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fairestwriting · 3 months ago

Note

sorry if you’ve done something like this-

What about Jade, Leona, Jamil and Vil with a S/O that somebody tried to love potion?

…warning for minor book/chapter 4 spoilers in the jamil one? in case anyone is a newcomer here. there was just No way i could write this without mentioning his lore. like. come on

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Honestly, it’d take anyone some serious guts to try to do this. Or serious ignorance. Or straight up hubris, or maybe all of the above at the same time— Since your first few friendlier hangouts with Leona, it was pretty much known to most people who knew you that you were completely off-limits. Even if you just stayed friends, no sane person was going to mess with anyone who’s close to him. It’s almost an unspoken, pretty much school wide rule.

It was an especially bad choice for that perpetrator to try to slip you the potion during lunchtime. Maybe they’re a classmate you barely know, maybe they pretend to be a friend, it’d definitely have to be someone who could get away with approaching you to pretend to want some casual conversation. This privilege was soon to end, however, since you had agreed with Leona to meet up with him at the greenhouse after you ate.

The second you step inside, he can smell that something is off. By then you can already feel it starting to take effect, your head feeling foggy and suddenly occupied with thoughts of that person, which just feels confusing for now. You walk up to him, he’s sitting up with a frown on his face, asking you to come closer. Hazy, you step forward, and through your clouded vision you see him leaning in to smell you. It feels weird at the moment, you’re not sure if you’re comfortable with this— Even though that’s your boyfriend, you think, maybe you’d rather be this close with someone else…

He can’t tell it’s a love potion exactly, at least not just by smelling you, but he knows something is off. “Have you been up to anything weird lately, Herbivore?” He asks, his voice full of suspicion. You just shake your head, mention your classes today were all unremarkable, then so was lunch, you just met up with your friend, while you were eating. Somehow you can’t stop yourself from letting the subject linger on them, even though it puzzles you on the inside. He quickly picks up on what must have happened.

Really, anyone who even considers trying this has some nerve. He even says that out loud to them, after dragging you out of the greenhouse into a hunt for this specific person. You won’t even get the chance to remember much about the incident. Next thing you know, you’re in one of the potions lab, with an emptied vial of antidote in your hands. Leona is standing next to you with crossed arms and a death glare, and your “friend” is shaking behind a cauldron, having prepared that in record time. Even if notice of the incident spreads, Leona definitely won’t want you to leave his side anytime soon…

𐙚 Jade Leech

Another case in which attempting anything with you is definitely a feat of courage. Even though there’s a higher chance they wouldn’t know you’re dating Jade in the first place, because of how private he is, he’s clearly fond of you. And that’s without even taking into consideration how often he’s around. Jade doesn’t have the sort of infamy Leona dows, but it’s not any less intimidating of a situation, anyone with eyes can tell he’s watching every person around him very closely…

They’d really have to get lucky to get you to consume even a single drop of anything. They might have even tried multiple times, in multiple different ways. Spiking your food or drink is not an option at all with him, because he’s sitting with you while you eat, and who would want to take that chance? If they got you, it was probably by offering you an “extra drink they got from the vending machine”, which might as well have been attempted before, with Jade successfully distracting you from the drink every time.

”My, how kind of you. I’ve heard that soda is very popular, is that true?” Somehow, he shows up just in time to strike up conversation with the person, placing a hand on the can they tampered with. ”I don’t recall seeing this brand back home. Would you mind if I had a small sip first?” He looks at them, then at you, with a strange menacing smile. Once again, that person is taking the can back and stammering excuses that make less and less sense as time passes…

If they’re brave/stupid enough, and you’re oblivious enough, Jade will just sneakily make himself your bodyguard, ready to catch any new attempts and stop them right before you could get the spiked drink anywhere near your lips. He’ll do it as many times as he has to— And if it goes on for long enough, and one day they decide to not take their little trap back, he will literally just open it and drink the whole thing. He’ll do it while making eye contact with them, even. “Oh, I’m sorry, my hand slipped. It’s really unfortunate when that happens, isn’t it? It’s very easy to forget, since most of the time it doesn’t cause any harm… But the wrong ‘slip’ could really cost you your hand, you know… It’s important to be careful.” He doesn’t look away from them for even one second.

You’re confused as hell, Jade is weird a lot of the time, but just what’s going on right now? He hands them back the can, and just waves his hand at your question, telling you he’ll explain on the way as he walks off to get some antidote. From the nurse, specifically. And it’s not because he can’t make his own, because he could probably do it before the dizziness even hit— It’s to get your little “friend” in trouble with the staff, he’ll even play up the symptoms to make sure they get a nasty suspension… Even if they’re not expelled, you somehow never see them again.

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Not happening. At all. You have no “off limits” fame, no one knows you’re dating (Upon Jamil’s own request) and even if they did, they wouldn’t be that intimidated to try to make a move on you normally. He’s too busy to be lingering around you too much, plus he just wants you to have your own independence in general… everything is seemingly stacked in the favor of that person who wants to slip you the potion, but it’s nowhere near enough to get past Jamil. It just could never be.

…So you’d think it’d be easy for someone to catch you off guard, try to slip something in your food or drink. But there’s just no way that potion isn’t even making it into the vial. Really, with the upbringing Jamil had, could any fellow teenager manage to fly under his radar when trying to tamper with your things? Not a chance. He’s learned to spot real, professional assassins going after Kalim. Catching on to some other student’s creepy behavior is nothing to him.

He knew it before he even heard that person’s name, or saw them talk to you with his own eyes. It just takes a few conversations about this weird classmate of yours who you started suspecting might like you for him to be able to tell they don’t have good intentions. ”...I know I might sound paranoid, but I think you should be careful around them.” Is all he says, when you two talk about it the first time. You know him well enough to be aware of how serious that warning is.

Nothing is said after that, but he’s watching them closely too. You don’t eat lunch together that often, but Jamil always watches your table from afar when he’s not there. At first it’s just out of habit, but now that he’s got an eye on this person, their every move has your full attention. And it’s all just too familiar, the way they seem to also watch your table, or more specifically, watch you while you eat. He can even sense their frustration at how guarded you’ve gotten since his warning.

You’ll never even hear about a possible poisoning attempt because he catches them in the middle of their potion brewing— With a good chance he wasn’t even trying to do that. He just happened to spot them acting weird in the hallways, and decided to investigate. Following them to the laboratory, standing outside of the door to see what’s happening, maybe take a video or two. He then walks inside, no notable expression on his face, and speaks to them. ”I wouldn’t do this if I were you. Even making this potion outside of class could get you in serious trouble.” Nothing else is said, he shows them the video on his phone screen, and walks off. Next thing you hear, they got suspended, an when they come back, they won’t even dare to meet your eyes.

𐙚 Vil Schoenheit

The day you two agreed you’d make your relationship official, you also had a very long talk about the things that it might entail—The worries had been stewing in his mind for a while now, at first regarding his own reputation, but eventually they turned their focus to you. He’s had people interacting strangely with people who were just his dormmates, so one could only wonder how they’d treat someone they suspect is his partner…You’re warned at the very start that it’s a good idea to be cautious of others. But because it’s Vil, and he has all those vocal, sometimes fanatic admirers that are seemingly just everywhere, it can be kind of sadly easy to forget that this type of person could fixate on you too.

It becomes a bit of a dilemma for him, when he hears about this classmate of yours you’ve been talking to occasionally. On one hand, of course he wants you to have friends, he’s not crazy. On the other, he already has a weird feeling from the interactions you describe. Then under all his common sense, he just feels sort of jealous in general. You might notice he suddenly looks alarmed, and he might even remind you it’s important to be careful with others. But even if you take it to heart, would you really outright assume they were planning anything so creepy?

It’s a thankful coincidence that dating Vil also means learning a lot about potions. You often sit around in the Pomefiore dorm laboratory while he’s doing something, and he’s happy to explain the process to you however many times you need. Ironically, the specific subject of attempted love potion slips might come up. It happens to celebrities often, after all, it’s not crazy to think someone would try to get to him— ”They teach you to not eat or drink anything a fan gives you. You accept it if they’re handing it out, but you don’t touch it. And it’s not just for the sake of keeping up with your diet.” He retells you what he was taught. ”You don’t even donate it, since it could be tampered with. Usually, there are tells, but not always…”

Then question becomes, how skilled could another student get, specifically when compared to how observant you can be? It could go either way here. It’s easy to be alarmed by anyone offering you snacks or drinks after Vil tells you these stories, but you’re not a celebrity, so would that really happen to you? What if you’re just forgetful, or they really manage to get you at a moment when you’re vulnerable? Luckily, no matter how sneaky someone is, they can’t hide the effects of the potion forever. On the color of your drink, the smell, the taste… or, in a worst case scenario, in the way it feels when it starts to kick in.

You’ll know something is wrong, and he’s lectured you enough you know to get an antidote from the nurse if needed, and you know to report it to school staff. It’s dealt with quickly enough, but no matter when he finds out, he’s outraged all the same. ”How does a student get away with even trying to brew something like this? Staff shouldn’t allow just anybody to use laboratories unsupervised…” Vil fusses over you, smoothing your clothes just so his hands have something to do. Even if you didn’t swallow any of the potion, he tells you to take the day off to rest and stays nearby. Of course he wouldn’t just let the situation be solved without reacting, but first, he has to be sure you’re safe.

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#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #jade leech #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #leona kingscholar x reader #jade leech x reader #jamil viper x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #twst headcanons #twst imagines #lis writing

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1800titz · 25 days ago

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The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality.

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation— this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder—

And the rest of everyone else.

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in.

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic.

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees—seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her.

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor.

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who— based on volume alone— should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance.

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse—the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics.

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear.

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting.

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse.

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion.

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable.

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs.

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality.

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors.

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression.

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns.

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration.

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk.

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them.

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder.

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer.

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath.

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise).

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked?

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.”

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again.

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest.

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe.

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment.

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum.

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard.

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly.

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms.

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk.

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification.

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way.

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package.

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor.

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all.

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice."

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists.

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one.

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering.

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief.

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel.

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist.

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod.

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up.

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses.

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips.

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits.

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding.

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush.

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state.

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry.

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation.

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail.

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks.

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together.

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes.

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever.

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic.

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red.

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples.

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

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urprettylildoe · 1 month ago

Text

people like yandere gardener didn't get to complain about their lack of privileges. It's all people like him had.

so when his friend told him about a rich lady looking for a gardener for her house, the opportunity was too good not to pass up.

Upon reaching the estate, the first thing he noticed was that it was huge. It stood lavish and imposing, flanked by stone gates. Lush green lawns surrounded the area, dotted with flower beds.

If his breath wasn't taken away then, it sure was when a soft voice spoke behind him.

"Hi!" he turned his head to see you; a stunning woman dressed elegantly and adorned in luxury — the definition of class. "you must be the gardener we hired."

Ah, you were the one who hired him (his friend had spoken to you prior, but he hadn't met you in person before).

He found himself smiling warmly, fidgeting with his collared shirt, wondering if you noticed how it was slightly ripped at the hem. "Yes, ma'am, that's me."

"Oh, you don't know how much of a relief it was to finally find a good gardener. It means a lot for you take up the job," you were practically bouncing on your toes with barely-restrained delight.

Damn, he sure did win the lottery with this one. Nice paying job and a gorgeous lady-?

All the illusion was shattered when a deep, authorative voice spoke behind.

"There you are, sweetie. I was wondering where you went," a mature, wealthy-looking man wrapped an arm around you.

The young gardener's face drained of all colour when you cuddled into him, a dreamy smile on your lips that was reserved just for the intruder. It seemed like had spoken too soon for his own good.

"Darling, this is the gardener i was telling you about." you looped your arm through your husband's.

It seemed like yandere gardener had a thorn in his side. But he was never one to let precious things slip through his fingers. So in front of your husband, he nodded his head in respect.

You showed him around the garden, rambling on and on. It wasn't't everyday that he'd find a lady as sweet as you to work for. Nowadays, they all curled their lips in disdain at anyone who they couldn't leech off of for their money.

But you? Never you.

