stretches, “Now you’re talking. Pour me some.”

Eventually, the topic heads in the way of relationships once more, with you two telling each other of your awful sex lives in the majority straight town Jackson was as you sip.

As Ellie tells one, you find your eyes feeling heavy, alternating between her green eyes down to her pale pink lips. You nod, poorly attempting to give the illusion you were following along with whatever she was saying. Ellie, herself, wasn’t all that there but she was better. She’d stopped talking long ago and was just moving her lips with no dialogue coming out whatsoever, seeing if you’d ask why she halted her story. She licks her lips, leaning back as she places her glass down on the nightstand near her— jean-clad thighs spread tantalizingly as your gaze drops to them.

Her years of martial arts and track did her well, you admit, hoping it wasn’t obvious you were ogling the girl.

“Were you mad at me earlier?” you whisper, fidgeting with the loose seam of her jeans as you notice the difference in how she was acting at the cabin, and how she is now. Ellie hums, matching your small voice. “I was more so mad at myself.” She answers you, her hand finding where yours toys with a string, “Not at you.”

You nod, not really having anything to say.

“Can I kiss you?” you finally utter, liquid courage taking over as Ellie thumbs your soft hips from where you sit so closely. She gives you a soft ‘yeah’, pulling you onto her lap. You begin by littering feathery pecks along her jaw, her sensitivity earlier when you touched her chest beginning to make sense when goosebumps begin to arise along her pale skin, her nipples hardening as the hair on her neck stands before kissing her deeply.

You two kiss slowly for a while, finding some rhythm as it slowly turns into something else. You gently gasp when Ellie rocks your hips onto her thigh, making you detach from her mouth and straddle it the way she wants you to. The rough texture against her jeans on your soft shorts makes you huff a bit, face burning up as you grip her shoulders.

“You’re my sweet girl, you can do it.” She murmurs lowly, watching you grind all over her, your slick slowly starting to seep onto her denim pants— all like she wanted. You nod, frustrated to the brim of tears when you can’t seem to fuck yourself on her thigh well. Ellie pushes you down, caging your legs in between her hips as she tilts her head back down, "Seems like you're not the only sweet girl wanting my attention.." She smiles as you moan, the heel of her palm placed directly on your touch-starved mound, giving it just enough pressure and angling to make you whine out a small 'Ellie..'

She gives you finally what you want, sliding your shorts to the side and sighs when she sees just what a mess has been waiting for her.

No underwear?

You attempt to leverage yourself by sitting up on your elbows but Ellie pushes you down, hiking your hips up even more with a singular grasp of your shins as she kisses directly on your puffy pussy, your messy sap smearing all over her lips before giving you a grin,

Oh, you'd pay her what she was worth alright. Maybe returning Joel's checkbook can wait after this.

[All credits to the owner of the picture above!! i got it from popipa on pinterest]

#tlou 2 #Ellie Williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x f!reader #wlw #tlou 2 smut #sapphic #ellie williams blurbs #ellie williams hcs #ellie williams smut #the last of us hbo #the last of us game

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nanamis-princess · 2 months ago

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Giving them Valentine’s Day chocolates: Jjk edition (pre relationship)

Includes: Nanami Kento, Satoru Gojo & Geto Suguru <3 x gender neutral reader

Warnings: no use of yn lol, none that I can think of lmk

A/N: if you’ve left a request I see it don’t worry! Requests close on February 28th! Please read on my page for more info about sending a request! 🤍click here🤍 I had so much fun writing this omg! Xoxo

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Nanami Kento

To kento it was just another Friday but the bakery was more crowded than usual. Glancing at his watch as he waits in line, finally stepping up to the counter he greets you with a small smile. He orders his usual, stepping to the side as he glances at the case of red velvet cupcakes and other goodies decorated in pink and red frosting. Directing his attention to you coming in view with a small blue box on top his freshly wrapped bread. The rush of nervousness mixed with the adrenaline powering you through this interaction as you speak up, “i hope you can accept these chocolates, i made them for you” you confessed. The heat rushing to your cheeks as you feel his gaze and hearing the faint giggles from your coworkers behind you. for a moment he’s taken back and truthfully doesn’t know how to respond but says “thank you” with a nod and a small smile. You think you’ve ruined it all completely, moping around the whole day and dreading coming back in tomorrow. The idea of quitting your job and never looking back crossed your mind due to embarrassment. Saturday morning comes by as you begin your shift, preheating the oven as you hear the familiar bell ring of the front door. Your coworker peaks her head around the corner looking at you, “it’s for you” she hums with a grin before walking back towards you. Walking to the front as you pat your apron, looking up to see Kento with a bouquet of flowers. The heat rushes to your face again as your heart races, giving you a soft smile and blush raising to his cheeks. “I apologize for not reciprocating my interest yesterday, i was taken aback by your gesture but I’m grateful for it.” He expresses, extending the flowers to you. “It would be a pleasure to get to know you over dinner if you are interested?” Kento asks making eye contact with you. Nodding with a smile on your face as you accept the flowers “I’d really enjoy that” you confirm. Exchanging information takes a moment but before he leaves kento speaks up, “the chocolates were delicious by the way, you a very talented” he says with a grin before exiting.

Gojo Satoru

Every year since he was a teen gojo has always had an abundant of sweets, even if he doesn’t know who they are from, he keeps them. like com’n is Satoru one to pass upon sweets? Sitting on the benches during lunch You and geto glanced at each other as satoru went through each box not even caring who it was from. “This count higher or lower than last year?” Shoko rolls her eyes, standing up to zip up her jacket. “Lower but there is always more time left in the day” suguru hums, getting up from the bench following behind Shoko for a quick smoke break. Toying with your water bottle cap as satoru gasps, you look up at him “look its your favorite, let me feed it to you” he grins taking the sweet out of its packaging. Holding it up just a few inches away from your lips, you just blink at him, “what?” He asks confused. “That was gifted to you, it’s not for me to eat” you say trying not to let your jealousy bleed through. Satoru tsks shaking his head “but i want to share with you, open” he hums before making an ah sound. You roll your eyes and let him feed you the sweet treat.

Even years later he still gets an abundance of sweets so will these even make a difference if you give this to him you ask yourself? you glance at the small box in your bag. Taking a small breath pulling the small black box with a red ribbon tied nicely on it, you slip into his classroom placing it in the center on top papers from yaga that satoru had been putting off. Fifteen minutes or so go by and your phone screen lighting up catches your eye.

“Oh wow look what someone left me, these beautiful delicious chocolates;)”

“You always know my favorites😙❤️”

“Idk what you’re talking about”

“I don’t have six eyes for nothing😝”

“But yuji told me he seen you leaving them lol”

“….”

After teaching your last few classes of the day you practically speed walk to your car. Hoping to go home and put your comfy clothes on to binge that new series you’ve had your eye on. seeing the white hair a mile away as you reach your car leaves you smiling a little. Satoru turns around with that beautiful smile that makes you melt, “there you are. Let’s go get dinner tonight” satoru hums closing the gap between you. your heart racing as you shrug your shoulders. “Going out on Valentine’s Day last minute? Nowhere is going to have a seating open” you say dryly trying to play off the giddy feeling. “I can pull a few strings, but if you’d rather stay in and get takeout doesn’t sound too bad.” He offers with a smile. “Unless you want to get rid of me” he says with a fake pout making you playfully role your eyes. You turn to your car “I want to pick what we eat then” you add.

Suguru geto

Having been neighbors with geto for almost two years now has given you the courage to finally try to make a move, maybe now wasn’t a good time though? He’s always so busy with the girls, you’d never want to get in the way. From time to time you’d take the girls in for an hour after school if geto was running late. he’d always express his gratitude and adored how much the girls enjoyed being around you. The girls sat across from you as you washed grapes for them, Nanako speaks up “our dad doesn’t have a valentine this year” she ‘casually’ drops that followed by a giggle from Mimiko. “Oh is that so?” You humor them with a chuckle as you dry the grapes off with a towel. “Uh huh” Nanako hums with a giggle as the girls look at each other.

‘Just a test run of chocolates’ you thought to yourself as you made this small batch of chocolates. After cooling, you slip them into the white box and wrapping a small red ripen around it with a little attachment geto with a heart next to it. Taking a small breath as you are leaving for work you slip it in his mailbox before heading out of the building. The thought crossing your mind all day at work with a bunch of what ifs, you try grounding yourself to get through the rest of the day. Buzzing back into your building after a long day you just want to relax and it had completely slipped from your mind. Shedding your coat and keys at the door and letting it close behind you. Not even two minutes of being in you apartment you get a knock at your door, glancing at the door you hear muffled giggles and shh. Opening it to see Suguru with three heart shaped balloons, a Valentines basket decked out with goodies, your favorite chips and gift cards. Giving you that warm smile that you find comfort in “Happy Valentine’s Day” he hums. The girls peaking out on each side of him with small vases of flowers.

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paceprompting · 4 months ago

Text

paper kiss

written for ‘mistletoe’ wc: 982 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no warnings apply | tags: pre-relationship, pining, fluff, werewolf steve, human eddie

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Steve had a problem.

Call in the troops, all hands on deck, cannot afford to fail level of problem.

Except he couldn’t exactly go around blabbing this issue to the entire party. Dustin alone would blab in five seconds, and he’d never hear the end of it for as long as he lived.

How was he supposed to admit the simultaneously best and worst idea he’d ever had to kiss Eddie for the first time?

Eddie had never the opportunity for the romantic nonsense, even if he rolled his eyes or stuck out his tongue at any sight of it. Eddie’s walls were covered in thorns and bristles from years of needing to bite first what usually came to harm him.

Steve, on the other hand, was highly practiced in romantic nonsense.

So, clearly: Christmas time equaled mistletoe.

Genius in its simplicity.

Idiotic in that it was fatal.

Because now he was basically supernaturally allergic to the stuff.

You get bit by one demodog and you had severe drawbacks, go figure.

It was hard enough trying not to stick his nose in Eddie’s collarbone—scenting, Robin called it. He didn’t want to know what the hell she was reading—and envelop himself in Eddie's forest, smoky scent while leaving his own behind. Even though he was literally the only person in Hawkins who could smell the difference, getting bit had come with all these other weird instincts.

Somehow, dealing with the transformation every full moon was easier than navigating daily life when every slight against the kids, against Robin, against Eddie had his claws and fangs bursting out with an inhuman snarl.

That he needed nearly two and half times more calories than ever just to not feel like he was going to pass out by midday.

When every time he looked at Eddie, he wanted so intensely his jaw hurt until they were close enough Steve could catch his scent. Close enough to always know he was okay because Steve was close enough to get to him.

Steve sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter.

“I’m just going to buy some.”

Robin leaned into his eyeline, a fearsome frown on her face, and jabbed her finger into his chest. “You’ll die, dingus.”

“Only if I directly inhale it.”

She flicked him. “Why is it important?”

Eddie wasn’t at the house, yet. He had chauffeur duty for the impeding Christmas-ification of Steve’s house—tinsel, garlands, lights, the whole nine yards—and the plan had led to Steve’s badly wonderful idea.

The kids would be so distracted decorating/devastating his house, Steve could easily pull Eddie aside for a private moment.

And they had both been too much shit. Eddie was worth more than a plain old kiss.

The kids entered the house in a whirlwind, shouting and laying out boxes and shopping bags to tear into without so much as a hello. Steve chuckled to himself.

He smelled Eddie before he saw him, and raised his head. His dark curls were dotted with melting snow, cheeks pinkened by the cold. Eddie stared intently at them, with something hidden in his hands.

Robin dismissed herself, hissing quietly at him before she darted off, “Just do it.”

Eddie didn’t watch her leave, slowly stepping into the kitchen until Steve met him halfway. Steve still couldn’t see what he was holding, Eddie’s fingers curled around something small.

Steve breathed in his fresh scent—pine forest and smoke—the tension in his shoulders fading.

“Um, I had this, sort of…thing. An idea,” Eddie started quietly.

“Do I get to hear it?”

Eddie started to roll his eyes, and then stopped himself. Like he was trying not to fall into old habits. Strange.

This idea had to be something special.

“So, I really want to kiss you.”

Steve’s heart pounded so loud in his ears, he hardly processed that Eddie had kept speaking, his enclosed hands moving in their usual way. Drew Steve’s attention all the more to what he was hiding.

“I thought, Christmas, mistletoe. Perfect opportunity.” Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling, since Eddie had gone onto the inevitable conclusion. “And then I remembered that would probably kill you before we ever got to enjoy it.”

Steve clicked his tongue. “Yeah.”

“So, instead, I made this.” Eddie opened his hands, and extended out what looked like a small plant with oval leaves and red berries.

Hesitantly, Steve reached for it. Eddie wasn’t about to poison him, but Steve wasn’t sure what to expect as he grabbed with two fingers at the nearest leaf. The thing crinkled as Steve lifted it.

“Paper,” he said with a soft smile.

He held the faux-mistletoe in one hand, examining it with the other. Stems of green oval leaves, tiny red berried and tied together at the top with a white ribbon. It was soft and slightly fuzzy like construction paper, and Steve faintly smelled Eddie’s pine forest all over it.

“And safe,” Eddie said.

All this to overcome Steve’s werewolf allergy. Because they both wanted to kiss.

For some reason, particularly under mistletoe.

Steve looked at Eddie, his eyes wide and waiting. He chuckled. “We have made this so complicated.”

Eddie arched a brow.

“You transform into a hairy beast every full moon and I really want you to hold me down and lick me all over the rest of the month. Let’s just say our lives haven’t been simple for a while.” He stepped close, plucking the mistletoe from Steve’s hand to run it over his lips.

He flicked his eyes toward Steve over the paper leaves, playful and heated. A pleased growl rumbled through Steve’s chest, and Eddie’s eyes just gleamed. They had moved close enough that all one of them had to do was drift that much closer.

“Are you going to kiss the mistletoe?” Steve asked, peering at Eddie’s mouth and imagining the taste of pine and smoke. “Or me?”

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie microfic #steddie drabble #werewolf steve #fluff #pining #mistletoe #pre relationship #if you've seen that one doctor who episode #you know where i got the allergy idea from

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vrystalius · 6 months ago

Text

Learning to accept love with every bite.

You packed lunch for Obanai and Kaburamaru. He planned on skipping breakfast and maybe even lunch altogether, but your packed meal changed his mind.

Pairing: Obanai x gn!reader

(TW: Obanai’s troubled relationship with food, spoilers on why Obanai wears a mask)

Usually, Obanai’s mornings usually are the same; waking up being held by you, getting out of bed to feed Kaburamaru a small treat, heading of to the bathroom to freshen up, eat a small meal before wrapping the bandages over his scars and then heading out for training or a meeting. He noticed the lack of your warmth pressing against his back, wich he usually wakes up to in the mornings, and rolled over on the bed, noticing that your side of the bed was already neatly tucked in. Seems like you headed out early today without telling him. Where do you even have to go out this early? Errands can wait, why not spend some time with him? Tch. After groaning and stretched his limbs out, savouring the warmth of the bed a little longer, he finally forced himself out of the warm bed.

Obanai stepped closer to Kaburamaru’s enclose, giving his companion a couple head-scratches before slipping him pre-made snack cubes into the enclosure. The rest of the morning continued as usual, just a little more lonely. Normally, he’ll eat breakfast for your sake. You remind him to take in his meals regularly with proper portions he feels comfortable eating. Without you, Obanai’d probably fall back into his old habit— skipping meals in favour of training. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

You knew that your boyfriend has a troubled relationship with food. You didn’t know everything about his childhood or past and you never pushed him to reveal things about himself he didn’t want to share, he might need time to proper process his own troubles before sharing it with you, but on the other side you’re also totally fine if he’ll never share those things with you. You’re patient with Obanai and love him for the way he is, so why force him into opening up? Forcing him to talk about his troubles will do more damage than good, so you leave those worries be and focus on better things. That’s what he appreciates being with you so much. He almost feels insecure about you being so good with him, while he barely gives anything back in return…

He stared at his bandages for a good minute. If he wears them now, he won’t eat breakfast. It’s too much of a hassle to slip food between his bandages without staining them, so he’d rather not try. If he eats breakfast now and slips the bandages on then, Obanai will loose valuable time he could be using to train and spar with other hashira. He promised Sanemi to show up early to his manor for training sessions, so why make him pissed by being late? He knew you’d probably disapprove, but Obanai began wrapping the bandages over his jaw and mouth, deciding to skip breakfast for today. He tries to talk into himself that he’ll just eat more lunch but failed, resulting to silently curse at himself.

After letting Kaburamaru join him by making himself comfortable around his neck, he finally made his way downstairs to equip his katana and head out. That’s where he spotted a small bento box prepared on the counter, alongside a sealed paper bag with holes right next to it. His brows furrowed together in slight confusion as he inspected the bento, lifting the lid. He was met with a small letter placed right above two compartments placed inside the box. Scanning the letter, Obanai recognised your terrible handwriting.

Made this for before I headed out, Tengen called me over for an emergency of sorts. There’s some Gyoza so you can eat with your mask on by slipping it through the bandages, it should’t crumble too much, plus they are small enough. I also some vinegar soaked kelp (I know it’s your fav~) if you want to eat without it or alone, so you can choose what you want to eat! Love you lots ♡

PS: I spend most of my morning catching lunch for Kaburamaru, it’s in the bag, hope he likes it!