Always bringing him inside, offering him a cold beverage, smiling all pretty. C'mon baby, don't you know that you're practically begging him to take what he wants?

He decided to test the waters one day, see if you would reciprocate. He comes in, sweaty and chest bared as usual, while you're sat down on the plush couch flipping through a magazine.

You look up, asking: "oh, you're done already?"

Stretching, he sauntered over to you, "yeah, nothing too hard for little ol' me." that comment made you laugh, your eyes squinting adorably and making his jeans awfully tight.

Sometimes, when your husband's away, he imagines what life would be if he was yours. Coming home from his fancy job, kissing you senseless and cuddling up to you.

A man could only dream. But he's spent all his life dreaming, so is it really wrong to turn this one into reality?

"Here; let me pour you a drink"

His fingertips brushed your arm as you pour him a drink, a spark sizzling between both of you. Yet, you continued to hand him the cup. You were so loyal to an undeserving man it hurt.

He knew that your relationship seemed to be good — always all over each other. Still, you could be going through something far worse behind closed doors.

So, he'll bid his time, then sweep you off your feet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The house was busy as usual, but not for the same reasons.

Your cheeks were stained with fresh tears, usual attire swapped out for black clothes. Your mother-in-law, equally devastated, tried to console you, but something tells you it wouldn't heal the wound burnt into your chest.

Blunt force trauma resulting from a fall down the stairs.

Your thoughts were jumbled. Your heart was heavy. It was too much. How could you have let this happen? How did you not notice him while he was asleep? Were you such a horrible wife not to hear him fall? How-

"Ma'am?"

You looked up to see the gardener. Somehow, amidst your weeping, you had found yourself back inside the house. His face was softened in concern, and his shaggy hair hung over his eyes.

Sniffling: "yes, yes, i'm fine."

Silence hung in the air afterwards. You didn't fool him. A beat later, " no, you're not."

Unable to hold it all in, your tears spilled over your cheeks once again. "Sobs ripped harshly from your throat.

Too grief-ridden to notice the way his arms wrapped around you so intimately, or how he smiled against his hair, cooing over your state and hushing you. Too vunerable to even refuse his wandering touch.

The days after that were a blur. At times, you were angry at the world. Other times, you were wallowing in your room, curled up on your shared bed. Even too tired to even cry some days.

But he was there. Caring. Hovering. Loving.

He picked you back up on your feet, holding you at rock bottom, reassuring you. It felt rationalised in his mind, almost like a partner comforting his husband. You were too depressed to even pay any mind to him or even assume that he was doing this out of anyone but sympathy,

"Why do you stick around?" You asked one day. Your voice was hoarse, nose runny and eyes puffy. "I appreciate you caring for me but there's no need — you don't get paid enough to do this."

Sitting in your bed, he smiled fondly and brushed a hair out of your face. It was cute how you thought he was in it for the money. "I don't need to get paid to take care of you, ma'am." A pause. "You're already doing enough by letting me stay here with you."

You were so oblivious. You didn't need to know about that his death wasn't exactly an accident. More like a push in the right direction to put it simply.

And when you begin to heal from the tender wounds, he'll glue the pieces of your heart back together in the places he wants them to be. He'll take care of you.

Yandere gardener who every day when he watches you sleep justifies his actions by reminding himself that your late husband didn't deserve all of this wealth and a loving wife.

He did.

#This was totally inspired by justin from desperate housewives #Except he doesn't rizz u up bc he's gay #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc #original story #yandere story #yandere stories #male yandere #Yandere drabbles #Yandere thoguhts #writblr #Yandere blog #Yandere tendencies #Male yandere #Yandere male #fem reader #X reader

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calypso-rt · 2 months ago

Text

detour!

with the insufferable Rafe Cameron

| one | | two | | three | | four |

-> Rafe x F!reader

The wedding weekend is officially over.

Guests filter out of the lodge in clusters, some nursing hangovers, others waving sentimental goodbyes.

You stand near the gravel lot, arms crossed, watching as JJ dramatically drapes himself over the hood of Kiara’s car, claiming he’s “too emotionally fragile to leave yet.” Sarah is nearby, laughing as she helps John B pack up.

And then there’s you, trying very hard not to glance at Rafe, who stands a few feet away, running a hand through his hair as he checks his phone.

You pretend you’re not listening when someone calls your name.

“You need a ride?”

You turn to see Luke, one of the Pogues’ older friends, dangling his keys. “I’ve got room in the truck,” he adds. “Figured you wouldn’t wanna be stuck with him all the way back.”

Your lips part, instinct ready to say yes, because of course, that makes sense. It’s logical. No reason to put yourself through hours of close quarters tension with Rafe when you could ride with someone else.

But then...

You glance over.

And Rafe is looking at you.

Not like he’s expecting anything. Not like he’s waiting. Just... watching.

It’s subtle, but you catch the way his shoulders stiffen slightly, the way his fingers tighten around his phone. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to sway you.

He just looks away, like he already knows what you’re going to say.

And suddenly, for some reason, you hesitate.

“…Actually,” you say slowly, turning back to Luke. “I think I’ll just drive with Rafe.”

Luke raises a brow, glancing between you two. “You sure?”

No.

“Yes,” you say instead.

From the corner of your eye, you swear you see Rafe’s posture relax.

Luke shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He tosses his keys in the air and catches them before strolling off toward his truck.

You exhale, turning toward Rafe, who’s still looking at his phone like he wasn’t just listening to the whole thing.

“Guess we should hit the road,” you say, shifting on your feet.

Rafe nods, pocketing his phone. “Yeah.” He glances at you, something unreadable in his gaze before he steps toward the car.

You follow, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists at the thought of spending the next few hours trapped in a car with him.

You tell yourself it’ll be fine.

It’s just a ride.

Nothing else.

…Right?

...

The first ten minutes are quiet.

You scroll through your playlist, pretending to be deep in thought while Rafe focuses on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. The soft hum of the engine fills the space between you, mixed with the occasional sound of his fingers tapping against the leather steering wheel.

It’s fine. Normal.

Until he ruins it.

“I still can’t believe you actually chose to ride with me.”

You don’t look up. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

He smirks, eyes on the road. “Nah. Just figured I scared you off after our little honeymoon suite experience.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Oh, our honeymoon suite experience? Pretty sure I was the victim there.”

“Victim?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, you got to share a bed with me. That’s a privilege, not a punishment.”

You make a face. “You stole the covers.”

“I was the covers.”

“I had to wake up in the middle of the night and rip them out of your death grip.”

Rafe snorts. “Yeah, and then you practically wrapped yourself around me in your sleep. Should’ve just admitted you wanted to cuddle.”

You gape at him. “I did not—”

“Oh, you definitely did,” he lies smoothly, knowing full well he was the one doing the cuddling. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t hold it against you.”

You groan, sinking into your seat. “I should’ve taken Luke’s truck.”

“You say that,” Rafe muses, “but we both know you’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips, because—ugh. You hate when he does that. When he says something in that half-joking, half-serious way that makes it impossible to tell if he actually means it.

He flicks a glance at you. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you’d be bored without me.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Fine. I admit that without you, I’d be peacefully enjoying my music without someone inflating their ego next to me.”

Rafe chuckles. “Fair enough.”

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s different. Easier.

Then—

Your favorite song comes on.

And you barely have time to register it before Rafe reaches over and

Clicks ‘Next’.

Your gasp is pure outrage. “Excuse me?”

“Nope,” he says, entirely unrepentant, keeping his eyes on the road.

“That was my song!”

“Yeah, well, I’m driving. My car, my rules.”

You shove his arm. “It’s a universal rule that the passenger gets aux.”

“Not when the passenger has terrible taste.”

Your jaw drops. “You listen to EDM remixes of country songs, you absolute menace—”

“Hey, those go hard.”

“You’re deranged.”

He grins, and you know—you know—he’s doing this just to mess with you.

So you yank the phone off the dashboard and put your song back on.

Rafe groans. “You’re the worst.”

But you catch it.

The way his grip flexes slightly on the wheel. The way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a real smile.

The way, when he glances at you, there’s something softer in his expression than he probably realizes.

And you tell yourself not to overthink it.

Because, at the end of the day, this is just a drive.

Nothing else.

...Right?

...

It starts with a sputter.

A tiny, almost imperceptible hiccup in the engine.

You barely notice at first, too focused on the battle for control of the aux cord, your foot propped up on the dashboard while you scroll through playlists. But then the car gives a little lurch.

“Uh… what the hell was that?”

Rafe frowns, glancing down at the dashboard. “No clue.”

You both wait.

Another sputter. Another jolt.

Then, the car just… dies.

No dramatic explosion, no smoke billowing out from under the hood, just a slow, pathetic roll to a stop on the side of the road.

Rafe stares straight ahead, hands still gripping the wheel like he can will the car back to life.

You blink. “Oh, this is rich.”

Rafe exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “No. No, no, no this cannot be happening right now.”

You snort. “I don’t know, Rafe. I think it just happened.”

He shoots you a look. “Not helping.”

You give him an innocent smile, but your amusement is short-lived as you glance around. The road is practically deserted, the nearest gas station at least ten miles back, and you don’t even have enough service to load a map.

Fantastic.

Rafe sighs, popping the hood and stepping out of the car. You follow, leaning against the door as he pokes around the engine, muttering curses under his breath.

After a minute, you arch a brow. “So? What’s the diagnosis, car expert?”

He gives you a flat look. “The diagnosis is that my car just randomly died and we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

You hum. “Sounds serious.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Silence.

“So, how long until you fix it?” you ask sweetly.

Rafe groans, straightening up. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking—”

You smirk. “What? You afraid I’ll say I told you so?”

He glares. “You didn’t tell me anything.”

You shrug. “I thought about telling you to get your car checked before the trip. So technically, I was psychically right.”

Rafe closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Bit late for that.”

He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real bite to it. If anything, there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips, like even he can’t help but be a little amused.

And that’s when he spots it.

Just past the treeline, a sloping hill gives way to a cluster of rooftops in the distance. A tiny town, tucked into the base of the mountains, nestled in a sea of green and gold wildflowers.

Rafe gestures toward it. “Town’s not far. We can walk there, find someone to tow the car.”

You glance down at your shoes, cute, yes, but entirely impractical for a trek through nature. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Fine. But if I die of heat stroke or get mauled by a bear, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

Rafe smirks. “Hot and a little unhinged. Gotta say, sweetheart, I like the energy.”

You shove his shoulder, but then he grins at you. That easy, boyish, almost-too-charming grin.

And against all logic, you can’t help but grin back.

...

The walk starts out fine.

Mostly because you are still convinced that if you complain enough, Rafe will magically fix the car with sheer willpower alone.

“That was a perfectly good vehicle,” you mutter as you trudge behind him. “A working one. One that had air conditioning and, oh, I don’t know, wheels.”

Rafe snorts, stepping over a fallen branch. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

You huff, swatting at a mosquito. “This is your fault.”

“How, exactly?”

“You jinxed it.” You dodge a shrub. “I bet if I were driving, we’d be at our homes by now.”

He turns slightly, giving you an unimpressed look. “You can’t drive stick.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Rafe chuckles, shaking his head, and despite the situation, despite the heat and the uneven trail, you don’t totally hate this.

Because it’s… nice out here.

Golden wildflowers stretch out in every direction, brushing against your legs as the two of you weave through the hills. The sun is just starting to dip lower in the sky, casting a honeyed glow over everything, and the town ahead looks like something straight out of a movie: rustic, picturesque, the kind of place that seems frozen in time.

Rafe slows down, glancing back at you. “You okay?”

Your face is flushed from the heat, a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead. You wipe them away, rolling your eyes. “Peachy.”

He smirks but doesn’t push it. Instead, he reaches out, casually and easily, and plucks a wildflower from beside the trail.

Then he tucks it behind your ear.

Your breath catches, because he does it so effortlessly, so naturally, like it’s a completely normal thing for him to do.

You blink up at him.

Rafe just smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“There. Now you match the scenery.”

You scoff, ignoring the way your pulse flutters. “That was so corny.”

He grins. “Yeah, but it worked, didn’t it?”

You shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you push ahead, pretending to be much more interested in reaching the town than in the fact that Rafe Cameron just tucked a flower behind your ear like you’re in some kind of romantic montage.

The trail dips, curving around a small stream, and then you finally step onto a paved road.

The town is small but charming, lined with old-fashioned lampposts and brick buildings with hanging flower baskets. There’s a diner on the corner with twinkling lights in the windows, a little gas station down the street, and an inn with a wraparound porch.

You exhale. “Civilization. Finally.”

Rafe stretches his arms over his head, cracking his neck. “Not bad. Could be worse.”

“Could be worse?” You give him a look. “I just had to hike in a dress, Rafe. Through the wilderness. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes twice.”

He rolls his eyes but grins. “You’re so dramatic.”

You’re about to retort when your stomach growls loudly.

Rafe smirks. “Food first?”

You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that he is your only option right now. “Fine.”

...

The town is even cuter up close.

The streets are lined with cobblestone sidewalks, little boutiques with painted signs, and cozy brick buildings that look like they belong in a Hallmark movie. String lights crisscross above the main road, swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze, and the air smells like fresh bread, coffee, and something sweet... maybe pie.

You and Rafe step out of the diner, bell jingling behind you, stomachs full and feet finally rested. You should probably be focused on finding a way back, but right now the town is too charming to ignore.

“We should explore,” you say decisively, brushing crumbs off your dress.

Rafe gives you a look. “Explore?”

“Yes.” You gesture around. “Look at this place! When’s the next time we’re going to be stranded in the cutest town on the planet?”

His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but then his gaze sweeps over the town, taking in the fairy lights, the warm glow from shop windows, the distant sound of a street musician playing guitar.

He exhales. “Alright, fine. But if you drag me into some candle store that smells like fifty different flavors of vanilla, I’m walking back to the car.”

You grin, already leading the way.

The first stop is a bookstore, one of those tiny, independently owned ones with towering bookshelves. The air inside is warm, filled with the scent of old paper and lavender tea from a little café in the corner.

You trail your fingers along the spines, stopping when you recognize one of your favorites. “Oh—this one’s so good.”

Rafe raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say distractedly, flipping through the pages. Then, without thinking, you blurt, “You’d like it.”

There’s a pause.

When you glance up, Rafe is watching you, expression unreadable.

You clear your throat, shoving the book back onto the shelf. “Anyway. Next store.”

He smirks but doesn’t push it.

The next stop is an antique shop, filled with mismatched furniture, vintage postcards, and dusty record players.

Rafe immediately starts messing with things.

“What about this?” He holds up an atrocious ceramic cat figurine, complete with googly eyes.

You grimace. “If you buy that, I’m never speaking to you again.”

He grins. “Tempting.”

You roll your eyes, wandering over to a glass case filled with old jewelry. There’s something oddly romantic about it: lockets that have held secrets for decades, rings that have witnessed love stories long before yours.

You glance at Rafe. He’s already watching you, something soft in his expression.

You turn away before he can say anything.

Then, of course, there’s the candle store.

“I knew this would happen,” Rafe groans as you drag him inside.

“Just one candle!” you insist.

“You’re not even gonna buy one,” he mutters, trailing behind you as you pick up different scents and inhale deeply. “You’re gonna spend twenty minutes sniffing them and then walk out emptyhanded.”

You give him an innocent smile. “That’s half the fun.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but when he thinks you’re not looking, he picks up a candle labeled Stormy Nights and sniffs it.

You catch him, of course.

“Oh my God.” You gasp, clutching your chest in mock surprise. “You like this store.”

He immediately puts the candle down. “Do not start.”

You laugh, linking your arm through his before he can escape. “Come on, Rafe. Just embrace it.”

He groans, but he doesn’t pull away.

By the time the sun sets, you’ve somehow ended up at the town’s little lake, sitting on a wooden dock as the sky fades into deep indigo, the first stars appearing above. The town glows behind you, reflections shimmering on the water, the distant hum of conversation and soft music carrying through the night.

You sigh, dipping your fingers into the cool water. “Okay. I’ll admit it.”

Rafe leans back on his elbows. “Admit what?”

You glance at him. “This… wasn’t the worst way to be stranded.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Wow. The high praise is overwhelming.”

You nudge him with your foot, but he catches your ankle, his grip warm, solid. His thumb brushes lightly over your skin before he lets go.

Your stomach flips.

You look away, suddenly very interested in the water.

Rafe exhales. “We should probably figure out where we’re staying.”

You groan. “Please don’t say honeymoon suite.”

His smirk is way too smug. “I wasn’t gonna say it, but now that you mention it...”

You shove him, and he laughs, standing up and offering you a hand.

You hesitate for half a second, then take it.

The night is warm, the town glowing, and somehow, somehow, this doesn’t feel like a disaster anymore.

It almost feels… nice.

...

“No vacancies?” you echo, staring blankly at the woman behind the front desk.

She offers an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, with the festival this weekend, every place in town is booked solid. We had one cancellation earlier, but another couple just claimed it.”

You slowly turn to Rafe.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Love that.”

The desk clerk hesitates. “There is… one option.”

You perk up. “Yes. We’ll take it.”

Rafe shoots you a wary glance. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s better than sleeping in the car.”

The woman shifts, clearly trying to phrase this delicately. “Well… it’s not exactly a room.”

Your excitement dims. “...What do you mean?”

She winces. “It’s a guest cottage.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Rafe muses.

She quickly adds, “It’s also part of the romantic getaway package.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, already knowing where this is going. Talk about deja vu.

Rafe, to his credit, is at least trying to suppress his laughter. “You mean… like, a honeymoon suite?”

“More like a honeymoon cabin,” she corrects. “Cozy, intimate, fully stocked with all the romantic touches—”

“I don’t need the details,” you cut in.

“I kind of do,” Rafe counters.

You glare at him. He grins.

The woman hesitates. “So… will you take it?”

Rafe looks at you expectantly, like he’s waiting for you to reject it.

You want to. You really do. But at this point, you’re exhausted, your legs are sore, and the thought of sleeping in the car, especially with Rafe Cameron, is a level of misery you refuse to endure.

You exhale. “Fine.”

Rafe blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You cross your arms. “Unless you want to sleep in the car?”

His smirk returns in full force. “Nah, sweetheart. If you want to shack up in a love nest with me, who am I to say no?”

You groan, rubbing your temples as the desk clerk hands over the key.

The moment you step inside, your jaw actually drops.

It’s adorable.

A rustic little log cabin, lit with soft golden lighting and warmed by a stone fireplace. The bed has plush white bedding with more rose petals scattered on top, and there’s an open balcony that overlooks a lake, reflecting the stars above.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “It’s actually cute.”

Rafe whistles behind you. “Hate to say it, but I think this might be nicer than the first honeymoon suite.”

You slowly turn, narrowing your eyes. “Are you saying you enjoyed the first one?”

He shrugs, tossing his bag onto the bed. “I dunno. Kinda grew on me.”

“You’re insane.”

He just smirks, toeing off his shoes before flopping back onto the bed.

You groan. “Rafe.”

“Babe,” he says, mimicking your annoyed tone, “the sooner you accept that you love being stuck with me, the easier your life will be.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it, because of course he does.

You decide to explore the cabin, mostly to ignore the fact that you’re about to share a bed with Rafe again.

The kitchen is surprisingly nice, stocked with chocolates and a bottle of wine (which Rafe immediately opens, because of course he does).

The balcony is probably your favorite part: warm summer air, twinkling lights, the lake stretching out beyond the trees.

You lean on the railing, inhaling the fresh air.

Rafe appears beside you, two wine glasses in hand. “Here.”

You take one, surprised when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about you accepting a drink from him. Instead, he clinks his glass against yours.

“To… surviving another night together,” he says, voice lighter than usual.

You snort. “Cheers to that.”

You both drink, settling into a comfortable silence as the stars shimmer above.

You don’t feel stranded.

You just feel calm.

Which, with Rafe Cameron, is kind of a miracle.

...

You stare at the bed. The one bed.

Again.

“What are the odds?” Rafe muses, standing beside you, wine glass still in hand.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh, I don’t know, Rafe. Maybe it’s because we keep getting shoved into romantic lodging situations like some kind of sick cosmic joke.”

He chuckles. “Could be worse.”

“How?” you ask flatly.

He hums, considering. “The bed could be heart-shaped again.”

You shudder at the memory of the first honeymoon suite. “Don’t even speak that into existence.”

Rafe just grins, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts just slightly, and you hate that your eyes flicker downward for a second too long.

Noticing your hesitation, he smirks. “You taking the left or right?”

“I’m taking the whole thing,” you deadpan. “You can sleep on the floor.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay, princess.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab your pajamas from your bag and retreat into the bathroom.

By the time you step back into the room, Rafe is already sprawled across the entire bed, hands behind his head like he owns the place.

You glare. “Seriously?”

He smirks. “What? You were gone forever. Thought you bailed.”

“It’s been five minutes.”

“Exactly.”

You huff, marching over and shoving his legs aside so you can climb in. He chuckles but lets you settle in, shifting onto his side to face you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace. The wine has left you warm, making the dim lighting feel even softer.

“…Thanks for staying,” Rafe says suddenly, voice quieter than usual.

You glance over, caught off guard. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Back at the lodge. You could’ve left with that Luke guy.”

You hesitate. “I almost did.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You shift onto your side, mirroring him. “Why did you look so upset?”

Rafe tenses, just slightly. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something sarcastic, but then stops. Closes it.

Then, finally:

“…Didn’t want to drive back alone.”

It’s quiet.

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

You swallow, gripping the edge of the blanket. “Oh.”

Rafe clears his throat. “I mean, who else would keep me entertained? Can’t exactly banter with myself.”

There it is. The deflection.

But it’s too late. You already heard the honesty in his voice before it.

Smiling softly, you nudge his foot under the covers. “You’d probably try.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Maybe.”

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s comfortable.

Eventually, your eyelids grow heavy. You barely register the way Rafe shifts closer, the warmth of him seeping through the covers.

And just before you drift off, you swear you hear him mumble:

“…Kinda glad you stayed.”

Your lips part, but sleep pulls you under before you can respond.

And in the soft glow of the fire, Rafe watches you for just a second longer.

Then, quietly, he closes his eyes too.

...

The scent of fresh coffee drifts through the air, pulling you from the depths of sleep. The warmth of the blankets is inviting, but something else is even warmer.

You blink groggily.

Rafe.

Still asleep. Still close. Still very much in your personal space.

At some point during the night, he must have shifted even closer. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, his face relaxed in a way you don’t usually see.

For a second, you let yourself take it in. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep.

Then reality slams back into you.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

You try to move—try being the key word—because the second you shift even an inch, Rafe groans and pulls you closer.

Your eyes widen. “Rafe.”

“Mmm,” he mutters, voice still thick with sleep. His grip tightens slightly, like you’re a pillow he refuses to let go of.

You freeze. “Rafe.”

Another groggy noise.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbles against your hair.

Your face burns.

You push at his shoulder. “Get off.”

“Mm-mm.”

“Rafe.”

A beat.

Then, suddenly, he tenses.

You can feel the exact second he realizes what’s happening.

His eyes snap open. He pulls back, just slightly, blinking at you with a confused, half-awake expression. Then, very slowly, his gaze flickers down to where his arm is still around you.

He smirks.

“Oh, good morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice smug. “Sleep well?”

You shove him. Hard.

He laughs as he rolls onto his back, stretching like he wasn’t just wrapped around you like a human koala. “Don’t need coffee when I’ve got you to wake me up so rudely.”

“I will smother you with a pillow,” you grumble, sitting up and raking a hand through your hair.

He grins, propping himself up on his elbows. “Bet you wouldn’t have minded if I looked like that guy from the bakery yesterday.”

You throw a pillow at him.

Bakery guy didn't even hold a candle to a half-sleepy Rafe Cameron.

He catches it, still grinning. “Alright, alright, truce. But if you wanna cuddle again tonight, just say the word.”

You grab the other pillow and whack him with it.

After breakfast at the little café down the street (where Rafe insists on making a dramatic show of stealing bites from your plate), you wander into town, only to find it completely transformed.