Obanai felt his cheeks heat up beneath his bandages as a smile started spreading. He folded the letter and tucked it back into the bento box to read again later, inspecting the meals you prepared. There were three Gyoza dumplings tucked into one compartment, the portion he usually eats, and some vinegar soaked kelp in the other, again, the amount the one he likes to eat. He slipped bandages down and grabbed some strands of seaweed with his fingers, stuffing them into his mouth. His smile grew even more as the familiar taste spread in his mouth, but for some reason it tasted even better than usual. After slipping his bandages back over his mouth and putting the lid onto his bento box, he unwrapped the top of the brown paper back and glanced inside. Kaburamaru curiously leaned down as well after noticing the smell of food— there was a poor mice trapped in the bag. You seriously caught this? For Kaburamaru? You do really pay attention to both Obanai and his little companion.

He obviously released the poor mouse since he already has enough snake-friendly food stored in the pantry. He appreciated the effort, but storing a mice in a paper bag for a whole day was a little inhumane, even for Obanai.

After packing the bento box and equipping himself with his katana, he headed off to Sanemi’s, already looking forward to eating the home cooked meal with his friend, being able to show off the lovely bento you prepared for him and only him, while Sanemi is stuck with a random thrown together meal.

🎃

Whumptober prompt: Recovery

I was seriously nervous about posting this. As I mentioned in a post before, I really am insecure about writing for Obanai XD last time I wrote for him was two months ago in my second ever post (Love Languages of the Hashira pt.2)— So I hoped you enjoyed this!! Let me know what to change or add about Obanai! Also, I know pet snakes eat mice and life small preys and stuff but I didn’t want to write about that part so I simplifies it to “snack cubes” or whatever I called them XD Hope that’s okay!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!

Take care of yourselves <3 I appreciate every single comment, repost and like. Thank you for supporting me for so long!

Here’s my event Masterlist 🎃

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goldenraeofsun · 12 days ago

Text

got a bone to pick

“I can’t believe you,” Lois seethes as she slams the door behind her, her chandelier earrings quivering.

Clark sighs. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Lois whirls around. “It is!” she pokes him, hard, in the chest, right below his lopsided, droopy bow tie. “You are a damn good reporter, and I will punch anyone who says otherwise right in the face.”

Clark’s shoulders slump even further, which Lois didn’t know was even possible. “I know. You nearly did.”

“You shouldn’t have held me back!”

“Lois,” Clark says patiently, “it was a fundraiser for Metropolis’ group homes. I couldn’t let you start a fight in front of literal children.”

“Oh, gimme a break. They’re orphans. They’ve definitely seen worse.”

Clark exhales a deep breath. “And why would I possibly let you add to their trauma?”

“To defend yourself! To defend your reputation!” Lois fumes as she stalks past him to yank open his refrigerator door. The chilled air wafts over her, but it does nothing to cool her burning rage. She skips the vegetables, jars of condiments, her favorite white wine Clark buys when she stays over.

Her stomach growls. The fundraiser, glitzy and full of glamor, was full of on-trend bite-sized canapes and entrees that consisted of three slices of perfectly seasoned beef, artfully shredded greens, and two orange wedges. Oh, she would kill for hamburger right now, assuming Clark was out of the picture since he’d probably stop her from doing that too.

She tosses a half-empty pizza box in the general direction of the counter. It lands with a thud.

“My reputation is just fine, thanks,” Clark says evenly. “Yours, on the other hand…”

“Is also fine,” Lois says scathingly, “because you didn’t let me beat the crap outta him.”

Clark tugs his bow tie loose. “Have you ever heard the advice, ‘pick your battles wisely’?”

Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he doing, parroting fortune cookies at her? She viciously throws open the lid of the pizza box, snarling, “Everyone knows the correct answer is always, D) all of the above,” and grabs the largest slice left.

Half the cold cheese stays stubbornly behind, attached to the rest of the pie. Fucking laws of inertia.

Lips pressed tightly together like he’s trying not to burst out laughing, Clark leans over and gently eases a new slice free. The cold, congealed cheese stays in its perfect, pre-cut triangle shape. “This might be a metaphor,” he says as he swaps slices with her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lois huffs before she stuffs her mouth with pizza.

Clark sighs as he reaches over to surgically separate the extra cheese from the pie and reattach it to Lois’s first attempt. “I feel like you’ve also never heard the saying, ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar’.”

She rolls her eyes. “Heard it. Didn’t care for it.”

Clark chuckles. “I’m not surprised.” He takes a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “While I… appreciate the support, you don’t need to fight my battles for me.”

“Well, someone clearly does, if you’re not going to step up,” Lois retorts, elbows braced on the table, staring him down.

“I’m choosing not to engage,” Clark points out as Lois grimaces. “That’s still a strategic decision, and I need you to recognize that.”

“Yeah, sure,” she grumbles. “But,” she hesitates, searching for the right words. “Why? The things he was saying about you… if he insinuated those things about my work, my ethics, I would’ve put him in the hospital. Fundraiser and traumatized orphans be damned.”

Clark sighs. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Lois says. “I’ve seen those arms you hide under a billion layers, farm boy.”

Clark’s eyes narrow. “That’s exactly why, Lois.”

Lois purses her lips, and she won’t give Clark the satisfaction of saying she really has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Still, something in her expression must give the game away.

Hesitantly, Clark starts, “I might not look it all the time, but I’m a pretty big guy.”

Lois smirks. “You get stuck in the revolving door every morning like clockwork, buddy. Believe me, I know.”

“So,” Clark plows on, ignoring her entirely truthful if not very nice aside, “if word spreads that I can and will throw my weight around when provoked, my sources will dry up faster than a full harvest during a heatwave.”

“No, they won’t. Your sources know you,” Lois argues. “They know you’re a good guy. That you wouldn’t throw hands without a good reason,” she rolls her eyes, “unlike certain people in this apartment who will go unnamed.”

Lois almost never pokes fun at herself because it gives others license to do the same, but Clark (hardly ever) makes her the butt of the joke. When he tries, she gives twice as good as she gets. He has never let that stop him, though. Honestly, if he ever gives up ribbing her for good, she will assume he’d been replaced by an alien and will investigate accordingly.

Clark smiles wryly. “And how many ‘nice guys’ have you really known that turned out to be not-so-nice behind closed doors or when things get a little tough?”

Lois opens her mouth because that argument is a moot point; Clark is practically the paragon of an old fashioned gentleman, minus the sexism and casual microaggressions. But she shuts her jaw with a snap as she mentally answers the question he actually asked with a firm, all of them. Every so-called “nice guy” she’s met has always turned out to have a hidden mean streak. Sometimes it came out with waiters on the third date. Other times it came out after she published a not-so-flattering but entirely factual quote that they said to her face.

Except Clark.

For fuck’s sake, two days ago, Clark apologized to her for the time she cried all over his favorite Smallville High sweatshirt after she bruised her toe kicking his wall. It’d just been one of those days – Superman nearly died saving them all in the morning from Metallo, Perry shot down all her best pitches for her next investigative piece, her AC broke at the hottest point in the day in the hottest week of the year, so she had to migrate to Clark’s place, but he was out running errands, so she waited in his dingy (non-air conditioned) lobby for 20 minutes, and then… she bruised her toe.

“Okay, fine, but you’re not like that,” Lois counters, tilting her head pointedly at the foot-high dent in the plaster behind her.

“Come on.” Clark jabs his pizza crust accusingly at her. “You have to know how weak that argument is.”

Lois chews mulishly at him. Fuck Clark for being right.

“Look, I’m not saying I’ll roll over for every Tom, Dick, or Harry –”

“You sure about that?”

Clark glares. “I am not a doormat, Lois.”

Lois’s head jerks up at the tone of his voice. “I’m not saying you –”

“I think you are,” Clark interrupts. He exhales a short, explosive breath, and for a flash, Lois sees that steel-like backbone she’s only read before in his articles. “Just because I’m not as showy with retaliation does not mean I am not incapable of it.”

“Really,” she says dubiously because if there’s anything Lois Lane is good at, it’s needling one Clark Kent.

He throws her a look like he knows she’s goading him, and he is not falling for it; he is going along with it. “Remember Jay Harrison?”

Lois’s eyebrows rise. She hasn’t heard that name in two years, not after he sued The Planet for libel. Their investigative team, led by Clark, had published an expose on the fraud in his healthcare insurance company. The Planet won (barely), but they all had to tighten their belts for the rest of the year and cut their summer internship program to pay all the legal fees.

“After – well after everything,” Clark starts awkwardly, “all he had left was the Liberty Building. And everyone knew it was practically crumbling in on himself, but he paid off all the building inspectors, so he got to keep it as collateral for all those loans.”

“Mm hm,” Lois nods along. So far, so boring. But Clark wouldn't be telling the story if it stayed that way.

Clark taps his chin, brow furrowing. “I think you were covering the Vincents’ murder-suicide at the time, but it was a quiet week in terms of giant robots and alien invasions, so I flagged down Superman -"

Lois's eyes nearly bug out of her head.

" - and asked him nicely to mention the Liberty Building in his upcoming speech about Metropolis’s Lead Removal and Compensation Commission. It was filled with the stuff, you know.”

Lois says, genuinely surprised, “You got Superman to help? I – I didn’t think you were that close to him.”

Clark shrugs. “I’ve written about him a fair bit.”

“Unwillingly,” she points out. Clark always complained the loudest when he got assigned Superman stories, in sharp contrast to Cat, who squealed at a pitch wholly unbefitting a woman her age with that much cleavage spilling out of her shirt. As if Superman could be swayed by a push up bra and strategically placed bronzer.

(Lois tried that her second week with zero results)

Clark rolls his eyes and folds his slice of pizza in half for easier eating. “He can be useful. At times.”

Lois yanks the slice right out of his hands and stuffs as much of it in her mouth as she can. “No pitha for Ooperman hatahs.”

“I just said he was useful!” Clark protests with a small smile as he steals the rest back.

Lois, preoccupied with not spraying the counter with masticated dough and sauce, lets it go with a glare.

Clark takes a large bite and swallows. “Anyway, the Commissioner of the Department of Buildings turned out to be a massive Superman fan. He could probably give you a run for your money, Lois –”

“Doubtful.”

“ – so he was more than happy to take Harrison’s money and condemn his building. What was Harrison going to do, sue him for breach of bribery?”

Lois whistles. “And that’s why we haven’t heard anything from Jay Harrison since.”

“He officially declared bankruptcy ten months ago,” Clark says matter-of-factly.

“Hang on, I think I did hear about that,” Lois says, the memory tugging at her. “He had to leave Metropolis, right?”

“Sold everything he owned,” Clark says with a satisfied nod. “And then I –” He coughs. “And, well, that was that.” He polishes off the rest of his pizza, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks.

Lois’s eyes narrow. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing my ass, Smallville. Spit it out.”

Clark sighs. He leans both elbows on her counter, back bowing. “I’m not proud of it.”

Lois leans in, a shark-like grin tugging at her mouth. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

“I might’ve… stolenhisdog.”

“You what?” Lois splutters, loud, surprised laughter spilling from her lips.

Clark hangs his head. “Harrison had no money, no property, was driven out of his city, but - but it was my first time directing the investigative team, and then he had to go and get us all tangled up in that awful court case when he could have ridden the bad press out. Instead, he dragged the entire Planet down with him.”

“So, you figured the only logical thing to do, when a man is down, is to steal his dog?” Lois asks, thoroughly amused.

Clark nods. “She was one of those fancy hypoallergenic ones. And just before he was about to leave town, Ma mentioned that the Cushings down the road were having a devil of a time finding a pet for Sophie, and, well…” He drifts off, clearly ashamed.

Lois leans back, surveying Clark in a whole new light. “You petty son of a bitch,” she breathes.

“Lois,” Clark pleads, now a deep shade of maroon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever liked you more, Kent,” she says smartly as she turns to open the refrigerator.

Clark scrubs his hand down his face. “I’m a terrible person.”

She brandishes the wine aloft and kicks off her heels. “Okay,” she says as she scurries around the counter to tug Clark off his seat. “You and me, we’re gonna have an old-fashioned sleepover. I’m gonna count that dognapping story as your truth.” She drags him in the direction of his bedroom, where she’s currently sleeping since he insisted on taking the couch.

“Lois,” he protests, even as his feet follow hers down the short hallway. “Aren’t we a bit old for sleepovers?”

She glances over her shoulder, making her violet eyes nice and big. “But, Clark, I’m an army brat. I never got a real sleepover growing up.”

He falters because he might say he’s some big bad reporter, but she can always play him like a fiddle. “I… fine.”

Lois punches him in the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about a dare?”

#clois #clois fanfic #clois fanfiction #pre relationship #clark kent #lois lane #fluff #rae writes fic

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eyesofshinigami · 1 year ago

Text

3, 2, 1, Fight!

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Meet Ugly, Steve and Dustin are brothers, pre-relationship

Written for the STWG daily drabble prompt: not a meet cute but a meet ugly

This is not at all how Steve pictured his Saturday going. He could be anywhere, instead, he’s standing in a comic book shop, fighting over a toy with another grown man who looks like he’s going to beat Steve over the head with it.

“Let go!” the guy yells, trying to tug the action figure out of Steve’s hands

“No, you let go!” Steve yells back, yanking it back. He has to give the guy props, though. He’s just as relentless as Steve is.

The guy sputters, an attractive shade of pink coloring his cheeks as his curly hair falls in his face. Wait, what? “Fuck off, why are you even here? Don’t you belong in a gym or something?”

Steve scoffs, still yanking. “Does it matter why I’m here? Just let go already!”

Dustin had been asking for this action figure for months now, talking about it and showing Steve newspaper clippings and TV commercials. Steve, being the good big brother he is, promised their mom that he would do his best to get it for him for his upcoming birthday. He’d be damned if he was going to let some punk, albeit a very attractive punk, take it away from him. Why did they only put three out on the shelf anyway?

They play tug of war for another few minutes, until the bewildered clerk, who had been watching their exchange, finally butts in and says, “Uh, I think I might have another one in the back? Can you wait here?”

They both nod, neither of them letting go of the toy. “I wish he would have said that in the first place,” Steve grouses, watching the clerk disappear behind a door. “Why they only put out a couple of copies of a toy I will never understand.”

It’s Hot Guy’s turn to sputter. “Toy? TOY? This, sir, is the limited edition statue of Kas the Betrayer that Wizard of the Coast put out to celebrate the anniversary of his DnD release! Not that you would care about any of that, you troglodyte.”

Steve has no idea what any of that means. “Oh, so that’s why Dustin wanted it. Makes sense now. He loves that guy.”

“Wait, it’s not for you?”

“Uh, no? It’s for my kid brother’s birthday. He loves that Dorks and Dragons game and he ran a Kas… uh… campaign? Last year? It was his first time. Kas is kind of a big deal to him.”

The other guy starts to look a little contemplative, but that’s when the clerk appears with another, much less rankled looking box. Steve immediately lets the one in his hands go and takes that one instead. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

The clerk shrugs and heads back behind the counter. Meanwhile, Hot Guy tugs his hair in front of his face. “Uh, look. I’m sorry I said such shitty things over a toy. It’s just, Kas is kind of a big deal to me too. You could have just said.”

Steve waves him off. “No worries, I get it. But now we both have one.” He pauses and considers a second. It’s worth a shot. “You could make it up to me over lunch in the food court.”

Hot Guy’s eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

Okay, wow. “Well, I was, but you can just say no, you don’t have to-“

“No, no, no!” Hot Guy says, waving his arms around, nearly dropping the box he fought so hard for. “No, I’d like that. Eddie,” he says, holding out a hand. That pretty pink flush is back. Steve kind of wants to see how far it goes down.

“Steve. Now let’s go, before any more wayward nerds decide they want to fight us over these.”

Eddie, dork that he is, bows and motions towards the cash register, “By your leave, my prince.”

Steve rolls his eyes. He always did like the nerdy ones.

#les writes things #steddie #stwg #demogorgon_dailies

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spicyschemmenti · 26 days ago

Text

CHAOS, CARDBOARD, & CASEY ➫ casey novak

pairing: casey novak x bumbling idiot!fem!reader

synopsis: unpacking should be simple: open boxes, put things away, don’t accidentally confess feelings for your coworker, but with casey around, nothing ever goes as planned

warnings: pre-relationship, mutual pining, reader is disastrous as usual

word count: 2k

MASTERLIST ----- JOIN A TAGLIST

Saturday rolls around way too fast, and unsurprisingly, you’re wildly unprepared. Theoretically, you meant to wake up early, do some light organizing before Casey showed up, maybe even shower like a functional adult. Instead, you’ve spent the last hour standing in your kitchen, staring at an open box labeled "KITCHEN STUFF???" and wondering why the hell you own three can openers but not a single full set of silverware.

By the time the knock on your door comes, you look exactly like what you are; an over-caffeinated disaster who lost a fight with moving boxes. Your hair is barely held together in a bun that’s equal parts tangled and threatening to collapse at any moment.

Your tank top, which might have been white once upon a time, is now questionably stained from an unknown source, and your shorts are old enough that they might qualify as vintage. And the socks? One has tiny avocados, the other has sharks, and honestly, that just about sums up your entire existence.