Colorful stalls line the streets, people bustling around with baskets filled with fresh flowers, handmade crafts, and sweet-smelling pastries.

You blink. “Whoa.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow. “Did we walk into a Disney movie?”

You spot a sign near the entrance of the market, scrawled in elegant cursive. Annual Wildflower Festival – Welcome!

Grinning, you nudge Rafe’s arm. “Looks like we have plans today.”

He groans. “You want to be surrounded by pollen?”

“Yes.” You grab his wrist, tugging him toward the nearest stall. “Come on, grump.”

He mutters something about “allergic reactions” but follows anyway.

You weave through the crowd, admiring bouquets of vibrant wildflowers and stopping to sample homemade lavender honey. At one stall, an elderly woman waves you over, offering you a delicate flower crown made of soft blue forget-me-nots.

“For you, dear,” she says kindly. “And one for your boyfriend too.”

Before you can correct her, Rafe just smirks and leans down slightly. “Yeah, sweetheart. Put it on me.”

You glare at him but place the crown on his head anyway, pressing it down a little too firmly.

He tilts his head. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous.”

He winks. “Good. That means we match.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a little flip anyway.

...

The drive back is slower this time. Not because of car trouble this time but because neither of you seem to be in any hurry. The windows are down, the late afternoon sun painting the world in gold, and the scent of wildflowers still lingers in the air, mixed with the crisp mountain breeze.

You stretch your legs out, sighing dramatically. “If I never have to trek down a winding road in the middle of nowhere again, it’ll be too soon.”

Rafe snorts, flicking his blinker on as he pulls onto the highway. “Oh, come on. You loved it.”

You turn your head to glare at him. “I tolerated it.”

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. “You didn’t complain that much.”

“That’s because I was too busy wondering if we’d end up as one of those missing persons cases.”

He glances over, smirking. “Yeah? And who was it that said, ‘Okay, fine, maybe this is kind of nice’ when we stopped at that overlook?”

Your jaw drops. “I did not say that.”

“Oh, you definitely did.”

“You’re misremembering.”

“Sure, sweetheart.” He adjusts his grip on the wheel, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Next time, I’m taking the ride back with someone else.”

“Next time?”

You freeze.

Damn it.

Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, just drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes on the road. But then, softly, almost teasingly, he adds, “Guess that means you didn’t hate it that much.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to answer, because he’s right, and if you say it out loud, it’ll mean something more than just a banter-filled road trip gone wrong.

Instead, you reach over, stealing the sunglasses hooked onto his shirt and sliding them on like they’re yours.

Rafe makes an affronted noise. “Seriously?”

“Consider it payment for keeping me alive.”

He grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t actually take them back. Instead, he glances over at you, at the oversized frames sitting just a little too big on your face, and shakes his head with a barely-there smile.

And just like that, the silence settles again. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s not filled with things left unsaid.

It’s just easy.

And as the car rolls on, the sun dipping lower behind the mountains, you realize something.

You kind of don’t want the drive to end.

Taglist: @drewstarkeyslover, @honeybee270, @melsbels-zip, @rafeycameronsgf, @vanessa-rafesgirl, @amel1ee, @magicalflowerstranger, @lilithblackkk, @starkeyxcameron, @simp4f1, @wtfdudesblog, @f3rnlee, @dinnodallas, @jjasmiineee, @drewrry, @lmaolmaos, @mattyskies, @yourmomdotcom42069, @chillgal135, @scorpiosaintt

(tagged everyone asking abt a pt 2 /3) <3

part 4 here!

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction

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seungfl0wer · 3 months ago

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*𝑫𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏*

Daddy Series:

Contains Smut

-💜

•Daddy Seungmin! Is very playful.

•He likes to tease you in anyway possible.

•Sometimes he can take it too far but he always makes it up to you.

•He’s very, very protective of you.

•He’s definitely got that scary dog privilege.

•He’s not a fighter but anyone makes you feel any type of way he’ll put them in their place one way or another.

•He definitely acts like he doesn’t wanna do cute stuff with you.

•He’ll make a big deal of it but always folding at anything his baby wants.

•Matching PJs? No. He hates it.

•Not really. He loves it.

•Loves it way more than he’ll let you know.

•He has such an aura about him too.

•The look he gives you when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to or giving him attitude?

•Is always enough to make you stop.

•You’ve seen him angry maybe once.

•Some guy trying to grab you. He would have went to jail that day if it wasn’t for you.

•He held you close telling you it wasn’t any of your fault.

•That he wasn’t mad at you.

•Reassuring you how much he loved you especially after seeing how scared you were.

•However the days you want to poke the big bad dog it’s always game over.

•He’s definitely a brat tamer.

•He does like the little attitude you give him though.

•Finding it almost adorable, like a small kitten annoying a well big dog lol.

•He’s quiet when you misbehave badly, which is even scarier.

•”Do you want to fix it before I have to?” He’d ask.

•When you keep going he can’t help but chuckle.

•Manhandling you over his leg making sure you count loud and clear as he gives you your punishment.

•After he always sits you up, having a conversation with you about what you did.

•He’s always there to reassure you that he doesn’t want to do it.

•That he still loves you, but you have to listen.

•Another form of punishment he’s uses is not letting you have any treats.

•No ice cream after dinner, no cookies. Not until you apologize.

ੈ♡˳Smut Below

•Daddy Seungmin can differ depending on his mood.

•There’s days where he manhandles you.

•Pushing you up against the wall, pulling at your clothes because god you look to pretty.

•These days you’ll leave with marks all over you.

•Soft purple marks all over your neck, nail marks in your soft skin from him holding onto you so tightly.

•Softer days he’s unbearably slow.

•Taking his damn slow time.

•Treating you like glass.

•Soft touches, sensual kisses. Sweet words.

•He’s really good at pushing your boundaries though. In a respectful way.

•He’ll never do anything you don’t want

•You like being spanked though? He’s seeing how many you can take.

•Overstimulation? He’s seeing how many orgasms he can pull from you till you’re crying.

•Some of his favorite things phrases are.

•”see what that attitude brings you”

•”such a filthy thing aren’t you?”

•”you want more? So greedy”

•”begging isn’t gonna get you anywhere sweetheart”

•Aftercare with daddy Seung is full of cuddles.

•He’s not moving from until he knows you’re alright.

•He’ll whisper against your skin how much he loves you.

•How you’re so perfect and you’re all his.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

Taglist: @satosugu4l @do-you-remember-summer-127 @xines16 @minh0scat @troublemaker02 @tr-mha-fan @lunearta @velvetmoonlght @minghaosimp @ldysmfrst @felixleftchickennugget

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synthetickitsune · 1 year ago

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Cozy and Comfy ✧ l.jh

Pairing: Lee Jihoon x gn!reader Genre: fluff Summary: Jihoon doesn’t understand why you like lying on top of him so much no matter how many times you explain. To be honest he isn't sure why he misses it when you suddenly stop but he'll get to the bottom of the mystery. Word count: 3.5k A/N: it's soft hours for woozi rn.

There are a few things Jihoon values above all else. Some of these things are his privacy and personal space - understandably so, after living and spending most of his time with twelve other guys for a significant part of his life.

However, this is his private time now and even though he might not be the biggest fan of physical affection, his hand cradles your head to his chest. His other hand is on the small of your back to reassure you he’s there.

You seem most satisfied like this, seeking out this exact position night after night whenever he comes home to you. He doesn’t mind, if he’s being completely transparent - he likes it too. This sort of intimacy that seems to help him recharge instead of draining him further. He wonders if it’s going to be the same once you live together, wonders if he’ll mind if this little ritual stops.

Jihoon remembers the beginning, when you shyly proposed the idea and he let you do whatever you wanted because he was curious. There was a wide smile on your face when you crawled between his legs and settled almost fully on top of him. You were adorable, gently rubbing your face against his chest. He teased you - are you a cat or what? He didn’t want you to get up, didn’t expect that you wouldn’t recognize the humor in his voice. Before he could say anything, his body reacted on its own to stop you. It felt even better when he was holding you, he discovered. And his touch was enough to let you know he wants you to stay right there.

And now here you are.

Today your hand is stretched slightly so you can play with his hair. It’s getting inconvenient at this length but he has to admit your attention makes it slightly better. He lets you mess with the tips and pull at them gently. He even allows you to loosely braid the strands you can reach. Maybe it’s that he’s already slowly drifting off, maybe it’s that he’s just in love.

He’d like to have more time with you, but the nights usually end like this - with him suddenly falling asleep before he can realize how tired he is and you waking him up so softly and gently he doesn’t mind it at all. It’s nice, if he’s honest. To have someone to trust, to have you slowly lead him to the bedroom. You look so sheepish after having to wake him up that it always feels like the first time you gave him the privilege to be led to your room.

It’s the perfect way to spend the night. This way he gets to fall asleep next to you twice instead of just once.

Jihoon doesn’t understand why you like lying on top of him so much no matter how many times you explain. Not that he minds - he just can’t comprehend what you’re saying to him.

He doesn’t get your excited you’re so cozy and comfy. He gets that he’s warm, sure, or that you like hearing his heartbeat. He also likes it when you sometimes sneak your hand under his shirt and put it above his heart. Just as he’s fond of moments when nothing can help you relax but lying like this while you’re both naked, with nothing but a blanket covering you. Hell, it’s nice is fine too. But the rest of it? It’s just confusing.

What he also doesn’t understand, and what pretty much solves the question of whether he’d miss lying with you like this if you stopped doing it as often, is what’s been going on these past few days.

It’s not literally always that you lie on top of him, sometimes it’s too hot or you’re just not feeling as affectionate or one of you is in pain or sick. But none of this applies now. He knows this because it’s definitely not hot, he checked that you’re feeling fine, and you’re all over him otherwise.

It’s just that you won’t take part in your little ritual.

Last night you did for a bit but you were restless and squirming until you gave up and laid tucked into his side. Now, he’s not complaining about that - it also feels nice but it’s not exactly what he’s used to and what he started to look forward to each day that he’s spending with you.

On the fourth day he cracks and once he lies down, he opens his arms for you. Jihoon knows he’s cheating because you never say no if he explicitly asks for any type of affection. He figures there’s no harm, though, thinking that maybe you’re just feeling a little self conscious as you sometimes do. He sees the surprise on your face, feels reassured by the giddy laugh from your lips and how happily you take your place where you belong. He might hold you just a little tighter for a bit. Just maybe. He pretends he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

Yet even though everything seemed fine, like things returned to normal, they didn’t. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s impossible to mask your squirming when you’re literally on top of him.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, his brows furrowed into a concerned frown. Are you feeling uncomfortable with the position all of a sudden? Are you hurt? He trusts you to say something if that was the case, but maybe you needed some encouragement? Needed him to show that he cares? His hold loses some of its strength.

“Yeah, why?” you turn your head to look at him. To your credit, you keep lying on him, and even if your voice is nothing but curious, he feels like you’re calling him out. Daring him to say he misses the affection he sometimes playfully teases you about. He contemplates for a moment before he decides that he trusts you. Really trusts you. And he’s… worried.

He might not understand what you mean by him being cozy and comfy to lay on but he knows it’s what he wants to be. He doesn’t think anything about him changed, so he wonders if maybe he did something that changed your perception of him. He licks his lips, ready, and then groans nonetheless. He knows you won’t tell anyone, but still…

“It’s just, uh, you don’t seem comfortable and I don’t know, did something happen? Did I do something?”

His hand moves from the back of your head to your face, gently caressing your face with his fingers. Did you maybe just feel uncomfortable sharing whatever is the issue with him? He doesn’t know why you’d feel that way, but he’s ready to do whatever he needs to if it means getting your trust back.

“Hey, Jihoon,” you call his name softly, as if you knew just what was going on in his head. You scoot closer to him, a movement which naturally makes him curl an arm around your waist. “It’s nothing. It’s really nothing.”

“Yeah?” he asks and immediately cringes at how defensive he sounds, “Sorry.”

You smile and pull away, slowly moving to straddle him once he lets you. Soon you guide his hands back to your waist.

“Have you started working out more?” you ask and it makes the frown on Jihoon’s face deepen.