You fling open the door without thinking and oh. Yep. Of course.

Casey is standing there, looking annoyingly put together for a Saturday morning. She’s swapped her usual courtroom armor for a fitted long-sleeve and jeans, casual but still somehow making you feel like a feral raccoon in comparison.

Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, not a single strand out of place, and in one hand, she’s holding a large iced coffee. In the other? A brown paper bag that smells suspiciously like breakfast.

Her gaze does a slow sweep over you, head to toe, taking in every unfortunate detail of your existence before she raises an eyebrow.

"Wow," she says, after a beat. "This is what you chose to greet me with?"

You blink at her. Then at the coffee. Then at the bag. Then back at her. "You brought provisions?"

Casey sighs, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, because apparently that’s just the kind of person she is now—someone who walks into your apartment like she owns the place while you stand there processing the fact that she showed up with food.

"I knew if I left you to your own devices," she says, setting the bag down on your counter, "you’d be running on nothing but spite and, like, three-day-old trail mix. And then you’d probably pass out mid-box lift, and I’d have to drag your unconscious body out of the wreckage." She turns, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with herself. "I came prepared."

You narrow your eyes, crossing the room and leaning dramatically against the counter next to her. "You do realize," you say, snatching a napkin from the bag just to establish dominance, "that most people, when faced with a coworker looking like this, would be kind enough to pretend they don’t notice the full-scale disaster happening."

Casey hums thoughtfully, tilting her head. "Most people didn’t have to watch you call a judge 'dude' in open court."

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I thought we were past that."

She smirks. "I thought you knew me better than that."

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, she holds up the coffee. Your coffee. Your salvation.

"Do you want this or not?"

You reach for it immediately, but she pulls it just out of reach, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to amusement.

"Say ‘Casey Novak is my hero.’"

Your eye twitches. "Over my dead body."

She shrugs and takes a deliberate sip. "Alright," she says, casual as anything. "Suit yourself."

You make an actual wounded noise, staring at her in betrayal, before finally groaning, "Fine! Casey Novak is my hero."

She hands over the coffee, smug as hell, and you immediately take a gulp, shooting her a glare over the rim of the cup.

"Happy now?" you grumble.

"Very."

You huff, setting the coffee down and gesturing vaguely at the chaotic hellscape that is your apartment. "Alright, hero, let’s see if you survive this mess."

Casey just grins, rolling up her sleeves like she’s gearing up for battle. "Bring it on."

And just like that, your weekend takes a turn for the even more ridiculous.

Three hours later, you are drowning in regret.

Regret, exhaustion, and, if the dust coating your arms is any indication, at least a mild level of lung damage. You don’t know how it happened. One second, you were laughing at Casey’s very serious and unnecessary insistence on “a system” for unpacking, and the next, you were somehow knee-deep in chaos, sitting on the floor surrounded by an alarming number of things you definitely don’t remember owning.

"Hey, Casey," you call from somewhere in the pile of your own questionable life choices. "Would you still respect me if I told you I just found a drawer full of unopened mail from three apartments ago?"

"Would it make a difference if I said no?" she replies, not looking up from where she’s methodically sorting your books into actual, labeled categories like some kind of well-adjusted adult.

You sigh, flipping an envelope over in your hands. "That’s fair."

Another minute passes before Casey; who has now successfully arranged your bookshelves into something that makes it painfully clear she’s the competent one here—turns back toward you, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in your surroundings.

"...Are you actually unpacking, or are you just sitting in the mess, hoping it disappears if you ignore it hard enough?"

You lift an empty shoebox in your hand as proof of your efforts. "I am absolutely unpacking," you declare, before immediately setting the box back down and slumping further into your pile.

Casey snorts. "Uh-huh. Right." She stands up, stretching, and then wanders over, stopping just close enough to nudge the side of your foot with her own. "Alright, come on. Get up."

You groan, draping yourself across a half-unpacked box in protest. "Noooo. I live here now."

"Uh-huh," Casey deadpans, crossing her arms. "And how do you plan on surviving in this little trash goblin nest you've created?"

You peek up at her through the mess. "By accepting my fate."

She sighs, and before you can react, she grabs your hands and hauls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. Which is extremely unfair, because one, it makes her look way too cool, and two, you were committed to staying on that floor.

"Unbelievable," she mutters as she steadies you. "I don’t know how you function."

"I don’t function," you correct, rubbing your face. "I barely survive."

She shakes her head, clearly questioning every decision that led her here. "And yet, somehow, you're the one in charge at work."

You flash her a grin. "Terrifying, isn’t it?"

Casey huffs out a laugh but doesn’t disagree. Instead, she gestures to the couch—the one thing you’ve actually managed to set up—and heads for the bag of food she brought earlier.

"Alright, disaster," she says, pulling out the remaining breakfast sandwiches, "I’m calling a break before you collapse."

Your soul nearly leaves your body in gratitude. "Oh my god, I could kiss you."

The words slip out way too fast. Instantly, your brain short-circuits, eyes widening like you just announced your secret love for the murder defendant again.

Casey freezes mid-motion.

There is a beat of silence.

Then, without looking up, she just says, "Eat your food, dumbass."

And that’s it. That’s the moment you officially decide you’re never speaking again.

You are absolutely not thinking about it.

Nope. Not at all.

You are, instead, very casually and totally normally focusing on unwrapping your sandwich and not replaying the moment where you, in all your idiotic glory, accidentally suggested kissing Casey.

Nope. You’re just eating. That’s it.

The problem is, Casey is still here. Sitting on your couch, in your apartment, looking disgustingly put together in her jeans and fitted sweater like some kind of effortlessly cool, hyper-competent adult while you sit beside her in mismatched socks, sleep shorts, and a tank top that may or may not have an old coffee stain on it.

She’s eating her sandwich like a normal person. You, meanwhile, are hyper-aware of everything. How close she is, how the couch dips slightly under her weight, how she smells obnoxiously good despite spending the last three hours watching you commit various unpacking atrocities.

You take a bite of your sandwich to distract yourself.

And promptly choke on it.

Casey pauses mid-chew, looking at you with so much judgment as you flail for your drink. "Seriously?" she asks, not even attempting to hide her amusement. "Again?"

You wave her off, coughing dramatically. "It’s fine," you wheeze, thumping your chest like that’ll somehow fix the situation. "I’m fine. Just… ambitious chewing."

Casey’s lips twitch. "Ambitious chewing?"

"Yes." You nod, recovering as best as you can. "A hazard of my profession."

"Right," she deadpans, sipping her drink. "Maybe stick to smaller bites before I have to explain to your entire office that you met your untimely demise via breakfast sandwich."

You glare at her, but it has zero effect because she just looks smug. The worst part? She’s not wrong. If anyone were to die from something as ridiculous as aggressive sandwich consumption, it’d be you.

There’s a comfortable silence as you both eat, the chaos of unpacking momentarily forgotten. The afternoon sun filters through the window, warm and golden, and for the first time all day, you’re not actively embarrassing yourself. It’s… weirdly nice.

Too nice. Suspiciously nice. Which means, of course, your dumbass brain decides to ruin it.

"Hey, Casey," you blurt out before you can stop yourself. "Why are you here?"

Casey blinks, mid-sip. "I—what?"

"Like, why are you really here?" You gesture vaguely between you. "I mean, you could’ve just let me suffer alone, but instead, you’re here, willingly spending your Saturday watching me self-destruct in real time."

She raises an eyebrow, setting her drink down. "I told you already—because if left unsupervised, you’d somehow manage to set this place on fire."

"Okay, but—" You squint at her, suspicious. "You could’ve just let me deal with that on my own. You didn’t have to come. But you did."

Casey exhales, tilting her head slightly as she studies you. Then, completely effortlessly, she shrugs. "I guess I just… like hanging out with you."

Your brain short-circuits.

Just. Fully crashes like a computer running Windows 98.

You stare at her, eyes wide. "You what?"

She frowns, like she doesn’t understand why you suddenly look like someone just told you that gravity is optional. "I like hanging out with you," she repeats, slower this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re—" She gestures vaguely at you. "You’re a mess, but you’re also… kind of fun? In a deeply concerning way."

Your brain has officially blue-screened.

Because what does that mean?!

Does she like hanging out with you in a normal coworker way? Or in a ‘I find you entertaining in the way people enjoy watching car crashes’ way? Or in a ‘you’re an absolute disaster but I’m kind of fond of you anyway’ way?

You need clarification. Immediately.

"Fun how?" you demand. "Like, fun in a ‘wow, this idiot is so incompetent it’s amusing’ kind of way? Or fun in a ‘wow, I genuinely enjoy your presence’ kind of way?"

Casey blinks at you, and then—completely unfairly—she smirks. "Why?" she teases. "You hoping it’s the second one?"

Your soul leaves your body.

You panic. Flail, physically and emotionally. "NO," you say way too fast, because your brain and mouth have never once worked together in harmony. "*I mean—*not no, just—I don’t know! I was just asking!"

Casey laughs, shaking her head as she reaches for another sandwich. "Relax," she says, and then—casually, like she’s not sending your entire existence into an emotional tailspin—"It’s the second one."

You black out.

Not literally. But spiritually? Mentally? Emotionally? Absolutely.

Casey likes hanging out with you. Not in a car crash way, but in a genuine enjoyment way.

And maybe you’re reading into things, maybe you’re letting your dumb, sleep-deprived, chronically embarrassing brain make this into something it’s not—but suddenly, your apartment doesn’t feel quite as messy anymore.

tags:

@archetype-d

@ajwhizzersversion

@todorokiicefire

@eyecandy111

@undercoverprentiss

@colourfulbisexualities

@divorcedcigarettes

#spicyschemmenti #casey novak drabble #casey novak imagine #casey novak #casey novak x reader #casey novak x you #casey novak x female reader #diane neal #x fem!reader #x female reader #x female y/n #x reader #wlw #law and order special victims unit #law and order svu #svu #l&o svu #special victims unit

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

can we see what christmas is like with eddie, reader and roan? 🫶

the munson family and their pre christmas priorities ♡ (step)mom!reader, 1k

“I'm sick of being a dad,” Eddie says. “I'm done. You're going to live with your Uncle Wayne.”

Roan roars with laughter, her hair dusting the floor, her t-shirt dipping down to expose her chubby belly where she hangs from Eddie's hands. “Dad, pick me up!”

“I'm Eddie now to you.”

“I'm,” —she cackles— “sorry! Pick me up!”

Eddie gives her a last good shake before gently lowering her to the floor. She's all flushed cheeks and big eyes, her hair a riot around her head as she wipes stray strands from her mouth. “I'm sorry, daddy,” she says, pouting, her thin brows rising up her forehead. “Don't be mad.”

“I'm furious.”

“No, you're not! You're not angry, dad, you're smiling.”

Eddie forces his lips into a deep frown. “I told you to keep her in line!”

You huff from your place by the Christmas tree. “Give it up, Eds. Santa doesn't come for grown ups, I already told you that.” You place a final small gift atop the small mountain of silver-wrapped boxes and straighten it to perfection. “So I have to make sure you get what you deserve.”

“What was I s'posed to do?” Roan asks, sitting up. Her pyjamas are just a little too big, the shirt falling to her thighs and the pants covering her toes.

“Restrain her,” Eddie says, grabbing Roan under the arms to help her onto her feet. “Let me roll your pants up, babe.”

“I shrank in the night,” she says.

Eddie smooths her hair out of her face as he kneels in front of her. “You're so funny. Santa will bring you all kinds of new pyjamas tomorrow, he told me. But don't tell him I told you.”

“Did you get me anything?” Roan asks.

If only she knew. “Yeah, we got you some gifts too. But we're gonna put them out when Santa does, okay?”

“Okay.” She beams. Eddie pulls her pants from under her little feet to roll the hems up, worried she'll slip and smash her face on the wood floors.

“You're excited,” Eddie says, moving to her second leg, “I can feel you vibrating like a dog.”

“Woof,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. She's in a very cuddly mood tonight.

“Oh, what a beautiful puppy I have. She's so cute.” He hugs her lightly, black curls trapped either side of them. Eddie sits back on his calves and she lets herself fall into his lap. “What kind of puppy are you? A poodle?”

“No, I wanna be a dalmatian!”

“Of course,” he hums, stroking her hair. “How could I forget? You love damn-nations.”

You stand up from the tree to poke at them with your foot. “Can we have hot chocolate now?”

“Yeah!”

“Puppy's can't have chocolate,” Eddie says, encouraging Roan back to tuck her hair behind her ears. “So you'll have to be human Ro again.”

She sighs forlornly. “Okay.”

You make your way into the kitchen, paper chains hanging in the doorway and snowflake stickers holographic against the dark window. It's only 5PM, but the sun has firmly set, leaving the outside world in total darkness. You flick on the kitchen light and immediately head to the stove to heat the stove top kettle where it’s lived this last month on the back hob. “Milk, please?” you ask.

Eddie's already in the fridge. He passes you the milk, ignoring the mounds of foil wrapped meats and cheeses, his stomach aching in longing. “One more sleep,” he says, hooking a pint of milk on his pinky.

Roan attempts to climb your legs. You pick her up and put her on the counter, shielding her from the stove with your body. “What's for dinner?” she asks you.

“How about soup?” you ask. When Roan wrinkles her nose, you add, “With croutons? We could have yummy vegetable soup with crispy croutons.” Still wrinkled. “Or we could have tomato soup and grilled cheese?”

“With extra cheese?” Roan asks.

“Sure, princess. Lots and lots of cheese.”

Eddie opens the kettle. “What was in here?”

“Milk last night, but I already washed it. I knew we'd be having more hot chocolate,” you say, words shaped by your smile as Roan pulls you in for a hug. “It's so cold, huh, baby.”

“My nose is cold.”

“I can feel it!”

Eddie pours the entire pint of milk into the kettle. It'll be just enough for all three of you to have a full mug, and if he uses the big mugs there'll be no risk of overflow once the whipped cream and marshmallows have been added.

The milk doesn't need to boil, only warm. While it's heating he takes the hot chocolate powder from the cupboard and throws in a couple of heaping spoonfuls. The milk quickly turns a rich brown.

“Should I put some real chocolate in there too?” Eddie asks.

“Duh, dad!” Roan says.

You second her agreement more kindly, “Yes! Definitely yes. It's always best with the real stuff too.” You rub Roan's shoulders. “Yeah?”

Eddie's getting jealous, honestly. He ignores you both, shutting the lid on the kettle and easing his way between your arm and Roan's. “Let me in,” he demands.

You curl an arm behind his back. When you look up into his face, you couldn't look more in love. There's a shine to your eyes, a reverence he can't miss, and he's expecting your compliment before you give it.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you say, kissing the side of his chin.

He drops his head onto yours and pulls Roan in as close as he can without knocking her off of the counter. The air has already begun to smell of chocolate, though the smell of honeyed ham lingers. Roan herself smells like no tears shampoo. Eddie sniffs you curiously.

“Stop sniffing me.”

“What do you smell like?”

“Nothing. I'm not wearing any perfume.”

You smell like yourself. He can't explain it, but he likes it, hiding his nose in the seam of your hairline.

Roan cracks first, pushing you both away. “How long will it take?”

“Any minute now,” Eddie says, kissing your cheek before pulling away. “Let me get that chocolate.”

“You didn't put the chocolate in? Dad.”

789 notes · View notes

stylesonfilms · 3 months ago

Text

ink & innocence - 28

word count: 5.1k

i need to up my game on this story im SORRY! <3

The party downstairs carried on, its energy buzzing through the walls like a live current. Music thudded against the floorboards, muffled but persistent, as Aspen and Harry descended the staircase. Harry stumbled over a step halfway down, prompting Aspen to stifle her giggle behind a hand. He turned to her with a faux-serious expression, his brows furrowed, though the tips of his dimples betrayed his amusement.

“Did that on purpose,” he slurred lightly, his grip on the railing tightening in a show of mock confidence.

“Sure you did,” Aspen teased, her voice lilting with laughter. She grabbed his free hand, steadying him as they made their way down. Harry’s fingers wrapped around hers with a lazy, possessive grip, his thumb brushing along her knuckles in a way that sent warmth spreading from her fingertips up to her chest.

When they reached the living room, they settled back into their earlier spot on the couch. Kirsten, to Aspen’s quiet relief, was nowhere to be found— likely off somewhere with her hookup. Isobel sat nearby, her legs draped lazily across Zayn’s lap as she sipped on something new, her lipstick staining the rim of the glass.

“That was pretty badass,” Isobel declared, tipping her drink toward Aspen with a playful smirk. Her hand shot out to lightly fist-bump Aspen’s knee, the motion casual but full of approval.

Aspen huffed and rolled her eyes, but her lips curled into a reluctant smile that she couldn’t suppress. “Whatever,” she replied softly, her attempt at brushing off the compliment falling short when Harry leaned forward to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of her neck. His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt his hum reverberate softly.

“Only my girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears, his tone brimming with quiet pride.

Before Aspen could respond, Louis appeared in front of them, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. With one hand, he slipped a red solo cup into Harry’s grasp, and with the other, he placed a juice box squarely on top of Aspen’s head.

“Stay hydrated,” he quipped with a laugh as the box toppled onto her lap. He tossed a tin container onto the coffee table before flopping down beside Niall, his laughter loud and carefree.

Aspen glanced at the tin, her brows knitting in curiosity. She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a better glimpse of what Louis had brought to the table— literally. When he flipped the lid off with a dramatic flourish, her eyes widened. Inside was a neat row of pre-rolled joints, their paper pristine and almost professional, with a small lighter tucked alongside them.

Her gaze darted to Isobel, who was already reaching out to grab one. Zayn followed suit, his easygoing demeanor unchanging as he took one between his fingers and lit it with a flick of the lighter. The sharp, familiar scent of marijuana quickly filled the air, blending with the faint sweetness of spilled drinks and the tangy smell of snacks lingering on the counter.

Harry, however, made no move to join in. His arms remained firmly around Aspen, his cup now balanced precariously on her knee as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder. His lips brushed the exposed skin there, soft and warm, and she felt his low chuckle vibrate through her.

“Oi, Harold, snagging one?” Louis called, holding out a joint in Harry’s direction with a waggle of his brows.

Harry didn’t even glance up, shaking his head as he pressed his lips against Aspen’s shoulder again. “Nah,” he replied casually, his voice muffled but certain. “Got my lady tonight.”

The words sent a flush of heat to Aspen’s cheeks. She turned slightly in his lap, her wide eyes scanning his face. He looked at her with a lopsided grin, his green eyes heavy-lidded from the alcohol but still sharp and focused on her. He gave her hip a playful squeeze, his thumb brushing idly over the girl's skirt.

“What?” he asked, his grin widening as he caught her staring.

“Nothing,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile. She tapped his nose lightly with her finger, unable to stop the warm flutter in her chest. “I just didn’t know you smoked, is all.”

Harry’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Is that a problem?” he asked, his tone light but edged with genuine curiosity.

Aspen shook her head quickly, the movement making her hair brush against his arm. “No, not at all,” she assured him. Her voice was steady, though the smell in the air tugged at a faint memory from her past. “I just didn’t know that about you.”

Her sister used to smoke a bit while their parents were out of town, needing a relief from the mess that their parents were. As Aspen was under her care most of the time, it was a regular routine for her to experience.

Harry nodded, his hand slipping down to take the juice box from her lap. He carefully poked the straw through the foil and handed it back to her, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t do it all the time,” he admitted, his voice softer now, like he wanted her to understand. “Just when work gets... a lot. Zayn, Niall, and I will hang out at my place and smoke, but I wouldn’t do it around you.”

Aspen tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Why not?”

Harry shrugged, his free hand rubbing small circles into her hip. “I don’t want to expose your little innocent mind to that,” he said with a teasing smirk. “And I want to take care of you.”

Aspen felt her heart skip a beat, her fingers tightening slightly around the juice box. “But you can drink?” she teased, her lips curling into an amused smile.

Harry laughed, the sound low and rich as he tipped his head back slightly. “Alright, y’got me there,” he admitted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just say the word, and I’ll never touch another bottle.”

Aspen shook her head with a soft laugh, her chest warming at his sincerity. “No, H. It’s okay. I... trust you. I know you know what you’re doing.”

Harry’s lips parted in a slow smile, his lip piercing catching the light as he rolled it between his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her eyes sparkled as they met his, the warmth between them palpable even amid the haze of smoke before the sound of Isobel's giggles broke through the median noise.

"Zayn, stop!" Isobel huffed out into a fit of laughter as her boyfriends fingers dug through her sides in a tickling manner.

"You stole my joint!" He protested, laughing as his actions came to a halt, plucking it back between his fingers.

Harry’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, his breath warm against Aspen’s shoulder. “God, those two…” Aspen muttered under her breath, her lips quirking upward in a wry grin as she glanced toward the chaos on the opposite end of the couch.

Harry shook his head, leaning closer to Aspen, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “He’s havin’ me tattoo somethin’ for her next week before the shop opens,” he said, the warmth in his voice laced with amusement. “Did she tell you?”

Aspen turned back to face him, her curiosity piqued, her laugh from moments earlier fading into a softer smile. “No,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

Harry clicked his tongue, smirking as he swirled his drink lazily in his cup. “No can do,” he teased, leaning back slightly against the couch. “Must be a surprise, then.”

Aspen narrowed her eyes at him, the playful challenge in his tone sparking something within her. “Please?” she pleaded, her voice dipping into a slightly dramatic whine as she pushed out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I won’t tell. I just want to be nosy and silently happy for my friend. Pleaaaase?” She grinned as she grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders, shaking him lightly for emphasis.

Harry chuckled deeply, the sound rich and gravelly as he balanced his cup on his knee. His green eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced from the couple back to Aspen. “Alright, fine,” he relented, his lips curling into that signature smirk that always managed to make her stomach flip. “But you cannot tell.”

“I won’t! I promise!” Aspen beamed, leaning in closer, her expression practically glowing with excitement.

Harry raised a brow, his smirk widening into something more mischievous as his gaze flicked pointedly down to her lips. “You know,” he started, his voice dipping into a slightly lower register, “I like it when you beg f’me, doll. Trying to send me a message?” He wiggled his brows dramatically, his teasing tone both playful and suggestive as a puff of laughter escaped him.

Aspen’s eyes widened, and a soft, scandalized gasp slipped past her lips as she lightly shoved his shoulder. “Harry!” she hissed, glancing around quickly, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.

Harry only laughed harder, his dimples deepening as his shoulders shook. “Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all.

Aspen huffed softly, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside as she darted a quick glance at the others. None of them seemed to have noticed Harry’s cheeky comment, but the coil in her stomach tightened anyway. She could still hear the rasp in his voice, thickened by the alcohol, his accent drawing out the words in a way that was both casual and impossibly magnetic.

She turned her focus back to Harry, who now rested his arm lazily across her lap, his cup in hand. His lips tilted into a lopsided grin as he spoke again, his gaze flicking briefly toward Zayn and Isobel. “He’s gonna get her eyes right on his chest,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he turned back to Aspen. “I’ll one-up him, though. Get your whole face smack-dab on m’back.”

Aspen rolled her eyes with a laugh, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t you dare,” she replied, her voice tinged with playful exasperation. “And second, I think that’s sweet. She’s got cute eyes, and she’s going to absolutely freak when she sees it.”

Harry snickered, shaking his head. “Zayn described them as ‘hot blowjob eyes,’” he added, his words tumbling out between bouts of soft laughter as he brought the cup back to his lips.

Aspen froze for half a second, her head tilting slightly as she processed the comment. Harry’s hum of amusement only deepened as he swallowed, his gaze warm and teasing when it landed back on her.

“‘S what a girl’s— or guy’s, I suppose— eyes look like when they give a blowie,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact despite the wicked glint in his eye. “Down on their knees, lookin’ up type of thing.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she wrinkled her nose, a mix of surprise and embarrassment rippling through her. The thought of Zayn saying something like that about Isobel sent a swirl of conflicting emotions through her chest—discomfort, amusement, and secondhand embarrassment all at once. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself momentarily speechless, her eyes darting toward Isobel, who was obliviously laughing at something Zayn had whispered in her ear.

Harry’s quiet chuckle beside her pulled her back, his hand giving her hip a small, reassuring squeeze. It was a fleeting touch, but one that grounded her, reminding her that despite his teasing, there was an ease to their connection that felt natural. She exhaled softly, shaking her head at him as her lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile.

"Do you think that?"

"Think what?" Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eye betrayed him.

She huffed softly, her cheeks tinged pink. "That she has... those eyes."

His lips curved into that all-too-familiar smirk, the one that sent her heart into a frustratingly uneven rhythm.

"I've seen better," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low rasp that curled around her like smoke. His hand gave her hip a firm, reassuring squeeze, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of her shirt. Before she could even think to respond, his touch shifted, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her lower back with an unhurried ease, his thumb tracing gentle arcs just beneath the hem. "Possibly the fuckin’ best."

Her breath caught, a quiet gasp hitching in her throat as the intensity of his gaze pinned her in place. His green eyes, darkened by the dim light and whatever alcohol lingered in his system, locked on hers with a look that was equal parts teasing and reverent. She felt like prey caught in the sightline of a hunter—cornered and vulnerable, her defenses melting under the weight of his attention.

Aspen’s lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Her thoughts tangled, incoherent, as heat crept up the back of her neck and bloomed at the tips of her ears. His stare stripped her bare, not in a crude or obvious way, but with a quiet, steady persistence that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his movements unhurried, calculated. His hand abandoned her back, trailing along the curve of her waist before settling firmly on her thigh, his touch just below the frayed hem of her denim skirt. The heat of his palm bled through her skin, amplified by the cool press of the silver rings on his fingers. The juxtaposition of warm and cold sent a shiver coursing up her spine, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled to catch up.

The scent of weed continued to waft through the room, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol and the subtle notes of Harry’s cologne— something musky, with a hint of cedar that clung stubbornly to his clothes. The voices of their friends became a muted hum in the background, drowned out by the steady pulse of music. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Liam ask Harry if he needed another drink, but his voice barely registered. Harry was far too preoccupied to notice— or care.

All of his focus, every ounce of his attention, was on her.

Harry’s eyes roamed her face with a quiet intensity, as if committing every detail to memory. The way the loose strands of her hair framed her cheeks in soft waves, the way her lips curved naturally into the slightest pout, their rosy hue deepened by her nervous habit of biting them. He thought of the way the sun caught her features earlier that day— how her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the warm light brought out the flecks of hazel in her otherwise brown eyes. He’d seen it a thousand times before, but still, he’d swear she was something out of a dream.

“Picture fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, though the words carried enough weight to send her heart into a chaotic flutter.

Before Aspen could fully process what he’d said, his fingers slid further, dipping just beneath the edge of her skirt. The movement was deliberate, slow, as though he wanted to give her a chance to stop him— but she didn’t. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the cool metal of his rings creating a stark contrast that left her reeling.

Her breath hitched audibly, the sound so soft it barely reached her own ears, though Harry caught it immediately. He tilted his head, his smirk widening just enough to deepen the creases around his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, betraying the slightest hint of amusement beneath the layers of something darker.

Aspen’s fingers tightened around his shoulder, her nails pressing faint crescents into the fabric of his shirt. The action wasn’t forceful— more a reflex than anything. She wasn’t pushing him away, nor was she pulling him closer. She was caught somewhere in between, her body betraying her confusion as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t need to speak for Harry to know what she was feeling. The subtle shift of her breathing, the way her pupils dilated as her wide eyes searched his face, the faint tremor in her hand as it gripped his shoulder— it all told him everything he needed to know.

And yet, Harry wasn’t rushing. He wouldn’t. Every touch, every glance, was measured, deliberate. He was entirely in tune with her, and it wasn’t just about the physicality—it was about her. How she’d respond, how she’d feel. The anticipation thrummed between them, heavy and heady, as though the entire room had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the two of them in its wake.

"H, what're you—."

"When are y'gonna let me see those eyes again, huh?" He murmured, his tongue slow and deliberate as it came out to wet his lips.

Harry tightened his grip on her thigh, kneading the flesh between his palm. Aspen couldn't help but follow the movement of his tongue with shy eyes, meeting his again. Only to have them looking right back at her.

"I believe I asked you a question, little mouse. Are y'gonna be good and answer me?"

Aspen couldn't help but squeak out a noise, about to turn her head to make another check before he caught her chin.

"You're going t'give us away, Asp. Now, answer me."

She huffed through her nose, and despite the blush on her cheeks from embarrassment, her chest ignited.

"W-whenever," She whispered, her brown eyes flickering to his lips and back to his eyes.

He chuckled softly, low and slow as he brushed the tip of his pinky along the thin material of her panties that covered the mound of her cunt. She sucked in a small breath at the touch that took her by surprise, fisting the shoulder of his shirt momentarily before relaxing again.

"Whenever, huh? Even if I took you to the guest room again? Or what about in the Uber back to my place? What if when we got back to mine," another brush of his pinky, "and the moment I closed the door? Would you let me push you down to your knees? What about wakin' me up and givin' me those sweet eyes from under the blanket, hm?"

Harry's hand took another firm grip of her thigh again, his eyes still locked on hers. He knew well enough that his friends were busied with themselves, talking on and on about hula-hoops to skateboards to weird laws in Switzerland.

Aspen's breath hitched at his words and his gaze. The girls lips parted, as if to say something, before they shut once more. The feeling in her tummy boiled up to her chest and she wanted to scream for him to have mercy on her soaked panties. She shifted in his lap and swallowed, nodding after a few moments.

"Y-yes, all of those..." She brushed her fingers along the tattoos of his neck, suddenly becoming so interested in the line work that trailed up.

"Y'know what I think?" Harry mused, taking another sip from his cup as he took a look around before back at her. "I think you want it as much as I do. Just need your taste of havin' my cock in your mouth, don't you?" He murmured carefully, cracking a smile when he saw the way her cheeks tinted and her gaze stay on his neck. His shy little girl.

"I've corrupted my sweet little virgin, but don't get me wrong. Fucking love this side of you. Do you understand me?" He squeezed her thigh once more, making her squeak and nod.

"Aspen..."

"Y-yes, I understand," she breathed out, biting the inside of her cheek. She was about one second away from grinding into his hand, her body betraying her better judgment, when the sharp sound of Niall's voice cut through the smoky haze like a record scratch. The sudden intrusion yanked Aspen back to reality so fast it felt like whiplash.

Harry’s hand slipped from beneath her skirt in a practiced, nonchalant manner that almost convinced her it hadn’t just been there at all. He turned his head towards Niall, his features relaxed, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance that crossed his face—a frustration he quickly masked with ease.

“Refills!” Niall called, his voice carrying over the music as he swaggered towards them, the nearly empty bottle of liquor in one hand and his joint balanced between his lips. He leaned forward dramatically, tipping the bottle over each person’s cup with a lopsided grin. The sweet, bitter tang of the alcohol hung heavily in the air, cutting through the musky scent of weed that had settled in the room like a thick fog.

When Niall waved the bottle in Harry’s direction, Harry shook his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “I’m done for tonight,” he said, his voice even but edged with amusement.

Niall raised a brow, the smirk on his face widening as he plucked the joint from his lips and took a slow drag. Smoke curled around his head like a halo before he barked out a laugh. “Oh, Harry’s lookin’ to get some tonight, is he?”

The words hit the room like a bomb, and every head turned toward them in a wave of collective curiosity. Aspen froze, her body going rigid against Harry’s side as heat flooded her cheeks and neck. She let out a soft whine, burying her crimson face into the crook of Harry’s neck, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole.

Harry laughed at her reaction, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek where it rested on his skin. He gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze, his fingers lingering just long enough to ground her, silently reminding her that it was just Niall being Niall. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he shook his head, his amusement clear.

“Speaking from jealousy, Ni?” Harry quipped, his tone smooth and dripping with mockery.

Niall’s eyebrows shot up, and he smirked, gesturing lazily with the bottle. “Jealous? Me? Woah, woah, who says I won’t get any either, huh? Safe to say we might all be occupied tonight, eh?” He nudged Zayn to his right, then Louis on his other side, his grin widening at his own joke.

The room erupted into a mix of groans and laughter, their friends rolling their eyes in unison. Even Aspen couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips despite her embarrassment. As much as Niall’s teasing grated on her, it was impossible not to laugh when everyone else was.

It was true, though. Everyone in the group acted like drunken rabbits once the alcohol hit and the inhibitions dissolved. Niall’s comment wasn’t so much a joke as it was a painfully accurate observation, and that fact only made it worse.

“Well, that’s our cue…” Isobel’s voice rang out, light and sing-song, as she wobbled to her feet. She tugged on Zayn’s arm, giggling as she stumbled slightly. Her sheepish smile did little to disguise the blush creeping up her cheeks.

Zayn caught her with ease, his hands steadying her with practiced familiarity. He chuckled, shaking his head as he allowed her to drag him toward the front door. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, waving a sloppy goodbye over his shoulder.

“Bye, lovelies!” Isobel added, her voice cheerful and slightly slurred as she threw exaggerated kisses to the group.

Harry hummed, patting Aspen’s thigh softly before rising to his feet. He extended a hand down to her, his smirk firmly in place as he pulled her up with ease. “It’s best if we go as well,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “For Isobel, of course.”

Aspen rolled her eyes, her blush still clinging to her cheeks as she tucked herself under his arm. “Of course,” she muttered, the sarcasm in her tone light but not unnoticed.

Harry grinned down at her, his arm snug around her shoulders as they made their way toward the door. Aspen reached out, returning high fives and fist bumps from their friends as they called out a chorus of goodbyes.

Her stomach fluttered as Harry guided her forward, his hand resting comfortably on her side. The air outside would feel cool against her heated skin, and she couldn't wait for the slight reprieve. Yet, when she glanced up at him, his jaw sharp in the low light, she couldn't quite fight the small smile that tugged at her lips.

And if Harry turned back to their friends as they walked out, mouthing “Score!” while silently pumping his fist in victory, well, that was for him to know.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of the house, wrapping around them and carrying the lingering smell of smoke and spilled liquor. Harry tapped on his phone with the precision of someone used to keeping his wits about him, even while a slight buzz hummed in the back of his mind. The glow of the screen cast soft light across his features, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw as he confirmed the Uber. His fingers moved fluidly, almost automatic, while his thoughts drifted back to the feel of Aspen against him moments ago, her skin warm beneath his touch, her laugh like a melody he hadn’t realized he needed.