“No, I don’t think so,” he shrugs. If anything, it was a struggle to fit the work outs into his schedule. He couldn’t have more of them if he wanted to. “Why? Do you think I should - or should work out less?”

“No, not at all,” you’re quick to reassure him, “It’s just that your body is, uhm, harder lately.”

Your voice gets weaker towards the end, but not enough that he would have trouble hearing you, although he can’t really imagine what you mean.

“Explain?” he asks, blinking a couple times. You groan, leaning down to hide your face in his shoulder.

“It’s just that, well, usually you’re kind of soft and comfortable? Like not soft soft but just, I don’t know, nice to lay on,” you rush with the explanation but that’s okay - so far Jihoon understands nothing anyway, “But lately you’re so hard - your body, I mean. Like you’re turning into a rock or something. Are you sure you’re not overdoing it at the gym?”

It’s a bit too much information that he doesn’t know what to do with. Again, he’s not sure what you mean exactly, so he stares at you for a second or two before he finally speaks up.

“We started adding more weights recently, so maybe,” he shrugs.

“And you didn’t notice something is different?” you ask, rising from your hiding spot. You seem confused - just as confused as he is.

“Well it’s not like I poke myself to know what my body feels like, y/n,” he deadpans, “I’m more sore but something hurts all the time, so I can’t say I noticed much of a difference.”

He watches as your expression morphs into one of concern and he’s so grateful for his quick reflexes that allow him to pull you down before you can get up from his lap. “What’s wrong?”

“You tell me when it hurts, right?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth. He smiles softly and nods. He’s glad when you relax, but he keeps his hands on your hips anyway. “You rest enough, right?”

He resists rolling his eyes and just confirms instead. “You know I have to take care of my body if I want to do this for a long time - and that includes rest.”

“And eating proper meals,” you remind him. He chuckles, agreeing with you easily. “If you’re short on time and need a meal quickly just let me know.”

He smiles, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kisses the back of your hand. He’s grateful for you, truly. But he can’t help but wonder if you know how much you’re actually doing for him. If you’re aware even all the little things add up.

“I appreciate that, but you know I can just order-”

Before he can finish the sentence, there’s a finger pressed against his lips. He doesn’t protest upon seeing the determination in your eyes. “You know what I want to say, right?”

“Of course,” he sighs, his lips still turned up, “And you know I enjoy when you cook for me.”

The way you beam at him one would think he’s never told you before. But he did. Every time. Because it was true and the least he could do.

It gets quiet for a while, but Jihoon’s happy enough to know that nothing’s wrong. He knows his overworked muscles will eventually get stronger and heal, returning to their original consistency that was apparently soft but not soft soft. There’s always a chance that you’ll get over your fondness for this particular position, but that’s something only time will tell. For what it’s worth in the eyes of fate, he hopes you never will.

With the crisis over, his body starts to feel the day again. As if all the aches simply hid to make room for his insecurity and only now started to come back once the air cleared. He tries to push back the yawn, but fails yet again. He hears you shake your head, well familiar with the sight. He holds you tighter before you can think about leaving.

“We can move to bed, you’ll fall asleep soon anyway,” you rub your hands over his chest, but Jihoon is nothing if not stubborn. So despite his aching body, he flips you sideways and traps you between his body and the edge of the couch. He takes more pride than he probably should from the fact that you cling to him despite his not soft body. He’s holding you. He wouldn’t let you fall.

“In a while, I like this thing we have,” he mumbles, taking advantage of your face still buried in his chest where you can’t see the longing in his eyes.

You know it’s a lost fight anyway, and it’s not hard to oblige when the prize is being held by Jihoon and relaxing watching whatever you put on. He always tells you that the pillows are more comfortable than him, but you’re pretty sure you saw him frowning while you took one to put under your head.

You settle into a more comfortable position with your back against his chest and his arm loosely thrown over your waist. You can’t even remember the last time you spooned like this. It’s nice. Regardless, you miss your usual position. It allows you to watch him once he falls asleep, and his heartbeat is nicer under your palm or your ear instead of against your spine.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel as his breathing evens out against your neck. His face is buried in your hair and you don’t understand how that can be comfortable. You won’t complain, though, when you are so perfectly surrounded by his warmth. You feel your own eyes becoming heavy. You’re actually looking forward to your bed, but you don’t have the heart to wake up Jihoon yet. It’s always a gamble, trying to allow him to sleep for as long as you can without falling asleep yourself, but you have yet to lose. You are responsible for his comfort, after all. And that’s a job you do best.

Things get back to how they were eventually. Jihoon’s body regenerated enough that it’s returned to the cozy state now, even though he still has some reservations regarding the label. One day you went as far as to call his biceps squishy, which he has yet to process.

Overall, though, things are peaceful.

Just as he wanted.

Only today was tough. Really tough.

One of those days he’s so grateful he could cry for taxis being a thing. He doesn’t know how he’d make it home otherwise and still he managed to doze off in the car. At least he’s familiar enough with the route to your apartment that he can manage it even half asleep. It’s a small miracle he doesn’t stumble and fall on the stairs.

You on the other hand think it’s a miracle he’s made it this far without passing out cold.

The moment you opened the door - or more precisely the moment you had to open the door you knew something was wrong. If your boyfriend can’t even unlock the door himself, something is very wrong.

It’s heartbreaking to see him like this, but at least he’s out of it enough not to mind your concerned gaze on him as he shoos you away so he can take off his shoes. A herculean task it seems because it takes him forever. You’re close to telling him to just come in anyway when he pulls them off at the last second.

You help him straighten up under the guise of taking off his jacket - something he usually doesn’t allow either, but it’s not wildly off limits. Neither is hugging him as a greeting. If you cling to him a little to help him to the bedroom, that’s between you and the sky above because you believe he falls asleep on you for a minute there. A belief that comes concerningly close to being the truth when he blinks and looks around the room as if he had no idea where he is.

“This is the bedroom,” he slurs the words together, but at least you know he’s not sleepwalking yet.

“Yeah - look at you, Jihoon. Where else do you think we should be?” you chide, gently. He can be moody when he’s tired, though you think he’s not in a state where his brain is capable of processing something as complex as a mood.

Instead of answering, he nods in the vague direction of the living room. You have half a mind to scold him, but then think better of it. Another thing about tired Jihoon is that he’s even more stubborn.

“Okay, sure, we can go there, but wash up first, hm?” you instruct him and turn to walk away when he grabs your wrist. His hand falls limply back down, but it achieves what he wanted.

“Why? I’ll do it later,” he argues, frown pulling at his features.

“You won’t, love, and we both know it. Now, you can either wash up yourself while I heat up some food, or I can help you and then get you the food, so?”

One more thing about Jihoon is that he’s infuriatingly determined to take care of himself without relying on others. Especially when it comes to you.

He’s getting better though. You see it when his lips pout slightly but he still gets up and heads to the bathroom.

You take that as your sign to head to the kitchen to warm up the soup you made earlier. It’s not much, but you hope he’ll be stronger later and you’ll manage to persuade him to eat a proper meal. For now, though, the soup will have to do. You don’t think he would manage anything requiring him to put actual effort into eating.

Just as you begin pouring the warm substance into a bowl, you hear footsteps in the living room. You follow their trail across the room in your head and then breathe a sigh of relief at the soft thud where the couch should be. You carry the soup over, not too hot, just the right temperature to eat.

Jihoon is already sitting there, although it looks like he’d much rather fall sideways and sleep. You hand him the bowl carefully, however you never get to give him the spoon as he just drinks the liquid straight from the bowl. You sigh, but leave him to it and carry the utensil back to the kitchen. He’s done with the soup when you return, but he looks so miserable that you decide to put the dirty dish further away on the table and deal with it later.

You sit down next to him but don’t stay put for too long, lying down and opening your arms for him. He looks at you with pure confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“Come on,” you sigh, motioning for him to lay down. He looks hesitant, if a bit more awake.

“I’m heavy,” he counters.

“Weighted blanket. Stop fighting and just lay down. I’ll push you off if it’s too much,” you raise your brows at him in a clear challenge. He might be more stubborn, but you’d win this fight since you wouldn’t fall asleep halfway through it. He sighs, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath. He does move though, and you make space for him between your legs, helping him settle over your body. All that working out and yet he struggles to hold himself above you, his body shaking with the effort.

“It’s alright, lie down,” you coax him, slowly. He all but melts over you once your bodies touch, like butter on a warm toast. He looks so comfortable you feel a little bad for guiding him to a more comfortable position with his head on your chest. It’s for him to lay comfortably, of course, but it also gives you easy access to his hair.

First you smooth any stray hair away from his face, maybe taking just a second to caress his skin while he allows the affection. Your fingers glide through the locks without any trouble. Again and again you brush your fingers through them, enjoying the texture, scratching across his scalp like you know he likes. You think how much you’ll miss this when he cuts his hair short again.

“Stop, I’ll fall asleep,” he murmurs, words barely recognizable, “I haven’t asked about your day yet.”

You sigh - try to, really hard you try, but fail harder. You just laugh, in love.

“It wasn’t anything special,” you assure him, “There’s always later if you’re curious.”

You think he tries to nod, a little jerk of his head against your chest. He presses his face further into your chest, his ear right above your heart. You know the feeling well, holding your breath - hoping. Hoping he’ll find the same comfort in you as you find in him.

“It’s really nice,” he more so breathes than whispers. And soon enough, his breathing slows down and evens out, his body getting heavier like a blanket pushing you into the cushions of the couch.

You smile for a second, and then return to playing with his hair.

This is what home should feel like, you decide. Like the trust he puts in you by letting his guard down, like the unconditional love he shows you by always holding you while he falls asleep - but also like the safety in knowing there will be a new day and nothing will change.

You’ll still have each other.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #woozi x reader #woozi scenario #svthub #seventeen imagines #svt x reader #svt fluff #woozi fluff

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hwallazia · 1 year ago

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ANT!FRAGILE – 최산

⋆ synopsis. you pamper your successful boyfriend after his dream night at coachella.

pairing. idol bf! san & fem!reader

taglist. @bro-atz @purplenimsicle | apply to join my taglist ♡

wc. 3,1k

warnings. unprotected sex (wrap before tap!), bath sex, slight degradation? (reader’s referred as “dumb girl” once), dirty talk, softdom!san, sub!reader, dacryphilia?, slight overstimulation, hickeys, size difference, bulge kink, cow girl position, pet names (princess, love, darling & more), teasing, squirt, suggestive language (yn tells wooyoung to kill himself, jokingly! they’re two very friendly friends ;)), coachella san (as a warning itself, yes).

nic’s notes ⋆ this took way too long for no reason at all (⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠￣⁠;⁠) but here it is! my brain rot of coachella san (ofc with teeth rotting fluff at the end bc i’m the one writing it) also, lowercase is intentional!

you should’ve seen it coming after you found out that your boyfriend, san, would be performing at an event as important as coachella. not that you were complaining though.

you knew how much your boyfriend loves attention, how much it turned him on to hear the fans scream for him, and how the cameras adjust their lens to zoom in on his face or his toned muscles from dancing and moving from side to side. there were constant conversations in which san would ask you “should i wear this?”, “if i unbutton a couple of buttons will i get a reaction from atiny?” of course, you’d tell him dismissively that no matter what he does, he’d always get a reaction from everyone, from you especially.

but taking off his shirt in the middle of a concert? really?

you had already seen him without clothes on the upper part of his body, of course, —and also without clothes down there, but let’s omit details—. the thing here’s that you knew how cautious he was with his clothing, always trying to cover what was most important. but this surprised you, and immensely.

it is, in fact, a sight for sore eyes. but a certain level of jealousy invaded your body; you liked to think that you were the only one with the privilege of seeing his well-worked body. but now millions of people and locals would have photos and videos of your shirtless boyfriend on stage. you definitely couldn’t accept it, even though the entire internet already knows exactly what ateez’s choi san looks like underneath the expensive fabric that covers him at concerts.

you were fully aware that this was his job, and that he was paid for it, but did it really have to be him? why not any other member? maybe seonghwa? or mingi! what about him? he also has a pretty active and... desperate fanbase. it was obvious that more than one fan would pay to get, at least, a glimpse of his abs. so, with so many options, why was your boyfriend the exposed person?

but of course you couldn’t show up in his dressing room with a jealous expression clearly decorating your face, you had to act like the sweet and tender girlfriend you were and put jealousy aside for a moment. your boyfriend had just finished performing on a dream stage for any artist, you couldn’t ruin his night because of a little scene.

you weren’t a jealous or toxic lover; you were a conservative one. you liked knowing that you were special to san and you expected exclusivity from him; consequently, he would receive the same treatment. but you should’ve expected it when you started dating choi san. he’s an idol and that's his job: to cause, in any way, the attention of the fans which, consequently, would keep them afloat or flying through the charts.

but, that was an indelible feature of yours. therefore, in some way, you would make it noticeable.

you hit your knuckles a few times, with moderate intensity, against the modern metallic door decorated by a gold star that highlighted your boyfriend’s band name. you watched as the handle turned slightly and opened the door wide, managing to discover wooyoung with a foaming glass of champagne that found its rest in the palm of her hand. behind his figure, you could see mingi sitting on a noticeably comfortable leather couch next to yunho, both of them clinking their glasses together with a clink; yeosang and seonghwa taking a selfie in the mirror and jongho and hongjoong talking animatedly, perhaps about the upcoming scenarios you thought.