Zayn stood a few feet away, similarly engaged with his phone as he finalized the ride for himself and Isobel. He was grinning faintly, undoubtedly replaying some moment from inside. When Harry tucked his phone into his pocket, his eyes instinctively sought Aspen, and without thinking, he pulled her to him, sighing heavily as she melted against his chest.

The scent of her shampoo, sweet and slightly floral, mixed with the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to their clothes. Harry rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the peace of having her in his arms. Her hands slid up his back, her palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and the tension in his shoulders eased. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and distant laughter from inside, the world around them fading into the background as they simply existed in each other’s embrace.

Aspen’s heart beat steadily against his chest, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk to himself, thinking about how easy it was to feel at home with her like this. She was his calm in the chaos, even if she didn’t know it.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the moment. “I need to pee. Come with,” Isobel slurred, stumbling slightly as she made her way over, her eyes glassy but bright with mischief.

Aspen pulled away reluctantly, looking up at Harry with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be back,” she promised softly, her hand briefly squeezing his before she turned to follow her friend back into the house.

Harry watched her go, his smirk softening into something fonder, though he’d never admit it out loud. He slid his hands into his pockets, glancing over at Zayn, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look.

“You’re whipped, mate,” Zayn teased, his grin crooked.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Like you’re one to talk.”

Before Zayn could retort, the faint hum of an engine drew their attention. A sleek black car rolled up to the curb, its tinted windows gleaming ominously under the streetlights. Both men exchanged a glance, their relaxed postures stiffening as the car came to a halt.

The passenger-side window rolled down with a faint mechanical whir, revealing Leone’s face partially obscured by the glow of his cigarette. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with the crisp night air, and the tension between the three men became palpable.

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he muttered, “Great.”

Harry leaned against the car, ducking slightly to meet Leone’s gaze. His green eyes were sharp, calculating, though his tone was deceptively casual. “What do you want?”

Leone took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke billow lazily into the air before speaking. “I need you two boys next Thursday. Big dealers coming in.” His voice was gravelly, laced with authority that demanded attention.

The cigarette’s ember glowed brighter as Leone took another drag, his free hand shifting slightly. That’s when they saw it—a gun resting casually on his lap, his fingers running along the barrel as if it were a natural extension of his body.

Zayn’s hand twitched at his side, but he kept his voice steady. “You can’t come showing up like this,” he hissed, his tone low and sharp. “Not so public.”

Leone chuckled bitterly, a sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “I own you fools,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding. “And I’m always careful.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he leaned forward slightly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thursday. Be there. Don’t make me have to fuckin’ find you twats.”

The window rolled up smoothly, cutting off any response they might have had as the car pulled away from the curb. The taillights disappeared into the distance, leaving Harry and Zayn standing in heavy silence.

Zayn let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “I hate that prick,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly my favorite person either,” he bit out, his voice low.

The weight of the encounter lingered between them, unspoken but understood. They had no choice, and both of them knew it.

The sound of laughter broke through the tension as Aspen and Isobel stumbled back out of the house, their arms linked and their cheeks flushed from the cool air. Aspen’s eyes found Harry immediately, her smile softening as she made her way over to him.

“Everything alright?” she asked, her voice light, though her gaze flicked between the two men, sensing the shift in their moods.

Harry forced a smile, his hand reaching out to pull her back under his arm. “Yeah, just talkin’ shop,” he said smoothly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Zayn and Isobel exchanged a brief glance before their Uber pulled up to the curb. Isobel tugged Zayn toward the car, waving a cheerful goodbye to Aspen and Harry as they climbed in.

A few moments later, Harry’s Uber arrived, and he opened the door for Aspen, letting her slide in first before following suit. As the car pulled away, the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased slightly, though the encounter with Leone lingered in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. For now, he focused on the warmth of Aspen beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as the city lights blurred past the windows.

#harry styles #fanfic #one direction #zayn malik #niall horan #fanfiction #wattpad fanfiction #wattpad #louis tomlinson #harry styles fanfiction #smut #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing

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goldfades · 4 months ago

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𝟎𝟎𝟐 UNDER THE MISTLETOE ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚. RAFE CAMERON

12 days of christmas celebration!!

as holidays approach, it’s important to remember those who are facing hardships, such as the people of palestine. in times of crisis, solidarity matters more than ever. you can support palestinian communities by donating to reputable organizations providing aid, such as food, medical supplies, and shelter. help palestine with a click | heal palestine | unrwa | resources for palestine

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | At a posh Tannyhill Christmas party, you get caught under the mistletoe with none other than Rafe Cameron. Friends egg you on, but what starts as a joking kiss turns into something much deeper.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda a fluffy slow burn? rafe being a little ass (but still sweet obvs), one kiss, nothing else!

There’s something different about the Outer Banks when Christmas rolls around. The air isn’t colder—it never really is—but it feels sharper, fresher, like the breeze carries more secrets than usual. The usual salty tang is sweeter now, tinged with the scent of evergreen wreaths hung on shop doors and strings of twinkling lights snaking through palm trees. Tannyhill, though, is where the real magic happens.

Or at least, where it pretends to.

It’s the kind of place that looks like a Christmas card came to life: wreaths on every window, a tree the size of a lighthouse in the foyer, and catering staff that fuss over candy cane platters like they're hosting royalty. For the Camerons, appearances are everything, especially at this time of year.

“You’re really going to wear that?” Sarah’s voice cuts through your thoughts as you stand in front of her mirror, smoothing the hem of your dress. She’s perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pinned up in half-done curls, a bottle of champagne tucked between her legs. It’s not even six, but she insisted tonight required proper pre-gaming.

You roll your eyes and turn to face her. “Yes, I’m wearing this. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just… safe,” she says, raising a brow. “It’s Christmas at Tannyhill. You’re supposed to be…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous like you?” you quip, nodding toward her shimmering red dress that somehow manages to be both floor-length and scandalous.

“Exactly,” she replies without missing a beat, taking a triumphant sip of champagne. “Anyway, I’m just saying. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight. Could be worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?” you laugh, but it’s a little hollow, your gaze drifting back to the mirror.

You’ve been to these events before. You know how they go. It’s all champagne flutes, polite smiles, and whispered gossip. Nothing remotely risky. But still… there’s something about the way Sarah looks at you that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t.

The mirror’s reflection isn’t much help. The dress is nice enough—a deep green velvet that hugs your frame, with thin straps and a hem that stops just above your knees—but “dangerous” isn’t exactly the vibe it’s giving. It’s more “holiday cocktail party chic,” which, to be fair, is exactly what you were aiming for. But Sarah’s words buzz around your head like a pesky gnat. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight.

“Maybe I like being safe,” you counter, but the words sound less convincing the moment they leave your mouth.

Sarah snorts, setting the champagne bottle aside and rising from the bed. “Oh, please. You don’t come to a Cameron Christmas party to blend in.” She strides over, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and spins you to face her. Her eyes narrow in assessment, scanning you from head to toe. “Okay. Hair? Gorgeous. Dress? Very… respectable. But—” She steps behind you, pulling a strand of your hair over your shoulder, “—you need something to make people stop and stare.”

You watch as she opens a jewelry box on her vanity, her fingers rifling through an assortment of glittering pieces. “Ah-ha,” she says triumphantly, holding up a delicate gold necklace with a teardrop pendant. “This. It’s simple, but it catches the light just enough. Trust me.”

Before you can protest, she’s clasping it around your neck. You glance back in the mirror. She’s right; the necklace adds something—a quiet elegance that makes the whole look seem intentional, like you tried just hard enough to care without overdoing it.

“Better,” Sarah says, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied smile. Then her eyes narrow mischievously. “Now, shoes. Please tell me you didn’t bring flats.”

You groan, nodding toward the corner where a pair of nude heels sit. Sarah clicks her tongue in approval. “Good girl. If you’d shown up in ballet flats, I would’ve sent you home.”

“Why do I let you do this to me?” you mutter, sitting on the edge of her bed to strap the heels on.

“Because deep down, you know I’m right,” Sarah says, smirking. “And because you secretly love the drama.”

She’s half right. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but there is a part of you that loves the energy of these parties—the music swelling as the night goes on, the clinking glasses, the undercurrent of excitement that hums through the air like static electricity. It’s impossible to ignore. The Camerons don’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to Christmas.

“I just hope I survive the night without falling on these death traps,” you say, standing up and wobbling slightly as you adjust to the height of the heels.

Sarah grabs her champagne bottle, lifting it in a mock toast. “To surviving the night—and maybe even having some fun while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. “Cheers.”

By the time you both make your way downstairs, the house is already buzzing with life. The foyer is packed with people, a mix of family friends, business partners, and the kind of people who always seem to be at events like this but never seem to actually belong anywhere. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and something faintly citrusy hangs in the air, mixing with the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the next room.

Tannyhill looks like something out of a magazine spread, with garlands draped over the banisters, twinkling fairy lights tucked into every corner, and an absurdly large Christmas tree that dominates the main hall. Ornaments catch the light like little stars, and at the very top, a glittering silver angel tilts slightly to one side, as though even she’s exhausted by the sheer extra-ness of it all.

“Remind me again why I let you drag me to this?” you whisper to Sarah as you both pause at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below.

“Because you love me,” she says sweetly, linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward. “And because this is way more fun than sitting at home watching Hallmark movies alone.”

You’re about to argue when you catch sight of Rafe Cameron near the bar, and your heart stutters. He’s standing with a group of his friends, all laughter and easy charm, a glass of something amber-colored in his hand. His hair is perfectly tousled, his suit crisp and tailored to perfection, but it’s his smile that catches you off guard. It’s sharp and confident, but there’s something about it that feels… dangerous. Like Sarah said.

And, just for a moment, you wonder if tonight might be more than just another Cameron Christmas party.

The party is a well-oiled machine by the time you and Sarah descend the staircase. Conversations buzz, laughter punctuates the hum of polite chatter, and the clink of glasses mingles with the soft holiday music floating from the grand piano in the corner. It’s glamorous, sure, but you can’t help feeling like an outsider looking in.

Sarah tugs at your arm as you reach the bottom step. “Alright, split up. You mingle, I mingle, and we reconvene for champagne refills. Sound good?”

“Wait, what? I thought we were sticking together,” you hiss, but she’s already slipping away into the crowd, greeting some distant cousin with a dazzling smile.

You sigh, smoothing your dress nervously as you scan the room. No familiar faces—well, not anyone you’d feel comfortable just walking up to. Except... your gaze flickers back to the bar, where Rafe stands. He’s laughing at something Topper just said, the sound loud and unapologetic. Kelce is leaning on the counter, gesturing wildly as he tells some animated story.

You’ve been in the same circles as Rafe Cameron for years, thanks to Sarah, but he’s always felt like… a lot. He’s intense in a way that makes him hard to pin down. Most of the time, he’s all bravado and sharp edges, but every now and then, you catch glimpses of something softer beneath it all. Not that you’ve spent much time trying to figure him out.

Still, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, your feet begin to carry you closer to the bar. Not to him, specifically. You’re just heading in that general direction, you tell yourself. It’s not your fault he happens to be there.

As you approach, you catch snippets of their conversation.

“—and then the idiot didn’t even see the wave coming,” Kelce is saying, his words punctuated by Topper’s loud cackle.

“Classic,” Rafe says, smirking as he takes a sip from his glass. His eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the room even as he listens to his friends. It’s like he’s always on high alert, even at his own party.

You hesitate, hovering a few steps away, trying to decide if you should keep walking or stop for a drink. The bartender glances your way, and before you can chicken out, you step up to the counter.

“White wine, please,” you say, your voice steady despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach.

As the bartender pours your drink, you feel eyes on you. Sure enough, when you glance over, Rafe is looking right at you. Not in the casual, friendly way people look at someone they sort of know. No, this is something else. His gaze is sharp, piercing, like he’s sizing you up, trying to figure you out.

“Didn’t know you were coming tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth. It’s not a question, but it feels like one.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Sarah dragged me along.”

His smirk deepens. “Sounds about right. You let her boss you around like that?”

“She’s very persuasive,” you reply, taking a sip of your wine to steady yourself.

Rafe chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, she is.” He leans back against the bar, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your plan for the night? Stand around sipping wine, or are you gonna do something interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Define interesting.”

Topper, ever the instigator, interjects before Rafe can answer. “Oh, she’s a wild card. Watch out, Rafe. She might even… I don’t know… dance under the mistletoe.”

Kelce laughs, nudging Rafe with his elbow. “Yeah, or start a snowball fight with the fake snow machine. Real party animal.”

Your cheeks heat at their teasing, but Rafe doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, his smirk softening into something that feels almost curious. “Maybe we’ll find out,” he says, his tone light but with an edge you can’t quite place.

Before you can respond, Sarah reappears at your side, her timing impeccable. “There you are,” she says, looping her arm through yours. Her gaze flickers to Rafe, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Causing trouble already?”

“Me?” Rafe says, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, pulling you away before you can say anything else. “Come on,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get you in a prime spot before the games start.”

“What games?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder to find Rafe watching you as you walk away.

“You’ll see,” Sarah says with a grin, her tone conspiratorial. And just like that, you know the night is only getting started.

Sarah doesn’t give you much time to process the interaction—or the way Rafe’s gaze seemed to follow you, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you leave. She’s already pulling you through the crowd with purpose, weaving between glittering guests and servers balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the central hall, where the Christmas tree stands tall, glowing with soft golden light.

“Okay,” Sarah says, stopping abruptly. “Here’s the deal. Wheezie has this whole mistletoe situation set up.”

You blink at her, confused. “What?”

She grins mischievously, clearly enjoying your bewilderment. “She’s been on a mistletoe kick all week. She got the staff to hang them in, like, every doorway. It’s ridiculous. But tonight, we’re turning it into a game.”

“A game?” you repeat, feeling a sense of foreboding creep in.

Sarah nods, her grin widening. “Every time two people end up under the mistletoe, they have to kiss. No exceptions. Wheezie’s patrolling to enforce it.”

Your eyes widen. “Sarah. You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. “And don’t even think about trying to dodge it. Wheezie’s got this sixth sense for people sneaking around.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?”

“Badly?” Sarah repeats, feigning offense. “This is the best part of the party! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? A little harmless fun never killed anyone.”

Before you can argue further, a familiar voice calls out.

“Sarah!” Wheezie appears out of nowhere, clutching a clipboard of all things. Her excitement is infectious, her cheeks flushed pink as she skids to a stop in front of you. “Did you tell her about the mistletoe?”

“Oh, I told her,” Sarah says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “She’s thrilled.”

You glare at Sarah, but Wheezie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Good,” she says, beaming. “Because I already saw, like, three people cheat, and I had to threaten them with no dessert.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sarah says, high-fiving her little sister.

Wheezie turns to you, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re not going to cheat, right? Because I’m keeping track.”

You force a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Wheezie hurries off to continue her self-appointed duties, leaving you and Sarah standing near the edge of the room.

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter, taking a long sip of your wine.

Sarah just laughs. “Not if you end up under the mistletoe with the right person.”

You’re about to retort when the sound of laughter nearby catches your attention. Rafe, Topper, and Kelce are heading your way, all of them holding fresh drinks and clearly in high spirits. Your stomach does a little flip as Rafe’s eyes find yours again, that same sharp intensity from earlier still lingering.

“Speak of the devil,” Sarah murmurs, her tone teasing.

“What?” you ask, your voice a little too high, but she just smirks.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “But maybe Wheezie’s mistletoe isn’t such a bad idea after all.”

The night progresses in a blur of laughter and champagne. Guests drift from one room to the next, admiring the decorations, exchanging pleasantries, and inevitably finding themselves caught under Wheezie’s strategically placed mistletoe. You spot her several times, clipboard in hand, ushering reluctant participants toward their obligatory kiss with all the authority of a seasoned party planner.

It’s silly and lighthearted, but every time you see a pair of people beneath the mistletoe, your stomach tightens. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-wondering when—or if—you might end up in the same predicament.

And then, of course, it happens.

You’re standing near the fireplace, chatting with a distant family friend of Sarah’s, when someone brushes past you, drawing your attention. You turn—and immediately regret it. Rafe is there, his broad frame just a little too close, his expression unreadable as he looks down at you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your pulse quicken.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice a little breathless.

Before either of you can say more, Wheezie materializes out of nowhere, her eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “Oh my gosh, you guys!” she exclaims, pointing above your heads.

You don’t even have to look. The knowing smirk that spreads across Rafe’s face tells you everything you need to know.

Mistletoe. Of course.

Your heart plummets straight to your stomach as Wheezie bounces on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well?” she says, grinning like she just uncovered the juiciest secret. “You have to kiss! Rules are rules!”

Rafe leans against the edge of the fireplace, casually glancing up at the offending sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ornate mantle. His lips twitch into a smirk as he looks back at you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are.

“You heard the boss,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “Rules are rules.”

Your mouth goes dry. Of course, this is happening. Of course, Wheezie—sweet, well-meaning, meddlesome Wheezie—would find a way to make this the most embarrassing moment of your life. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky, barely convincing.

“This doesn’t count,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. “We were just—”

“It absolutely counts,” Wheezie cuts in, clutching her clipboard like it’s a gavel. “You’re right there. No cheating.”

Rafe tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s sizing you up. You hate how effortlessly cool he looks, like this is all just a game to him. And maybe it is.

But for you, it’s anything but.

Because standing this close to him—so close you can catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy—you’re dragged back to a version of yourself you thought you’d buried years ago. A younger you, sitting cross-legged on your bed, scribbling in your journal about Rafe Cameron like some lovesick fool.

You had a crush on him once, back when you were too naive to realize what it meant to like someone like Rafe. It started the summer he came to one of Sarah’s golf lessons, tagging along out of boredom. You’d been there, too, struggling with your swing and trying desperately not to let anyone notice. But they did. A couple of boys from your class—Topper included—had decided to make you their entertainment for the afternoon, mimicking your stance and snickering loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention.

You’d been mortified, red-faced and blinking back tears, until Rafe—taller, older, and impossibly confident—had stepped in.

“Got something better to do?” he’d said, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Or is bullying girls your new hobby?”

The boys had stumbled over their words, mumbling excuses before scurrying off, and Rafe had shrugged it off like it was nothing. But for you, it wasn’t nothing. For you, it was everything.

You never told anyone—not even Sarah—how much that moment stuck with you, how it planted a seed of something small but stubborn in your chest. A crush, yes, but more than that: an infatuation with the idea of him, the version of Rafe who might actually care.

But crushes fade, and years pass, and you convinced yourself that Rafe was just a fleeting thing, a schoolgirl daydream you outgrew. Or so you thought.

Until now.

Now, he’s standing in front of you, taller and sharper than you remember, and the way his gaze lingers on you makes it impossible to breathe.

“You okay over there?” Rafe asks, his voice cutting into your spiraling thoughts. He’s smirking, of course, because why wouldn’t he be?

“I—uh, yeah,” you stammer, cursing yourself for how obvious it is that you’re not, in fact, okay.

“Sure?” he presses, taking a deliberate step closer. “You look a little nervous.”

“Stop,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

“Stop what?” he asks innocently, though his grin says otherwise. “I’m just standing here. You’re the one making it weird.”

You glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “I’m not—this isn’t weird.”

“Oh, it’s definitely weird,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his voice now, one that sends your heart racing. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

Behind him, Topper and Kelce are already snickering, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just kiss her already!” Topper calls out, his voice loud and obnoxious enough to make a few heads turn.

“Yeah, Rafe, show her what she’s been missing!” Kelce adds, and you want to sink into the floor.

Rafe shakes his head, laughing softly under his breath. “You guys are the worst,” he mutters, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes you think he doesn’t mind the attention.

Then, before you can think or move or even breathe, he closes the distance between you.

The kiss starts slow—surprisingly so. His hand brushes your arm lightly before settling on your waist, steady and sure, and his lips are soft, warmer than you expect. The world around you seems to blur, fading into the background as he deepens the kiss, just enough to make your knees weak. It’s not a joke, not teasing—it’s deliberate, measured, and devastating in its intensity.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, his smirk softer now, almost curious.

“There,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

In the background, Topper and Kelce erupt into a chorus of cheers and whistles, and Wheezie claps her hands in triumph, shouting something about how this is how the game is supposed to be played.

But you’re barely aware of any of it. All you can feel is the ghost of his lips on yours and the weight of his gaze, still locked on you like he’s trying to figure you out.

And for the first time all night, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he feels the same pull you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

Your face burns as the cheers and whistles rise around you, but Rafe doesn’t move away. He stays close, his hand still lightly resting on your waist, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it feels like the two of you are suspended in a bubble. His expression is unreadable, a mix of amusement and something softer, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Man, look at her face!” Kelce crows, doubling over with laughter. “She’s blushing so hard right now.”

“Classic,” Topper chimes in, grinning like an idiot. “Rafe, you’re out here making girls fall in love under mistletoe. What a gentleman.”

You flinch, wanting to glare at them but too mortified to do much more than focus on breathing. Rafe, however, seems entirely unbothered by their antics. If anything, their comments only deepen his smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving them off without looking away from you. “Go bother someone else, will you?”

Kelce and Topper groan dramatically but wander off soon enough, still laughing and elbowing each other. Wheezie lingers for a moment longer, beaming at you both like she just orchestrated the match of the century before skipping away to enforce her rules on the next unsuspecting pair.

Finally, it’s just you and Rafe, standing far too close for comfort in the shadow of the grand fireplace.

“You good?” he asks, his voice quieter now, a little more serious.

You blink up at him, your thoughts still scrambled from the kiss. “What? Oh—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You sure? You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, your voice an octave too high. You take a step back, desperate to put some distance between you, but the movement feels clumsy, like you’ve forgotten how to use your own legs.

Rafe chuckles softly, and you hate how effortlessly cool he is, like kissing you in the middle of a crowded room was just another thing he did to pass the time. “Relax,” he says, his tone lighter now. “It’s just mistletoe. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Right.

“Right,” you echo, forcing a laugh that you hope sounds convincing. “Totally not a big deal.”

But it was a big deal—at least to you. Because no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist. You can still hear the way your heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the world.

And worse, you’re starting to realize that all those old feelings you thought you’d buried years ago? They’re not as buried as you’d like to think.

Rafe seems to sense your discomfort because his smirk softens into something almost... kind. “Hey,” he says, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “You don’t have to overthink it, you know. It’s just a kiss.”

You nod, though the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, straightening up again. But then his gaze dips to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—and your stomach flips all over again.

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cuts through the air, startling you both. She’s weaving her way toward you, her champagne glass in hand and her eyes sharp. “Stop tormenting my friend.”

“I’m not tormenting her,” Rafe says innocently, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story.

Sarah rolls her eyes and loops her arm through yours, tugging you away from him. “Come on. You’ve spent enough time under his spell for one night.”

You let her pull you along, but as you glance over your shoulder, you catch Rafe watching you again, his smirk still in place. There’s something in his expression, something almost... contemplative.

For the next few days, you try to shake him. You really do.

You fill your hours with anything and everything that might distract you. You hit the beach early one morning, hoping the salty air and crashing waves might clear your head. It doesn’t. You sit on your towel, staring out at the horizon, only to find your thoughts drifting back to the kiss—the way his hand lingered at your waist, the infuriating confidence in his smirk, the warmth of his lips.

Next, you try golfing with your dad, thinking that muscle memory and the sharp focus the sport demands will drown out the noise in your head. It doesn’t. Instead, your dad spends half the morning teasing you about your distracted swings, and you nearly send your nine-iron into the pond after imagining Rafe standing behind you again, casually correcting your form like he’d done at Sarah’s lesson all those years ago.

Even shopping—your fail-safe remedy for every stressful situation—proves useless. You wander aimlessly through the boutiques in town, running your fingers over racks of clothing you barely glance at. It’s like he’s everywhere, lingering in the background of your mind, taunting you with his too-perfect grin and that stupid, stupid kiss.

By the fourth day, you’re ready to admit defeat. Whatever spell Rafe Cameron cast on you under that mistletoe, it’s clearly working.

Then Sarah calls.

“Dinner at ours tonight,” she announces, her voice cheerful. “Seven o’clock. No excuses.”

You hesitate. The thought of being at Tannyhill again, surrounded by all the memories of that night, makes your stomach twist into knots. “I don’t know, Sarah. I’ve got a lot going on—”

“You’re coming,” she interrupts firmly. “Rose’s in a rare good mood, and Wheezie’s been talking about it nonstop. Plus, my dad will be grilling, which means no catering disasters. Just come. It’ll be fun.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she barrels on before you can get a word in.

“And before you ask—no, Rafe won’t be there. He’s got some golf thing with his buddies, so you’re safe. Okay? Seven. Be there.”

“Fine,” you sigh, knowing better than to argue with her. “I’ll come.”

Tannyhill is as breathtaking as ever when you pull up to the sprawling estate later that evening. The driveway is lined with twinkling lights, and the sound of soft laughter and clinking glasses drifts out from the open veranda doors.

As soon as you step inside, Sarah greets you with a hug and a glass of wine, chatting easily as she leads you out to the patio. Wheezie waves excitedly from her seat at the table, and Mr. Cameron gives you a warm smile from his spot by the grill. It’s all perfectly normal, perfectly comfortable, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relax.

And then he appears.

You catch sight of him out of the corner of your eye, and for a second, you think you’re imagining it. But no—there he is, walking toward the patio with all the easy confidence in the world, wearing a plain gray t-shirt and faded jeans that somehow look like they were tailored just for him.

“Rafe,” Sarah says, her tone sharp with surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were golfing with Topper and Kelce.”

“They canceled,” he says casually, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling on his sister. “Figured I’d stop by. Didn’t realize we were having company.”

You’re frozen, clutching your glass of wine like a lifeline as his gaze drifts back to you, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a little too knowing.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

Rafe leans against the edge of the patio railing, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes linger on you just a second too long. His smirk is back, subtle but

persistent, like he knows exactly how much space he’s taking up in your head and plans to keep doing it.

“You’re just in time,” Sarah says, her tone tight. She shoots you a glance—half apologetic, half questioning—but you can’t muster a response. “We’re about to eat.”

“Perfect,” Rafe replies, his voice laced with a casual charm that feels anything but casual. “I’m starving.”

You focus on your wine, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Sarah said he wouldn’t be here. But now, he’s standing just a few feet away, and it’s like the air itself shifts around him, crackling with something unspoken.

Dinner is a blur. You sit between Sarah and Wheezie, trying to focus on the conversation and ignore the fact that Rafe is directly across from you, his presence magnetic even when he’s silent. He doesn’t talk much, content to let the others fill the space, but every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you, his smirk barely concealed.

At one point, you drop your fork, and when you lean down to grab it, you swear you hear him chuckle softly, low enough that only you notice.

“You okay?” Sarah whispers beside you, her brow furrowing.

“Fine,” you say quickly, sitting upright again. “Totally fine.”

But you’re not. Not even close.

The kiss, the mistletoe, the way he looked at you that night—it all comes rushing back, as vivid as if it just happened. And the worst part? He knows. Every time his eyes meet yours, you can see it: the awareness, the confidence, the silent challenge in his gaze.

By the time dinner wraps up, you’re practically vibrating with tension. You help clear the plates, grateful for an excuse to leave the table, but as you step into the kitchen, you hear his voice behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

“Come on,” he says, his tone amused. “Let me help.”

Before you can argue, he’s next to you, reaching for the stack of dishes in your hands. His arm brushes yours, and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“You don’t have to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts, his voice low and teasing. “I’m just being polite.”

You glare at him, but it lacks bite. “You? Polite? That’s a stretch.”

His smirk deepens. “Ouch. I thought we were past all that.”

“Past what?”

“You pretending not to like me,” he says simply, his eyes locking onto yours.

Your breath catches, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin. “I don’t—”

“Sure you don’t,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me all week, right?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you lie, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

He chuckles softly, setting the dishes on the counter before turning to face you fully. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Hiding it,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. His gaze flickers to your lips, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again. “You might’ve fooled Sarah and everyone else, but not me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. The air between you feels charged, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

And then, just as quickly as it started, he steps back, his smirk firmly in place.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, his voice light and infuriatingly casual as he strolls toward the door, leaving you standing there, your pulse racing and your head spinning.

You scoff under your breath, abandoning the plates on the counter and following him out of the kitchen, your irritation bubbling over. “What is your problem, Rafe?” you hiss, grabbing his arm before he can make it back to the patio.

He stops, turning slowly, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Problem?” he repeats, like the word itself is foreign to him. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You know what I mean,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you glance toward the dining room to make sure no one’s listening. “All this—this... thing you’re doing. What’s your deal?”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What thing am I doing, exactly?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “You’ve been messing with me all night. Ever since the mistletoe. Ever since... I don’t know. Just—stop.”

He tilts his head, his smirk reappearing. “Messing with you? I think you’re imagining things.”

“Imagining things?” you repeat, your voice rising slightly before you catch yourself. “You’ve been looking at me like... like—”

“Like what?” he presses, stepping closer, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Like you’re trying to get in my head!” you whisper-shout, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And guess what? It’s working. So congratulations, Rafe. You win. Happy?”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, more serious. He straightens, his easy posture stiffening as he steps closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You think this is a game to me?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes!” you say, though your voice wavers slightly. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Play games? Mess with people’s heads? Well, I’m not Sarah or Wheezie, and I’m not going to just—”

“God, would you shut up for a second?” he growls, and before you can even process what’s happening, his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours.

It’s nothing like the kiss under the mistletoe. There’s no teasing smirk, no slow build—it’s raw, urgent, and impossibly overwhelming. His hands cup your face firmly, holding you in place as he kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the contact.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to react. But then your body betrays you, melting into his touch as your hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your mind is screaming at you to stop, to push him away, to demand answers—but your body has other plans, and you give in, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours.

“Still think this is a game?” he murmurs, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Your brain is short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between disbelief and the lingering haze of his kiss.

“I’ve been trying to get in your head,” he admits after a moment, his tone softer now but no less intense. “Because you’ve been in mine. Ever since that night. Hell, maybe even before that.”

Your heart stutters, and you pull back just enough to look at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is serious, his eyes locked onto yours with a weight that makes your knees weak.

“I��” you start, but the words die in your throat, your mind too jumbled to form a coherent thought.

Rafe exhales sharply, his hand slipping from your face to rest on your waist. “Say something,” he mutters, almost pleading.

You bite your lip, your mind still spinning. Finally, you manage, “You’re an ass, you know that?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, something almost vulnerable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

And before you can second-guess yourself, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him again, pouring every ounce of confusion, frustration, and unspoken feeling into it. This time, there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt—just the two of you, tangled in something you’re no longer sure you can fight.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality. You pull away quickly, your face burning as Sarah stands in the doorway, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

“Really?” she says, her tone equal parts annoyed and amused. “My kitchen? Now?”

You glance at Rafe, who’s grinning unapologetically, and groan, covering your face with your hands.

This is going to be impossible to live down.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving you and Rafe alone once more as if she knows she couldn't stop it, even if she really wanted to. And, she didn't—it was bound to happen. She calls it, "best friend intuition", or something like that.

"So," he says, his voice dropping slightly as he takes another step closer. "Are you done pretending you don’t feel this, or should I kiss you again and really settle it?"

You glare at him, your pulse quickening. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch, "you’re still standing here."

Your brain is screaming at you to walk away, to put some distance between you and the boy who’s been driving you crazy for years. But your feet don’t move, and when he leans in closer, you know you’re not going anywhere.

"Rafe—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, softer this time but no less consuming. And despite everything—you kiss him back, giving in to the pull you’ve been fighting for far too long.

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↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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atimeofyourlife · 1 year ago

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Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles warm up round: bakery au rated: t | wc: 840 | cw: none | tags: pre-steddie Eddie never got involved in the upside down, he and Steve meet again a few years later in a bakery in Chicago

The bakery was Steve's pride and joy. It was something that he had accomplished and built up by himself, without the input from his parents. No financial assistance from them, no help in learning how to manage a business. It had been a lot of trial and error, and incredible support from his friends, but he had succeeded. He'd brought the small unit in Chicago using most of the hush money payment over the Upside Down. It needed a lot of work doing to it before he was ready to open it, but once it was open it just took off. Constantly selling out of most of the bakes by lunchtime each day, having to take on extra staff to keep up with demand.

After nearly two years, he had a number of very loyal regulars, the ones who would come in at the same times and same days each week, always ordering the same things. The local workers that would always come in before work or on a morning break for a sweet treat everyday. The older couples that would come in twice a week, once for a dessert for their weekly date nights, and once for treats for their grandchildren. The college students that were adamant that Steve's pastries were infinitely better than the ones they could get on campus.

But the newest regular, one his staff had nicknamed 'Mr Metal,' Steve had yet to meet. From the name, Steve assumed that he worked in the new record store that had opened across the street, but the man always managed to be in and out while Steve was still working in the kitchen, setting up the next batch for the oven or decorating what had just finished cooling.

One Friday morning, he was carrying out the boxes ready to restock the counter, when he heard the voice of Zara, one of the cashiers.

"Uh, I'm not sure. Give me a minute, I'll just have to ask the boss."

"Ask me what?" Steve asked as he rounded the counter, the stack of boxes obscuring most of his vision.

"Please tell me that those boxes have lemon cream cheese pastries and apple pie cookies in them." She replied, sounding a little stressed.

"Yeah, lemon are in the top box, apple in the bottom." Steve replied as he put the boxes down on the side, and started unstacking them. He glanced up at the customer, a vaguely familiar, handsome man, and from the long hair, piercings, and the Black Sabbath t-shirt, this had to be the Mr Metal that all the staff kept mentioning. "How many of each did you want?"

"Two of each." The man replied, staring hard at Steve.

"Uh huh." Steve worked quickly to box them up. "Are you aware of our Friday five for four offer? Five bakes for the price of four, so you could get another of your choice at no extra cost."

"I get them for me and my coworkers, theres four of us so I don't think we can split a fifth four ways without fighting over who gets what."

"I can always bag it separately, so you can slip it in your pocket. They don't have to know a thing about it." Steve offered with a wink.