“what the hell are you doing here?” wooyoung said, looking at you confusingly. you narrowed your eyes slightly at his quick lack of courtesy.

“good night to you too, wooyoung. you were incredible out there.” you replied sarcastically, hoping he would finally greet you properly.

“oh thank you so much. but seriously, what are you doing here?” he asked once again.

“what do you mean what am i doing here? i came to congratulate y’all for the show because you totally killed it. all the atiny around me went absolutely feral because of you guys.” you praised, and wooyoung grinned nicely. jongho and hongjoong came up behind him, intrusively joining the conversation.

“well thank you very much, yn.” jongho responded and you gave him your purest smile, truly meaning your words.

“but i also came here to congratulate my boyfriend personally?” you interrogated since his figure wasn’t appearing in your visual field.

“that’s why i was asking! damn, you really don’t listen." wooyoung sentenced, his gaze being comparable to that of a mother scolding her daughter. “as soon as the concert was over, he changed and went to the hotel to see you. he thought you’d be there.”

“but i don’t have a ride home, and my phone died” you explained, doe-eyed as you waited for wooyoung, or any of the boys, to take the hint and quickly take you to the hotel to your boyfriend.

“you could just ask for it, you know?” wooyoung tsked, but finally surrendered to your big, brown eyes with a sigh. “give me two seconds to look for the car keys. i’ll take you there.”

and that’s what he did as fast as lighting since he knew they’d only have that night all for themselves before flying back out to korea. the next day would be full of promotion of their songs to the locals and their stage in coachella, so san wouldn’t be able to even spend a bit of his day with you.

during the ride to the hotel, wooyoung spoke, “hey just don’t tire him out since we have quite the amount of work to do tomorrow.”

“you know, you could say something like ‘have a nice time together’, ‘take care of him’, ‘call me if you need anything-” before you could continue, he interrupted you briskly.

“oh hell no. the both of you are responsible adults who know how to take care of themselves without someone else’s help so don’t even try to bother me tonight because i’m exhausted as shit.” he confessed, hands adjusting their position on the steering wheel when cornering.

“oh so now you’re saying i’m a burden?” you asked ironically, knowing wooyoung would catch it was only a joke.

“oh you do know how to think!” he smiled looking away from the road for a bit to lock gazes with you. wrinkles decorated the corner of your eyes as you closed them a little.

“go kill yourself.” you huffed.

“shut up, you love me,” his puckering lips sent a flying kiss to you. he stopped his words briefly, “actually you kind of have to, since i’m taking you with your beloved boyfriend.”

“touché” you agreed.

the ride to the hotel was quick and calm since you were talking and joking animatedly with wooyoung. and when you least expected it, the car stopped moving. consequently, you turned to look out through your window, yellow lights, and gold decorations hurting your eyes with how beaming they looked, even when it was one in the morning.

“here we are.” wooyoung turned to look at you, his sincere eyes transmitting warmth, “remember what i told you-”

“yeah, i got it mom,” you answered, rolling your eyes vexingly. the man gave you an annoying gaze, so you replied, “what? you’re acting as if you were my mother! chill out, for fuck’s sake. as you said, both of us are responsible adults who know how to take care of ourselves.” you used his own words as a weapon to defend yourself against his exaggerated concern.

“whatever. just go,” he unlocked the car’s door so you could get out of the car once you finished your little conversation. “he’s been a pain in the ass lately because he hasn’t had time to see you.”

“imma get going then,” your hand approached the car door handle and finally opened it and got out of the vehicle. “thank you, woo. i owe you one.”

“you owe me way too many to count ’em” wooyoung wheezed. “but yeah, we’ll add it to the list.” he gave you one final smile, which you reciprocated sweetly.

you finally closed the door and watched wooyoung make his way back to where coachella was taking place, he’d probably go to enjoy the rest of the night’s stages with his members. you genuinely wished for him to do well and arrive with the boys safely, but now you had something more important to do: pamper your successful boyfriend after his dream night at coachella.

after you saw wooyoung getting lost on the dark LA highway, you turned around and ran towards the hotel to get into the elevator and quickly dial the floor of your boyfriend’s room.

once there, before your brain could think about it, your legs moved on their own and guided you recklessly toward the door. you hit your knuckles against it a few times, but there was no response.

“sannie? it’s yn. are you there?” you mutter softly against the door frame. another moment of silence came in response.

remembering your boyfriend had given you the key card, you pulled it out of your coat and faced it against the handle. after a soft peep sounded, you opened the door. just to be greeted with a dim-lighted room.

you wandered around the room, looking carefully at the floor so as not to bump your feet against any furniture or step on any item of clothing that, perhaps in a hurry, had been forgotten on the carpeted floor. you kept repeating your boyfriend’s name until the silence stunned you. the dazzling city lights illuminating what the poor little lamp that rested on the nightstand could not illuminate.

suddenly everything went silent. until you heard, in the back of your head, a faded tune. you quickly recognized the melody and started humming the song, the lyrics of the weeknd’s starboy being the only thing you could think about.

once again, you knocked a few times on the door, this time receiving a response from the other side. a dull “who is it?” was heard. “it’s me, love. yn.” you replied.

“oh, babe! come in!” he said happily, you could imagine the adorable smile drawn on his lips.

you turned the handle gently. and lord, didn’t the scenery you were greeted with turned you on.

your boyfriend’s toned body resting on the bathtub, lavender-scented bubbles covering most of it, his nipples being exposed to the fresh bathroom air that would soon turn into a heavier one, and his arms resting on each side of the tub. a serene, yet excited, expression decorating your boyfriend’s gaze.

“hi, beautiful,” he welcomed you. his eyes becoming crescent moons due to the effect of his beaming smile.

“there they are, those beautiful eyes i love so much,” you mumbled, walking right next to him to caress his left cheek soothingly. “how’re you feeling, champ?”

“alive as fuck,” both of you giggled at his response, your loving gaze locking with his for a moment of comfortable silence. suddenly you felt his hand fondling yours.

“mind joining me here?” his sharp eyes turning darker than they already were as they looked at you. fortunately for your boyfriend, you were willing to give him the moon and the stars that night.

you still can’t explain how you ended up on top of san, the water covering up to your navels, while he moved his thumb masterfully over your clit and his fingers repeatedly entered your cunt. his phalanges stretched you deliciously, causing several moans and moans from you.

“is that the spot, sweetheart? you're shaking so much.” his voice was hoarse and deep as the ocean, causing dizziness to affect your common sense.

“y-yes, don’t stop, please- ahh! ngh...” you could barely answer.

“sorry, love.” he announced before stopping his movements, drawing a annoyed, pathetic whine from your swollen lips. before you could insult him, he spoke first. “’wanna feel your tight cunt cumming around me, pretty.” during his brief pause, a pitiful cry from you was heard. “will you let me?”

“yes!” you answered desperately, “y...yes, i’m all yours, sannie. use me.”

san let out deep groan, which resonated inside your ears and made your heart jump out of your ribcage for a second. you rapidly adjusted yourself so you could reach the height of his crotch and massage his veiny, prominent erection, then align it to your entrance.

“go down slowly, don’t want my pretty girl to break.” he expressed, his soft, low voice driving you insane. still, you looked at him with cocked eyebrows.

“break? hah. surely, coachella drove your ego up to the clouds.” your eyes stabbing daggers into his. his hands found a home on your hips, slightly drawing them down to insert his cock inside you. your hand landing on his bare chest stopping his every move.

“nah. it’s just that you’re kind of fragile after all.”

you knew he was messing with you, provoking you. if there was one thing he always reminded you of, it was how strong, determined, and passionate you were, and it was one of the many features that made him fall deeply in love with you.

“let’s see who’s the fragile one here” you went down without warning on his cock, surprisingly touching your cervix all at once. a moan was snatched from both of you. your shaking body began to move carefully up and down him.

“f-fuck, yn- mm,” you heard a strangled moan from your lover, his lower lip was caught in between his teeth.

“f-fragile? that’s y...your- ah! your shit ass cock.” you manage to respond, notoriously provoking him.

“i don’t think it’s a shit ass cock, beautiful- ngh.” he panted, “just look how full you are.” he held your hand delicately despite the momentary brutality and placed it over your belly, a small lump formed there, “full of me, and my shit ass cock.” san breathed, kissing your collarbone, leaving cute lovebites in it. “you cry and beg for it every single night, hun. what does that have to say about you, hm?” a pitiful whine left your lips, demonstrating san that you were truly incapable of formulating coherent words. you were just too fucked out.

“well, lemme tell you,” he continued. “you’re just a dumb girl who needs to be fucked by a big fucking cock, otherwise, you don’t stop whining.” he said profoundly, his voice stimulating all your senses at once as he absolutely ravished you. “isn’t that right, princess?”

“i- ah! sannie, pleeease.” you blubbered, your eyes shedding the most precious tears.

“i asked you a question, darling. and i expect you to answer.” he sentenced sternly, grabbing your jaw and mushing your cheeks together. a pout was, therefore, formed on your lips.

“yes! yesyesyes, you’re right. i just need and think about being fucked by your big fucking cock-” you acknowledged, immersed and lost in the feeling, feeling like he was fucking you just like the first time.

“you’re such a cutie when you whine for me.” he chuckled while you, on the other hand, couldn’t hold back your screams anymore. his eyes stuck to your bouncing breasts, and your parted lips.

“what happened, princess? is it too much?” he cooed at you, looking at you adoringly, his eyes beaming at the sight of you.

“n-no,” you tried with all your might not to stumble over your words, but it was almost impossible since your thoughts were interrupted by the intrusion of your boyfriend's cock into your tight cunt.

“no? let’s see if it is now,”

your bastard boyfriend directed his hand toward your vagina, his ring finger and middle finger deliciously touched your clit. san watched as you exploded inside, his cock was bringing you closer to an abysmal orgasm that you doubted you could withstand, but you were a masochist, and despite all of this, you continued to go up and down on his cock sloppily.

“san! i’m s-so close- fuck!” your frowned eyebrows, reddened cheeks, swollen lips, and arched back made san float, he couldn’t worship you more than he already did at that moment. he was internally so grateful that you were his. only his to kiss, to hug, to fuck, and to adore.

you had had many guys behind you in the past, and they all promised the same thing: ‘i promise you the moon and the stars’, but absolutely none of them reached the level that choi san reached, who promised and delivered to make you see the stars, the moon and– fuck, he made you see the entire milky way every time you were with him.

“go on, babe. let it out for me, i got you,” he hid his face in the crook of your neck when you slowed down bouncing, and then he lifted it up. his lips brushed your neck, a position which he took advantage of to lick and suck on the side of it, adorning it with some nice and new hickeys next to the ones he did some moments ago.

san did everything he could to give you a good orgasm, a strong one, but pleasant. he loved seeing your expression as you had reached the peak of pleasure, a squirt erupted between your bodies, causing strangled moans to come from both mouths. your walls became tighter, squeezing out every drop of cum held in san’s hard cock. you felt how a strip of that viscous, white essence warmed your insides even more. the feeling even being comfortable in some kind of way.