"You drive a hard bargain, Harrington. I'll take another apple pie cookie."

"I-" Steve looked at the man, confused. Unsure how he knew his name. "Did you go to Hawkins, then? I'm sorry, I don't think I remember you."

"You got a table round here? I could climb up and start talking about jocks and conformity." He looked Steve up and down. "Though, you don't seem to conform to the jock image any more, big boy."

It took another moment, but the name hit Steve as he was bagging the extra cookie. "Munson. Used to buy weed off you."

"I don't know if I should be honored that the king remembers me, or wounded that it took so long."

Steve rolled his eyes at the dramatics, it reminding him even more of high school. "I don't remember most people now, too many concussions."

"Shit. But now you're boss of a bakery. How life changes."

"Yeah. It only took three serious concussions, two major disasters in Hawkins, and one disownment after getting caught behind The Hideout with Matty P. But then I realized that this is what I want to be doing."

"What were you doing behind The Hideout with Matty P? Smoking weed or something? I know you never hid about that."

"We had been smoking, but at that point my mouth was, uh, otherwise occupied." Steve admitted.

"Oh, shit." Eddie choked back a laugh, then looked at his watch. "I'd love to hear more about that, but I've got to get back to work."

Steve quickly wrote his number on the bag with the extra cookie, before handing it over. "Call me sometime, maybe we could spend some time together outside of work."

"You're on, Harrington." Eddie winked at Steve, before leaving the bakery.

im not the happiest with the end of this bc it was rushed after my brain turned to mush from migraines

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #pre steddie #steddie fic #steddieholidaydrabbles #atimeofyourwrites

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silence-ofthe-llamas · 3 months ago

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The Mecha AU-AU continues. In todays episode; the Protectobots exist, Trepan is weird, and Vortex gets a pleasant (?) surprise.

I've also written an UNGODLY amount of Combaticon pre-mech content so ig that's gonna have to escape containment at some point, weeh.

“Hey, isn’t that Felix?”

Hot Spot watched the TV in the break room intently as he drank his coffee. His cereal sat half-eaten and forgotten on the table in front of him. Blades looked over from the toaster, flinching when his toast popped up.

“Felix?” Blades asked. “What, on TV?” He asked in disbelief. He rounded the counter and jumped over the back of the sofa to sit next to his commander. “No way.”

“Seriously – look!” Hot Spot grabbed the remote and rewound, pausing when Felix had come up out of the joint of a mech, looking at something behind the camera in pure relief.

“Holy shit. That is Felix!”

“Look – he gets into that mech.” Hot Spot wound it forwards, showing the brief moment of Felix climbing up and slipping into the face of the mech, the visor snapping shut behind him. “Do you think he’s a pilot?”

“No, no way – he’s a medic. He never ever wanted to pilot, they’d have to be really desperate for them if they’re resorting to using their medical crew.”

“He seems way too comfortable getting into that thing.” Hot Spot shuddered. “It looked like it was eating him.”

“Don’t, that’s creepy.” Blades cringed, climbing back over the sofa to rescue his toast.

“Stop that.” Hot Spot scolded. “Just walk, it’s not far!”

Blades ignored him. “Have you heard the rumours about that base? With all the body bags? I wonder what that was all about.”

Hot Spot rolled his eyes and returned to his cereal. “No idea. I guess when you’re fighting quintessons your life expectancy isn’t great.”

“Neither is ours, and we don’t have giant metal exoskeletons or unexplainable numbers of body bags. What’s their excuse?”

Hot spot shrugged. “No idea. Why don’t you ask them?”

“Oh, good shout – I’ll text Felix.”

“Blades-”

“Relax! I’m not going to say anything stupid.”

“You said that last time and look where that got us.”

“Yeah, right, fair, whatever.” Blades waved him off dismissively. “I’ll just mention I saw him on TV, see?” He turned his phone around to show Hot Spot. “Totes fine, perfectly safe, nothing could possibly go wrong. Worst case scenario, he ignores me, best case he says ‘haha yup’ or something and that’s the end of that.”

“Don’t make him uncomfortable. You know he asked to be left alone.”

“We send each other reels on Instagram again, I think it’s okay if I reach out.”

Hot Spot sighed and unpaused the TV.

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

The tech was too new when they shoved their first AI’s into it.

They’d tested a connection between live pilots already - two separate units that operated as one. They found that it worked, to a point. The two consciousnesses would wave, but never shake hands - the physical contact snapped their psyche. It was only when they had developed the RABIT units that they could truly operate as one – but the pinch point had always been getting them into the same machine . It just did things to people.

Prowl and Jazz had been their best duo’s team, their dark horse - the pair flew under the radar until they were fitted with the experimental tech and blew the project out of the water straight into the lap of investment. And, Swindle noticed, into the scope of

Trepan.

He giggled as he watched them, humming and hawing. Which one? Which one would be his sacrifice?

They’re married , they argued. You can’t force one to pilot the corpse, that’s wildly unethical.

Fine. Then we find a new pilot.

Swindle could only watch. If he objected now, he’d cast doubt onto himself. Vortex would be in more danger. His team might stay in that poxy little box forever.

Vortex himself was a monster. As a prototype, he was huge. Way too big. The technology hadn’t been fine tuned yet to bring the scale back down - and so he towered above them, a monument to their attempt at survival.

And he’d survived. The experimental tech, too fresh and too new, had destroyed the rest of his prototype cohort. Out of the original 15, he alone survived. The 11 carved into his shoulder shone in the red of the blood that they had spilled to get there.

The next cohort was smaller. Swindle hadn’t put forwards any of his team.

You want people who will survive - these guys ain’t it. I know my team, they haven’t got the moxy. The tech needs to be more stable.

Trepan didn’t raise his brows. He seemed to delight in his harsh words, and selected 5 other banked sacrifices.

They all died too. Burned out. Literally. They’d decreased the size of the mechs, the faults and failures of the predecessors informing their design.

Vortex stood alone.

Swindle chewed his nails until they bled fretting over his mental state. He couldn’t get close to him, he couldn’t go and check - he couldn’t even acknowledge him. The magnifying glass pinned him, every breath studied. The tech was so new. Was it really still

Vortex in there? Was he recognisable? Did he know what was going on? Did he know anything ?

God Tex, I’m so sorry.

The pilots falling out of him started telling horror stories.

There was something else in there with them. Something beyond the AI, a malevolent presence in there that wanted to hurt them. The researchers had been dismissive, but Trepan had been intrigued. Swindle had been corralled by him, armed with questions.

What had Svastjan been like in life? Did he have the same devotion to violence in life as he did in death? Was he particularly skilled with any weapons? Were any other members of his team like him? Or was he alone in his brutality?

He told him the truth. He was like this. He had a tendency to jump on the heads of the ones he’d knocked to the ground, to force himself through their body. Pistols and knives were his speciality. And no – he was alone. The others were what they liked to call well adjusted.

The expectation he had was that Trepan would be disappointed, but he had just hummed and nodded his head, quickly returning his attention to the next mech to come off the assembly line.

He uncomfortably ran a hand through his hair as he saw the footage that aired. Trepan was sat beside him, still as much of a crane of a man as he had been back in the research lab. He sat with his legs daintily crossed, his hands resting on his knees as he sat up perfectly ram-rod straight.

“Who is the man so comfortable with our pet?” Trepan asked.

He’d started referring to Vortex as his pet as some kind of cute nickname for him – he’d survived so much and had given him so much information to chew on that he’d grown a real soft-spot for him.

“That’s Felix.”

“His pilot?”

“Correct. First one he hasn’t outright murdered or mentally destroyed.”

“Fascinating.” He steepled his fingers together, eyes wide and beady, taking in all the information on the screen. “He seems to be very familiar with the mech.”

“Felix is a weird one.” Swindle knew he had to toe the line, to act as a gossip to displace the suspicion, to offload it somewhere else. “He’s weirdly attached to his mech – he’s always around it.” He hoped the look on Trepans face wasn’t a bad sign.

“Vortex is a success. Finally.” He leaned back in satisfaction. “We can justify further use of his batch. As their guardian… choose. Who is next to be interred into living metal?”

Swindle remembered the day the experiments came to an end vividly. He hadn’t been able to stomach it after they’d all started screaming for each other – and they weren’t using their call-signs, either. The time for that had long gone – it was their real names that had come spilling out. The ones their mothers had given them as they first swaddled them in blankets. The ones that had been carried on the wind when it was time for dinner. The ones now spoken in hushed voices after dinner.

All he had left of them was a fucking box. He could hold all four of them in one hand. Small components that were welded into the motherboard. A collective century of experience and knowledge and history condensed down into four identical electrical components.

Swindle wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and cry and throw himself off of the bridge, swept away by the current and buried under sediment and rubbish and corpses. But he couldn’t - he had to hold it together. If he broke now, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. There was a job to be done.

Vortex was the obvious first pick. The next pick was harder. Significantly so. Who next? It had been a question that had haunted him ever since.

Swindle felt himself break out into a cold sweat. The tech wasn’t anywhere near where he wanted it to be, and the thought of having to try and wrangle two of them had him sprouting greys. He ran through them in his mind, counting it off on his fingers.

Onslaught. His commander. He’d trusted him with this, and he was certain to be disappointed with how it had all worked out, but he was also the one who could keep Vortex in line. However, Vortex was currently staying firmly in line and was studiously behaving himself now that he had Felix. It seemed that he’d cottoned on to the fact he was now the bargaining chip, and he was determined to play the part of a good little boy in order to keep his favourite toy.

Brawl. His personality was explosive, and any mech they made for him would have to have the thickest armour available, and even then that probably wouldn’t be enough. They weren’t at the point of making a viable mech for him yet, which left…

Blast Off. Their unifier. The centre of their team, their point of gravity. Damn, it was fucking obvious now – if Trepan was keen to crack the mausoleum back open and bring his team online, then he’d have to start with the one who kept them from cannibalising each other.

Trepan was looking at him expectantly, a small smile on his face.

“Jean-Luc B. Ollier.” Swindle promptly replied. “Code name: Blast Off. He’s a sniper and a navigator – where are we at with that gun? He’d be a great test for it.”

“Not Oscar Den Koning? Juan Perez?”

“Oscar will be hard.” Swindle replied. “Very strong personality – if we want him, we’ll need the others all up and operational first. Juan was our demolitions expert – we don’t have the ability to make armour strong enough to withstand the beating he would put it through right now.”

Trepan nodded like a priest having sins confessed to him. “Very well. I will pass this on. Thank you as always, Swindle. This has been most enlightening.”

“When will the designs be ready for viewing?” Swindle asked.

“Very soon, I hope.”

And with that, he was gone. Swindle exhaled slowly before breathing in deeply, holding it there in his lungs, and slowly exhaling.

Fuuuuuuck.

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

“Did you hear? They’re making a new batch of mechs.” First Aid conversationally said as he scrubbed the floor panels of the cockpit with a toothbrush. Despite his best attempts, there was still some dirt and grime in there – he was starting to get a little sick of noticing it every single time he got into his mech, so he’d decided that today, his precious day off, he’d dedicate it to making him sparkly clean.

On the inside, at least. The outside he’d leave to the professionals.

[OOOH? TELL ME MORE <3]

“One’s a prototype mech – apparently it’s going to be designed to be more like you? Something about balancing out what a powerhouse you are. Might end up being on loan to the Shatterdome to the south, apparently they’re having real big issues at the moment.” He sighed and rolled back to sit on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hands. “What did you even do back here? It’s still coming up red – I’ll need to pop the panel off!”

[THIS.]

An arm swooped down from the ceiling, sharp implements spinning and twisting on the end of it. First Aid yelped and scrambled backwards, and Vortex rumbled in a laugh.

“Why do you even have that?!”

[HACKED A MAINTENANCE DROID. HACKED TWO MAINTENANCE DROIDS.] He corrected himself.

“And they just let you keep it?”

[AS IF I’D LET THEM STOP ME.]

First Aid hummed, running his fingers across the offending metal. “I need a toolkit to get this up. I’ll be right back – I think I saw one in the cupboard…”

[LATER BABE <3 BE QUICK.]

First aid hopped out with ease and quickly whipped off his gloves, hanging them over his belt. He rubbed his hair from his eyes and silently wished he had a hairband when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Curiously, he slipped it out – he wasn’t expecting any messages from anyone, and he couldn’t think of who would text him out of the blue-

His pace faltered when he saw the name.

Blades.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and the message to the back of his mind. Later. He’d… He’d deal with it later. Right now, Vortex was waiting for him, and he was so close to getting that panel clean.

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

Having a chatty little man like Felix around had its perks for sure. Such as giving Vortex such useful bits of information, like new mechs.

Each time he learned that new mechs were being added to rosters around the world, he went digging. He’d brute force his way in, hammering and chiselling away until he got what he wanted. Information. Something that gave him an idea of who they’d stuffed into them.

He wondered what Trepan would think if he knew that he wasn’t as brain-dead as he was meant to be, that he wasn’t a silly little AI that said ‘yes, sir!’ and did as he was asked, that he still remembered who he was and clung onto it, that he knew exactly what had happened to him and let it burn inside of him to the point of consumption. Sometimes he wondered if any of the other mechs on base remembered who they once were too, but then that implied that they still hadn’t figured out the damn tech yet, and at least one of the pilots would have gone squealing. Prowl definitely. The man was such a tattle tale.

Huh. Maybe that was why he’d been shipped off to the States? That would be so fucking funny. Jesus.

Anyway. The digging.

He’d poked and probed where he could, the enjoyment he got out thinking of Swindles face when he realised it was him spurring him on, and eventually – he cracked it.

Felix was popping the panel off on his floors when he got hold of the file. A small batch – just five of them. Apparently investors hadn’t bitten as hard as they’d hoped. And they’d had to cut it down by two thirds – ouch. That had to sting. Swindle must have been chewing the walls. Giggling to himself, he began flicking through the folders within, plucking out bytes of information, straightening out the ones and zeros until they were in a format that he could understand-

His lights flickered, and First Aid froze, abused and beaten toothbrush in hand.

“Vortex?” He quietly asked. “I’m sorry – did I knock something?”

[YOU’RE ALRIGHT, HONEY.] He managed, not quite thinking of his reply more than it instinctively coming up on his display. Because he was alright. He hadn’t done anything.

Trepan, however, clearly had his paws on this batch.

SNIPER, the document read. LONG DISTANCE SHOOTER. LIGHT ARMOUR FOR MANOEUVRABILITY. DESIGNATION: BLAST OFF

Motherfucker.

Even the mech somehow managed to look like him – the armour followed the same patterns as the armour that he’d worn on the field, albeit significantly brighter. They could afford to be bright and gaudy when they were made of metal – they wanted to attract the hits. And a bright purple chest was just begging to get punched.

Eagerly, he flicked through the other documents. Brawl? Onslaught?

No. He didn’t care about these names – he didn’t give a shit about them. Not a goddamn single shit. He childishly mentally threw the file over his shoulder, his frame creaking ominously and the wiring under the panel Felix had removed sparking. Trepan was doing this on purpose, he could feel it. He was denying him his team, he was savouring their torment for as long as he could. Fucker. He’d crush him himself.

#tf mecha universe #llama writes #tf vortex #texaid #tf first aid #maccadam #tf swindle #mecha pilot au #No warnings for this one!#Amazingly despite Vortex existing

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vacate-et-scire · 4 months ago

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───Love Notes

Synopsis: Otoya likes leaving small love letters for you to find.

Warnings: [stupidly whipped Otoya] [pre established relationship]

w.c 480

It started with one small note. You’d found it tucked into your bag one day—a scrap of paper with a hastily scribbled message:

"You dropped this: my heart. Handle with care."

At first, you thought it was a joke. Otoya had a knack for playful teasing, so this kind of thing wasn’t unusual. But the next day, there was another one, tucked into your coat pocket this time:

"Are you an angel? Because I’m pretty sure heaven’s missing one."

You couldn’t help but laugh when you found it, shaking your head at how absurdly cheesy it was. But then the notes kept coming. Each one was just as corny as the last, and yet, they somehow managed to brighten your day every time.

The real kicker came when you found one slipped into the book you were reading. It wasn’t even a love note this time—just a short little doodle of a heart with an arrow through it and the words, “Thinking of you!” scrawled beneath it.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” you said one day, waving one of his notes in front of him.

Otoya just grinned, leaning lazily against the counter. “What can I say? Keeping you smiling is a full-time job.”

“You don’t think this is a little much?” you teased, though your cheeks were warm with affection.

“Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “If anything, I’m holding back. I’ve got an arsenal of lines that would make you swoon on the spot.”

“Sure you do,” you said, rolling your eyes.

But you didn’t realize how serious he was until you found yet another note—this time, stuck to your mirror:

"Your reflection might be beautiful, but you? You’re breathtaking."

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, even as you groaned at how shameless he was.

Later that day, you confronted him again, this time brandishing the mirror note like evidence in a trial. “Explain this!”

Otoya looked up from his spot on the couch, feigning innocence. “What? Can’t a guy appreciate his favorite person in the world?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, flashing you a playful grin, “you keep every single one of them.”