“see? i didn’t break, idiot. hah,” you huffed out a sigh, looking at that beautiful face that you would never get tired of.

“mhm, you’re always so strong and beautiful. aren’t you, my love?” he reacted breathlessly as he stroked your cheek, as if it were the finest diamond.

“always, and only for you,” you wrinkled your nose as you looked at him foolishly in love.

you turned and felt stupid every time you were around this man, but what could you say? you weren’t complaining at all.

that man was capable of loving you in all your facets, in all your states and moments.

you were also grateful that choi san was yours, and solely yours.

“well, big boy,” you started, settling into his chest with him still inside you, keeping you warm, “i’m very proud of you and your achievements, love. you really brought home the trophy.”

“actually, you came here all by yourself.” he flirted, a cocky smile causing a giggle to ring inside your ribcage. “hm. thank you, princess. but the actual trophy is you and will always be you.”

you hid your face with your hands, splashing a little water unintentionally, “don’t start being all mushy, you softie. i’m gonna cry otherwise,”

he laughed, his voice causing your skin to vibrate lightly. “okay okay. wanna finally wash up?”

“can we just... stay like this? just for a bit,” you closed your eyes, enjoying the warmth your boyfriend provided you.

“of course, princess. whatever you want,” he held you in his arms safely, making you sleepy. two minutes of silence filled with tranquility and love passed, until san started talking, “remember you’re always my trophy.” he muttered lowly with his honey-dripping voice.

“babe,”

“hm?”

“shut up.”

| masterlist

#© hwallazia #ateez #ateez smut #choi san #choi san smut #san smut #san x reader #choi san x reader #san fanfic #choi san imagine #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic

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notlongtolove · 5 months ago

Text

your hand in my hand

after derek’s less-than-intellectual speech about how he was not spending four uninterrupted hours on a train with reid, hotch’s solution was to pair you with spencer instead. and between your notorious driving and spencer’s—well, spencer’s worse driving, the only logical option was the train.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: mutual pining spencer and bau!reader embark on a 4 hour train ride and share some cute moments over a wordsearch book

word count: 3.1k

note: finished finals n hopped on a flight n came back n wrote this on 4 hours of sleep jst bc i couldn't get the idea of a train ride out of my head...

a line: The sight of your bag in his hand was one you could get used to. It was a sight that made you think of Sunday mornings and shared coffee mugs.

It’s beautiful out there— fields, little lakes and winter trees in February sunlight, every car park a shining mosaic. Long radiant minutes, your hand in my hand, still warm, still warm. -wendy cope

“I still think this is a terrible idea.”

“It’s only a four-hour train ride.”

“Yeah, but it could’ve been a two-hour drive.”

“Two? It’s three at the minimum. Danville is—”

“Not if I’m driving,” you smirk.

“And that is exactly why I told Hotch I would not be getting in a car with you.”

Hotch had assigned you and Spencer to check out a secondary lead while the rest of the team travelled out to work a case. After Derek’s less-than-intellectual speech about how he was not spending four uninterrupted hours on a train with Reid, Hotch’s solution was to pair you with Spencer instead. And between your notorious driving and Spencer’s—well, Spencer’s worse driving, the only logical option was the train.

Not that it stopped Spencer from pointing out every possible flaw in your driving on the way to the station.

“I’m not that bad, I swear!” you had protested, rolling your eyes.

“You got two speeding tickets in the last two months.”

“One month,” Garcia had chimed in over the phone. “And actually, technically, it’s three tickets.”

You groaned. “The third one didn’t count! The cop was just—”

“And don’t even get me started on your sense of direction,” Spencer mumbled.

“Pretty girl, I love you, but I’d get in a car with Reid before you, and that’s saying a lot,” Morgan’s voice rang out from over the line.

“Thank you!—Wait, hey!” Spencer spluttered.

By the time you make it to the station, its clear that your BAU Jet Privileges had not prepared you for public transportation. “Wheels up in thirty” definitely did not translate to “trains only leave when you’re ready.”

“Can’t we just tell them we’re, like, important or something?” you grumbled, stretching to peek over the crowd in front of you.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Spencer muttered, clutching his satchel as he scanned the line. His brow furrowed in that nervous way you’ve come to recognize, the one he always got when cases ran too close to the wire or people hovered just a little too close in his personal space.

As they announced the final boarding call over the station’s intercom, Spencer’s anxiety ramped up, practically vibrating beside you. You, of course, were less concerned. “Relax,” you teased, nudging him. “What are they gonna do, leave without us?”

“Yes,” Spencer snapped. “That’s actually exactly what they’re going to do.”

When a harried-looking attendant opened a new line to speed things up, Spencer grabbed your bag—“God, what is in here?”—and marched you both toward the front of the queue.

“You two together?” she asked, as she gestured between the two of you.

“Oh, uh, no—just friends,” Spencer stammered, color rising in his cheeks.

She blinked at him.

“Spence, she’s referring to our tickets.”

“Oh! Right, right.” He fumbled with his pocket as you handed yours over, suppressing a grin.

Flustered Spencer was your favorite Spencer. Of course, you’d never admit it out loud, but there was something endlessly endearing about seeing him off-balance, especially if you were the cause. Not the encyclopedia, not the profiler, just Spencer. It was a rare glimpse into the version of him you cherished most. The Spencer who remembered your coffee order, who stayed up with you in hotel lobbies when you’ve had one too many said cups of coffee, who once held your hand for 15 whole minutes after you found a kid’s drawing in a victim’s room and couldn’t keep it together.

It was also a little dangerous. Not in the same way your driving was dangerous (though Spencer might argue otherwise), but in the way where you sometimes wondered if you’d crossed some invisible line. If the lingering hugs and casual touches that weren’t exactly casual meant more than either of you were willing to say. But those were dangerous thoughts, ones best left in the quiet recesses of your mind. So you pushed them aside, as you always did, and focused on the here and now.

The here and now being Spencer, still blushing faintly as he grabbed your bag and adjusted it over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with some internal muttering about how much you packed. When the attendant waved you through with a tired smile and Spencer started making a beeline for your platform with your bag in tow, you couldn’t help but grin.

“Thanks, partner,” you teased, earning a glare that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Just get on the train,” he grumbled, turning away before you could see the corners of his lips twitch upward.

The two of you made your way through the carriages after a brief but spirited debate about whether to walk outside along the platform to reach your assigned car or board the train immediately and navigate through it. Predictably, Spencer had won, and now you were squeezing past narrow aisles and weaving through clusters of passengers with a litany of “Excuse me,” “I’m so sorry,” and even a “I didn’t mean to step on your foot sir,” from you.

By the time you finally reached your carriage, the train had already started moving. Spencer shot you a pointed “I told you so” look that made you roll your eyes as you flopped into your seat. Spencer wrinkled his nose as he lowered himself hesitantly into the seat beside yours, clearly doing his best not to make contact with any of the surfaces he deemed less than pristine. His discomfort was almost palpable, the slight twitch of his fingers betraying his thoughts. Public transport wasn’t exactly his favorite—as he’d once explained in great detail, something about microbial colonies on handrails and seats. You leaned back, watching as he tried to situate himself, his satchel perched protectively on his lap like it might shield him from the horrors of public commuting.

“So,” you said, hoping to distract him, “what joys of reading did you bring along for this glorious journey?”

Spencer glanced at you, then sighed, reaching into his bag. “The Sign of Four,” he said, taking out a well-loved copy of the Sherlock Holmes novel.

“Ooh, a classic,” you replied with an approving nod.

“And you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he settled into the question, visibly relaxing, if only a little. His fingers smoothed the corner of his book, but his eyes stayed on you, curious.

You grinned, the kind of grin that promised trouble—or at least something Spencer would find mildly exasperating. Reaching into your bag, you dug through the chaos of receipts, snacks, and whatever else you’d deemed necessary for a four-hour train ride.

“You’re not going to watch something on your phone again are you?” Spencer said, his tone laced with a mix of exasperation and earnest concern. “You do realize that watching something on a phone during a train ride is fundamentally different from doing so on a jet, right?"

“Hold your horses,” you said, your tone light and teasing. “It’s in here somewhere.”

Spencer continued, "The vibrations and lateral motion of the train create a parallax effect that forces your eyes to constantly refocus, which can lead to ocular fatigue and even mild vertigo in some cases—”

“Calm down,” you interrupted, cutting off his impromptu lecture as you pulled out a shiny new word search book. You held it up triumphantly. “Snagged it in the station lobby.”

“I thought you said you needed the restroom.”

“I did,” you said, smirking as you flipped through the book’s pages. “And then I saw this. Couldn’t resist.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes, glancing at the bright, cartoonish cover. “It says meant for ages 10 and up.”

“And last I checked, I am most definitely over the ripe old age of 10, Genius.”

Spencer shook his head, a small, begrudging smile finally breaking through his earlier apprehension. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was a lightness in his voice now that made you grin even wider

“And yet,” you countered, “here you are, stuck with me for the next four hours. Lucky you.”

Spencer sighed dramatically, but you didn’t miss the warmth in his eyes.

The train rattled gently as it picked up speed, the two of you settling into your books. Spencer had opened his novel, but the words on the page blurred as his attention kept drifting. You weren’t exactly helping—constantly shifting in your seat, furrowing your brow in concentration as you hunched over your word search book. He tried to focus, he really did, but his gaze kept flicking away from the neat lines of his novel.

You were stuck on the word minimal when he finally caved.

“Top left, vertically,” he said without looking up.

Your brows furrowed for a moment before Spencer reached over and pointed it out for you. “Oh, thanks!” you replied cheerfully, circling the word with gusto.

At first, it had been helpful, funny even, maybe even a little cute. But by the third time he chimed in with a casual, “Parachute. Bottom right, backwards,” you were ready to stage a mutiny.

“You’re ruining word search!” you declared, tearing the book away from his gaze, clutching it dramatically to your chest.

Spencer laughed, an unrestrained, boyish sound that made your cheeks flush. “It’s not my fault you’re so bad at it!”

You gasped, leveling him with a mock glare. “Spencer Reid, you take that back right now!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, still grinning, “but it’s like you have horse blinders on or something.”

“Oh, if you’re so good, why don’t you do it?”

It wasn’t a challenge so much as an invitation, but Spencer, being Spencer, took it as both. He snatched the book from your hands, scanned the grid, and completed the puzzle in a little under two minutes.

“Show-off,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help smiling as he handed it back launching into an explanation about linguistic patterns and visual recognition.

You both settled into a rhythm, solving the rest of the puzzles side by side. You held the pencil—because, as you put it, you deserved the pencil holding honor—though Spencer still pointed out words before you even had a chance to finish reading the list.

“Butterfly. Horizontal, top left,” he said without missing a beat.

“I saw that! I was getting to it!” you protested, circling the word with exaggerated flair.

Spencer smiled to himself as he watched you, his book long forgotten. Just as you had your favorite version of him, he had his own of you, one he’d never admit aloud. There was something about these little moments—when your carefully curated wit gave way to playful exasperation—that he absolutely adored. No clever retorts, no sharp-edged humor, just you.

The two of you had been working on the word search together for a while now, the small book balanced precariously on the shared armrest between your seats. Naturally, you’d both leaned in closer without realizing it, the space between you narrowing as the train rattled along. But after a few jerks on the track Spencer notices you shifting uncomfortably in your seat, your expression tightening just slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice gentle as he glanced at you.

“Armrest’s digging into my side,” you admitted, twisting a little as if to escape the offending object, the smile you tried to muster falling a little short.

“Ah,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact, “Put it up, then.”

The version of you from an hour ago might have quipped something sarcastic, turning the moment into yet another teasing exchange. But travel fatigue had set in, and the closeness of Spencer—his voice, his warmth, the way he seemed to notice everything—had you more flustered than you cared to admit.

“Oh. Okay,” you murmured, your voice quieter than usual as you moved the armrest up and shifted in your seat. The tension in your posture eased as you repositioned, feeling the strain fade.

“Better?” he asked, his head tilting slightly as he studied your face.