You froze for a moment, caught off guard. He wasn’t wrong—you had been keeping them. Every single note, every doodle, every cheesy one-liner was stashed away in a small box in your room.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back without missing a beat, pulling you down onto the couch beside him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple, his voice softening. “I just like seeing you smile. Makes it all worth it.”

Your heart melted a little at that, and you leaned into him, your earlier protests forgotten.

Even as you rested your head on his shoulder, hiding your face, you couldn’t help but wonder when you'd find another.

#bllk #blue lock #x reader #fluff #otoya eita #otoya x reader #bllk otoya #blue lock otoya #otoya eita x reader

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sweetheartsnips · 1 month ago

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Daddy Cool - Chapter 4: Joseph Joestar

NSFW WARNING - MINORS DNI

Summary: Joseph is your Daddy and spoils you with more than one present after a long day at work. Joseph is divorced here because infidelity/cheating leaves a bad taste in my mouth (I am a sap). ALSO this is pre Stardust Crusaders but he has his Stand here anyway because this is fanfic and I said so.

Tags: Old Joseph, sugar daddy relationship, daddy kink (surprise surprise), Hermit Purple as bondage, fingering, kitchen sex, creampie.

Words: 3.5k

Read on ao3 here!

A/N: I have been awfully sick the last few days and this has fic has consumed me. Hope you like it as much as I like soft dom Joseph. Happy reading, all readers <3

For other chapters in this series please see my JoJo masterlist

Joseph liked to buy you things. Small indulgences to welcome you home when you’d had a long day at work. Not that you needed to work, especially as hard as you did. He could comfortably provide for the both of you. But, stubbornly, you insisted. He admired that about you. You were so damn good at what you did, it was kind of kick-ass, really. He watched you handle everything thrown your way, balancing responsibilities with an almost effortless grace. Sometimes, it felt like you carried everything on your back, and you never once let it show.

Your brain was so busy with the big things, strategising, making things happen. You were just excellent like that. But sometimes, in all of that excellence, it forgot about the little things. And that is where he came in.

To rub your shoulders, smooth your hair. To cook your meals with love and care. To change your oil, to fold washing just right, to remind you when your toothbrush was at the end of its life.

You needed him to fit the sheet, secure your pantyhose, to kiss you sweet when sorrow shows. To charge your vibe, buy lace so fine, and fuck you stupid when stress plagued your mind.

His gifts to you started off as bouquets of flowers: elegant periwinkle hydrangeas and bunches of pretty pink peonies. Anything to make your face light up, to remind you to pause, just for a second, and enjoy something purely for yourself. And God, that made him so happy. Especially after everything that went down with Suzi Q, after all the ways he'd failed before with this kind of thing. Your gorgeous smile made him feel like he could actually do something right.

Flowers would not be enough for today. Not for you.

He wanted to spoil you.

You’d just earned a promotion–one that had come with more responsibility, more weight pressing down on your already overburdened shoulders. But he was so damn proud of you. You deserved more than petals that would wilt in a week.

So, in a jewellery shop he often sought out when he felt like giving you a little luxury, he found exactly what he was after.

Three rows of Vivienne Westwood pearls.

They were simple, elegant, timeless—just like you. They’d sit perfectly against your collarbones, an understated luxury. But it wasn’t just about the pearls. It was about what they meant. About what you meant to him.

He had them wrapped up carefully, tucked away in a small velvet box, waiting for you. And tonight, when you walked through that door, when you finally let the weight of the day slip from your shoulders, he’d be there. The way he always was.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The door swung shut behind you with a quiet click. Sore feet, tense shoulders, exhaustion in your bones.

And then you saw him.

Standing there in the soft glow of the evening, sleeves rolled halfway up thick forearms, top buttons undone just enough to reveal a glimpse of the broad expanse of his chest. The dusting of salt-and-pepper hair peeking through the neckline, the firm planes of muscle beneath his collarbones. It was like your Joseph belonged in some old Hollywood film, all charm and rough-edged handsomeness.

Dangerous. That’s what he was. Far more than he ought to be.

He pushed himself off of the counter casually, giving you a sly wink. “Hello, little fox.” His voice was thick and rich, like warm caramel melting over your skin. “I missed you, love.”

The tiredness in your body unravelled just a touch when he stepped forward, dragging you into his arms. His lips brushed against yours in a kiss so soft, so tender, it almost could have been forgotten. Almost. His beard tickled your chin as he pulled away.

You looked up at him, an eyebrow raised playfully. “You bought me something again, didn’t you?”

His grin widened, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Am I that obvious?”

You returned his smile. “You get this look, all excited, like you physically can’t keep a secret.”

“You caught me.” His hands found your waist, firm but careful, guiding you toward the couch. “And before you say anything, just let me do this, alright? Just this once.”

A lie. You both knew it. There would be a hundred, no, a thousand more times after this.

You sighed, but there was no real fight in it. He saw the way the corner of your lips twitched before you finally relented, sinking into the cushions. “What did you get me?”

From his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box, flicking it open with a quiet snap.

The air caught in your throat.

The rows of pearls gleamed in the dim light—shiny, crisp white ivory. They shimmered like something out of a dream, and for a moment, you could do nothing but stare, fingertips hovering over them like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to touch.

“Jesus, Mary, and… Joseph,” you breathed. “This is—”

He interrupted, before you could protest. “All for you.” His lips pressed against your temple, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Good job with your promotion, sweetheart. I am so proud of you.”

The praise tickled your chest. You swallowed, still a little speechless, nodding slightly before he murmured, “Close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

His fingers ghosted over your shoulders, gathering your hair and sweeping it to the side, over your shoulder. He lingered at the nape of your neck, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your vertebrae, before he pressed a small, affectionate kiss there.

Big fingers clicked the clasp into place, and then you felt it.

The cool weight of the pearls settling against your collarbones, smooth beads resting against your skin. You exhaled slowly, fingertips brushing over them, still stunned.

His hands lingered at your shoulders for a moment before sliding down the outsides of your arms before settling on your sides. Then he lifted you. A quiet gasp slipped from your lips as he scooped you up with effortless strength. Up and around, spinning you so you were facing him and your legs had nowhere to go but around his hips. Suddenly your pussy was far too close to the otherwise inconspicuous bulge in his pants he was trying to keep secret. But it was unlike Joseph to do well at keeping secrets.

He tilted your face up with his spare hand, locking his lips with yours, stealing your words, as he swiftly navigated the two of you across the room. This time, he kissed deeper, slower—like he wanted to take his time with you. His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers slipping beneath your hair as he angled your face just right, deepening the kiss.

You let out a soft moan into his mouth as the back of your thighs were met with the kitchen countertop. The marble was cool beneath your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body that was now pressed flush against you, including between your legs.

Your hands moved instinctively, gripping at the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt, fingertips brushing against the coarse hair on his chest, trying to pull him impossibly closer. He made a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, before his hands started to wander.

Over your ribs, down your sides, over your hips–mapping out the shape of you.

Then lower.

Palms running down over the outside of your thighs, toying with your garter, before going higher, higher.

The first brush of his fingers against your inner thigh sent a shiver up your spine, your breath catching in between kisses. You barely had time to process before he was slipping beneath your skirt, his touch teasing yet intent. Your body tensed, anticipation curling hot in your stomach.

And then– oh.

The first stroke of his knuckles against the damp fabric of your panties made your knees twitch, a helpless reaction to the sudden pleasure. He grinned, playful and knowing, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, like it delighted him.

“I-I…” Your breath stuttered when he did it again, pads of his fingers exploring, hooking into the hem and pulling them aside.

Then, without warning, he sunk his two middle fingers inside you. They were met with far less resistance than you would have liked. Your fingers dug into his chest. You were already whimpering.

Wet. Too wet. Embarrassingly so.

A sinful squelching sound filled the space between you as he languidly pumped his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. The sound was obscene in the quiet of the room. Your face burned.

Joseph stilled, as if savouring the realisation, and then his lips curled into a smirk. “That excited, huh?”

You shot him a mock scolding look, though your breathlessness ruined the effect. “Shut up…”

“Oh, I don’t think you want that.”

Before you could argue, he curled his fingers just right—up and against that spot that made your thighs tremble and your eyes clamp shut. The noise that tore from your throat wasn’t a moan, not quite, but something smaller, breathier. He caught it with his mouth, kissing you deep as he worked you open, patient but relentless.

He pulled away to speak to you. “Look at me when I touch you, baby.”

That’s not fair, he was just kissing you!

Your eyelids fluttered, but you forced them open, meeting his gaze. The heat in his eyes was enough to make your stomach flip. He was completely absorbed in the way your eyes were glazed over, how your jaw was half slack, the way your body responded to him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice rich with satisfaction. “What a good girl.”

A whimper slipped from your lips, and his free hand came up, cradling your jaw as he kissed beneath your eye, slowly, softly. Like he had all the time in the world to savour you.

But you didn’t.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whispered, voice shaky, barely above a breath. “So bad…”

Joseph stilled for just a second, amused surprise flickering across his face. His fingers flexed inside you, dragging insistently along your soft front wall, over and over. “Oh, really?” he mused. “What a foul mouth you have, darling.”

You gasped, burying your face in his shoulder, frustration now burning at the edges of your pleasure. “C’mon…”

That earned you a small smirk. His fingers slowed, moving just enough to keep you wanting, but not enough to push you over the edge, and he knew it. “Mind your manners, love.”

Heat burned up your spine, stinging your cheeks, but you were never one to shy away when embarrassed. “Please, Daddy.”

A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction. His fingers sped up again, stroking and thrusting inside you perfectly, making you mewl. But it wasn’t what you really wanted.

“....Daddy?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, his breath warm against your skin. As always, he didn’t want to make you beg. “You just need me to take care of you, don’t you, sweetheart?” A kiss to your cheek, barely there, just enough to leave you chasing after it. “Yeah?”

Your lips parted, breath uneven, a small, blissed-out smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah.”

His hand cradled your cheek, thumb stroking over your flushed skin with slow, deliberate care. His expression was fond, warm, but plagued with hunger.

“There’s my good girl.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then lower, down to where he was pulling his fingers out of your pussy. “Why don’t you take out my cock?”

Suddenly painfully aware of his absence inside you, you obeyed without hesitation, fingers making quick work of his belt and fly. Your eyes widened slightly as you freed him from the confines of his pants. He was so hard, the heavy weight of him throbbing hot against your palm. You gave an experimental squeeze, feeling the way his breath caught, how his jaw tightened as he bit down on his lower lip.

God, he was so big. You could hardly close your fist around the base.

Joseph’s hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he adjusted you, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter, slipping your panties off in the process. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct, ankles locking behind the steely muscles of his lower back.

The first push of him inside your warmth was dizzying.

Each inch stretched you open, slow and steady, filling you in a way that left your mind blank and your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto as pleasure snaked up your spine, the weight of your day melting away instantly.

“You like being full of me, baby?” His voice was a low, wrecked murmur against your ear. “Stuffed so full of my cock that all you can think about is Daddy?”

A needy, broken sound tore from your throat. “Mmmnnn! Yesyes….” you were whining sounds, not even words.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head up, forcing your eyes to his. “Use your words, baby.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to work through the fog of lust in your mind. “I love it, Daddy.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly against the flesh of your sides, a perfect pairing to the thick, pulsing heat stretching out your depths. “‘Atta girl.” Then, with a sharp inhale through his teeth, he finally started to move.

The first drag of him pulling out, then sliding back into you, it was enough to have your head rocking back, eyes fluttering shut. He groaned low in his throat, a chesty sound, his grip on you steadfast as he found his rhythm—deep, deliberate. His cock reached all the sensitive spots inside you, every texture of him rubbing so perfectly against your walls, it was like you were made for each other. The familiar melody of flesh meeting flesh filled the kitchen, the wet sounds of your bodies working together, the breathy little whines spilling from your lips.

His forehead dropped against yours, as he spoke between husky breaths. “I’ve been thinking about you all day…about how your tight, needy pussy squeezes me…”

A shiver ran through you, desire tingling in your tummy. “Yeah?” you managed, voice barely above a strained whisper. “Even in the jewellery store?”

His pace stuttered for just a second before he let out a cheeky, naughty little laugh. “Especially in the jewellery store, sweetheart.” His teeth grazed your lower lip. “Am I bad for that?”

Your lips curled into a dazed, playful smile. “Absolutely rotten.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a mock pout, hips rolling into yours with a sharp, hard thrust that sent a jolt through your body and made your moans stutter. “You still love me though, don’t you?”

Your head bobbed in a frantic nod, unable to do anything but pant through the pleasure.

His smirk threatened to melt around the edges into an affectionate smile. “You little vixen…” His hands cradled you tighter, like he wanted to press into you, until his cockhead was kissing your cervix. Then, with a voice hoarse with affection, he whispered, “God, I love you.”

“Love you too…” you murmured breathily, giving him a loving smile.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, locking him in place, refusing to let him go. It felt like your ankles were tied together—bound tight by more than just your sex dazed stupor.

Joseph smirked against your mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re not letting me go, huh?”

You barely noticed it at first, too lost in the overwhelming sensation of him fucking you silly. But then, the faintest flutter of something humming with quiet energy against your skin. You gasped as a cool, invisible force cinched tight around your ankles, keeping them locked together at the small of his back. Your head tilted back against the overhead kitchen cabinets, your eyes widening in surprise.

He was using his Hermit Purple. You couldn’t see it, but he was such a tease–he used it like this when he was feeling cheeky sometimes.

“Cheating,” you accused in a broken huff, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Call it what you want, baby,” he purred, snapping his hips up into you with a pistoning pace. “But I’d say it’s just me making sure you take every last drop.”

A strangled, pleading sound escaped your lips.

His hands slid down your body, one bracing against the small of your back, the other slipping between your thighs. He found that sensitive, swollen little bundle of nerves, rubbing slow, steady circles over it, dragging you closer and closer to your orgasm. The knot in your stomach curled tight, so tight, like an overstretched rubber band ready to snap.

His lips found yours again, desperate now, open-mouthed and hungry, like he was trying to eat up your pleasure. He swallowed every sound you made, every shaky little whimper, breathing them in as if he needed them like he needed air.

And God, Joseph was such a vocal lover.

His groans filled your ears, deep and guttural, muffled only by the messy press of his lips to yours. He whispered praises, utter filth, voice breaking with every slick, perfect drag of his cock inside you.

“You feel so good, baby girl.”

“God, I could stay buried in you forever.”

“Such a tight little pussy—taking me so well.”

Each word, each dirty little admission, sent another shudder through your body, tightening the vice grip you had around him.

Then his hips stuttered, the steady, purposeful rhythm now falling apart into sloppy, needy slaps of his balls against your skin. His breath froze, his whole body tensing. “Shit—”

His groan was deep, drawn out, as he pushed all the way inside, hips flush against yours, his tip pressing up just perfectly against the entrance to your womb. Pumps of delicious liquid warmth spread deep inside you, filling you, making you gasp at the sheer heat of it. His spend flooded your walls, his cock twitching and pulsing with every spurt of his cum.

The fullness was so warm. The feeling was so good.

Joseph didn’t stop moving his hand, didn’t stop rubbing your clit, working you through it, coaxing you right into your own release. The pressure inside you shattered like glass, pleasure rocketing through your body, sparking every nerve in your body alight until your skin seared with hot, overwhelming bliss. Your face buried itself between his pectorals, muffling the sinful sounds of your broken moans and cries. Your nails dragged down his back, your thighs trembling around his waist as you drowned in your climax, his body against you a steady anchor in your reverie of lust.

He purred, feeling your walls flutter and pulse around him, milking every last drop from him as he nuzzles his face into your hair.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice warm and breathless. “You’re so beautiful like this. A mess, all because of your Daddy."

You couldn’t help but smile at the praise. Your chest heaved, the both of you clinging to each other. Your ankles were still locked behind him, held firm by his power that remained unseen to you.

He let out a breathless laugh against your hair. "So… is this it for me? Am I trapped here forever? Because I gotta say, there are worse ways to go."

You let out a tired little giggle, running your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, slightly damp with exertion. “Maybe.”

He scoffed dramatically, shifting his hips just enough to make you squirm. “You insatiable little fox. You’re gonna drain me dry, aren’t you? I’m going to be all shrivelled up, and it’s all your fault.”

You hummed noncommittally, a teasing little smirk playing at your lips.

Joseph groaned, all mock suffering. “Fine, but if I die from exhaustion, you have to give my eulogy. You better make it good. Or else. ” His Stand tightened around your ankles, earning a little squeak from you.

You grinned. "Oh, of course. I'll tell everyone you perished honourably. A soldier’s death.”

“Damn right I did.” He grinned, finally releasing your ankles out of Hermit Purple’s hold. "Now, let’s get you cleaned up so you don’t have to write my obituary sweaty and gross."

“I am not gross! You love me like this.” You protested indignantly, giving his chest a playful shove as he reluctantly let you slip out of his grasp.

Your mind, once frazzled with the stress of your day, now lay in a warm, blissful haze. Something so much better had taken its place. Him.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jjba x reader #jjba x reader smut #jojo smut #dilf joseph joestar #old joseph joestar #joseph joestar x reader #joseph joestar part 3 #why is this old ahhh man so fine #please save me #i want him to speak like this to me so bad #i hope he is shooting blanks #probably is at his ripe ass age #oh well hes like a fine wine ig #jojo x reader

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