“Mm. Slightly.” you replied, though the truth was that it was a lot better. Without the armrest, you found yourself acutely aware of how close he was—his arm brushing against yours, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his knee bumped against yours when the train swayed.

Spencer nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer, but the faintest hint of a smile lingered on his lips. He shifted slightly too and returned his attention to the forgotten book in his lap. But his fingers drummed idly on the cover, and you could tell his focus was no longer on Sherlock Holmes.

“Let me guess,” you said after a moment, trying to ground yourself in the familiarity of banter. “You’re going to tell me the science behind why train seats are designed to be this uncomfortable?”

Spencer glanced at you, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Actually, I was going to say that the armrests are poorly engineered for optimal comfort. But now that you mention it—”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” you interrupted, groaning as you rolled your eyes, though your grin betrayed you. “Spare me the ergonomics lecture, Doctor Reid.”

Without the armrest dividing you, the space between your shoulders disappeared almost entirely, a quiet sort of intimacy neither of you acknowledged aloud. At first, it was just the puzzle again, you gently nudging the book towards him every now and then, his finger tracing a word before you could even spot it.

“Reindeer. Top right, diagonal,” he said for the third time, his tone just shy of smug.

You circled furiously with a huff.

It didn’t take long for your enthusiasm to bubble over, the book tipping dangerously toward your face as you leaned forward in an effort to beat him to the next word. After the second near miss, Spencer plucked it from your grasp entirely, holding it at what he claimed was the optimal distance for focus while on a moving train—Though he still let you retain your pencil holding privileges.

You leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, resting your chin in your hand as you scanned the page. Now, your shoulder didn’t just brush his in passing—it lingered, resting lightly against his as you stretched toward the book in his hands. The contact was unassuming, almost accidental, but you made no move to pull away, and neither did he. Spencer noticed—you were sure of it. How could he not? But if he minded, he didn’t say anything. You caught the faintest twitch of his lips, the smallest sign that he was aware. Maybe even liked it.

You found yourself leaning more and more, your eyelids growing heavy as the minutes passed. Spencer’s presence was warm beside you, an unspoken comfort that made it easy to drift. It felt like the simplest, most natural thing to surrender to it. You’d handed Spencer the honor of holding the pencil 2 puzzles ago as your head slowly tilted, the weight of it pulling you so temptingly toward his shoulder. A soft sigh escaped you, and before you knew it, your eyes had fluttered shut. Spencer glanced down at you, the way your breathing softened, a perfect stillness that made his chest tighten.

He didn’t know if he should move away. He knew he didn’t want to. So he stayed where he was, fingers curled loosely around the book, watching as the rhythmic back-and-forth of the train mirrored the gentle rise and fall of your chest. After another slight lurch, your head finally made contact with his shoulder. Spencer stilled, his breath catching in his throat. The way your hair brushed against his cheek while your knee pressed gently against his. How your hand lay across his on the book, a lingering trace of your last attempt to spot a word before he did.

It was all too much for Spencer—and yet, it was just right.

He dared not move. He didn’t pull back, even though your hair tickled his face. His knee remained pressed against yours, despite the rhythmic sway of the train threatening to break the contact. His hand stayed where it was resting beneath yours on the book, his fingers loosely curled around the pencil, though the book was long forgotten. He stayed, in this unexpected, perfect stillness.

Before he could stop himself, his head had tilted and found its place upon yours. It was comforting, the contact grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. Spencer let his eyes close, the steady hum of the train and the warmth of your presence lulling him into a strange sense of calm.

When the train finally eased into the station, the gentle jolt stirred you awake. You felt your cheeks warm as the reality of the crowded station seeped back in, the intercom announcements and bustling crowds breaking the intimacy of the moment. Spencer’s eyes were still closed, his breathing even. With a small, almost reluctant sigh, you nudged him awake, the touch soft but insistent. He blinked, looking at you with a hint of confusion that melted into a small smile when he realized where he was.

“Hey,” you murmured, a touch of embarrassment in your voice.

“Hey,” he replied, a soft warmth in his expression.

“You dropped my word search,” you mumbled, nodding toward the book now resting forgotten on the floor between your feet.

“Hm?” He sat up straighter, looking at you with a bit of sleep still clouding his gaze. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you shifted, a little embarrassed at the way you’d curled into him, “I’m sorry I slept on you.”

Spencer’s smile was soft and reassuring. “S’fine. I didn’t mind.”

You felt a flush creep up your neck, spreading heat to your face. You quickly bent down to grab your bag, fingers fumbling with the strap, hoping the movement would distract you. But before you could lift it, Spencer’s hand closed over the strap. You feel your heart thump at the gesture, the simplicity of it making you pause for a moment longer than necessary. The sight of your bag in his hand was one you could get used to. It was a sight that made you think of Sunday mornings and shared coffee mugs. Dangerous thoughts.

As you stepped off the train, you instinctively reached for your phone, its screen lighting up with an influx of notifications. Hotch’s name stood out among the messages.

“Hm. Hotch asks if we need a driver for the ride back,” you said, raising your phone to show him, “Says he’ll send a van if we want.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he looked at the screen, the thoughtful expression on his face almost too easy to read. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice casual but with a note of curiosity.

You shrugged, the practiced ease of your movements not quite matching the fluttering in your chest. “I think we’re fine,” you replied, trying to keep your voice light, “unless you want to?”

“Yeah,” he smiled then, the corner of his lips tilting up, “Think the train was just fine.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: north by clairo saw you in a dream by the japanese house

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x bau!reader

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xjcjuis · 5 months ago

Text

COLOGNE

pairing: billie eilish x reader

synopsis: "you said she's scared of me? // maybe it's 'cause i'm wearing your cologne"

warnings: fluff, jealous!billie, some random girl named vanessa, terms of endearment teehee

wordcount: 1.1k

a/n: hi sorry i disappeared for two weeks 😢 got busy

"does this make my hips look too wide?" you ask, partly directed to yourself, partly to your girlfriend who was also in the room. you're checking yourself out in your bedroom's mirror, hands attempting to delicately smoothen out the creases in the dress's cloth.

"mm, no," billie hums, but one look in front of you tells you that she's not even paying attention.

"babe," you whine, "you're not even looking!" you twist a little to see the side view of your figure. "i think my chub's showing."

billie looks up from her phone to you, now the one checking you out with a not-so-subtle onceover before setting down the device and walking up to you.

she's clad in a black dress to match with yours, thin straps over her shoulders and the cloth itself pushing up what needs to be and accentuating what can be. you watch her come through the mirror, breath hitching when her arms smoothly wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as she takes you in almost lazily, hooded eyes gazing intensely enough that it gets you hot in an airconditioned room.

"so?" she murmurs, voice low. "nothing's wrong with you. you look so, so beautiful."

billie kisses your temple softly, letting her lips stay on your skin for a second longer than a peck. "my gorgeous girl. in fact, it's a privilege for the others to even see you in casual wear. in this?" her hands slide a little lower to rub circles on your hipbone. "i might as well keep you home and to my self, pretty baby."

"pervert." you scoff, spraying some of billie's cologne on your skin, acting annoyed but you were really feeling pretty pleased with yourself. her words definitely helped with your self-esteem, as you knew it would, and with your comment your girlfriend only laughs and lands another kiss on your cheek.

"you're perfect, my love. and so is this ass."

a playful smack, a threatened spray in the eyes from you, and she dodges and walks out the door.

"come out in a minute or i definitely will leave you at home."

"i hate you."

fast forward to the thing you were preparing for in the first place - an award show and, of course, what comes next.

after event parties were never your thing, even as a celebrity's significant other.

as a homebody you would much rather stay at home, watching tv or scrolling through your phone or perhaps reading a nice long book by the window wrapped up in your girlfriend's warm arms, but no.

instead you were here, taking up the role of billie's plus one to a post-award show celebration. it's not that you weren't happy about physically being there to support her, but being surrounded by people on another level of fame and luxury as you were was, in a sense, intimidating.

your girlfriend wasn't there to be your comfort all the time either; her friends and other singers who recognized her came over to talk. at some point the two of you had gotten separated, although you still had her in your line of sight from a distance.

"i just have to do this thing, okay baby? i'll be back."

so you stand near a wall with nothing but juice in hand, too nervous to let loose and get drunk with your safety person currently occupied. your hands were clasped together, small purse hanging from your fingers, dress starting to feel a little uncomfortable despite the seemingly endless compliments and kisses billie had thrown you for it a few hours before.

"what's a pretty girl like you doing alone?"

you jump a little at the unexpected voice. turning towards the sound, you lock eyes with a girl for a brief second before you avert your gaze, intimidated by her hooded gaze and pricey ensemble. she was pretty, yes, but she wasn't your girlfriend and so you weren't very interested in conversation.

but just to be polite, you indulge in one. "oh, i'm not alone. i'm just, um, waiting."

you shoot her a small smile, clutching your little handbag tighter and standing a little straighter.

her lips curl upward as she takes a couple steps closer, hand swiftly dropping her wine glass on a tray a waiter passing by was holding. "for? company? i'm here now. i'm vanessa."

she was a little cocky, but with a velvet voice like that, you soon fall into a comfortable discussion with her.

'how was your day's were exchanged, what do you do for work, childhood, family members - of course, not everything was spilled, but more than small talk.

the light chat turns to the subject of style and preferences, more specifically your dress, your hairstyle, your perfume.

vanessa leans too close for a whiff. not for you, she seems at a respectable enough distance from you, but definitely for billie who'd been watching from the moment she had approached you.

the singer's eyes narrow when vanessa's look the wrong way, the chatter of the personalities around her fading into the background when she gets too touchy with you, a huff of annoyance and perhaps jealousy when a random girl takes a breath of her girl's scent in.

and the fact that you didn't seem bothered by it? oh, she has got to put an end to this nonsense.

"hi, doll face." billie says intro your ear, voice an octave lower than how it had been mere seconds ago.

you feel relief flooding through your veins upon feeling familiar hands rest on you, oblivious to the staring contest billie had started with the woman in front of you long before she actually had her hands on you.

her grip on your hips tighten, more protective than usual. "sorry i took so long, i didn't mean to make you wait," she continues, pressing a kiss to your shoulder bone.

"i-" vanessa tries to speak, but billie cuts her off.

"you smell good, my love."

you twitch a little, feeling a slight tickle as your girlfriend's nose glides across your skin to plant another kiss on your jaw.

"it's your cologne, baby-" your words end abruptly as billie starts to kiss the sensitive skin of your neck, and your teeth trap your bottom lip in between them so as not to show any outward signs of your enjoyment.

vanessa, who'd grown uncomfortable at the obvious public display of affection, clears her throat at your apologetic glance. "billie, right? nice to finally meet you, i'm-"

"i don't care who you are," billie replies, blunt and straightforward. "i don't want you flirting with my girlfriend, and frankly i'm not very interested in getting to know you."

"billie!" you hiss, watching the woman walk away disgruntled. "don't be rude."

"i don't care," she repeats, hooking her fingers underneath your chin. "i don't like sharing what's mine."

and she kisses you on the mouth, fully, in the middle of a crowded room.

#☕. . . espresso! [works]#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fic #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x you #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie fluff #billie eilish fluff #fluff #billie eilish x female reader #fem!reader #gn!reader #gender neutral reader #billie eilish x gender neutral reader #billie eilish x gn!reader

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thistlerock · 2 months ago

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Pretty privilege is real because if Riz started handing out business cards again it'd be well (or at least less badly) received because he's hot now. This is extremely funny to me. Honestly anything relating to Riz having stumbled ass backwards into being hot (He's not even trying. Fabian is furious slash lighthearted abt that one.) and not really caring about it all is peak comedy. To me.

Like think about it. If you're his age or younger and this Goblin kills someone really well because that's what he does, and he adjusts his tie and pulls a business card out of his vest and he's covered in tattoos (and if it's after combat I guess there's a decent chance he's a little bloody too) and his hair is dishevelled but looks good now and he hands it over casually because he learned how to social interaction at some point and has +9 to persuasion and just goes "Riz Gukgak, private eye." What the fuck. That's not "kid that's gonna get bullied" anymore this is cool now. Only hot people are allowed to do insane shit like give out business cards without being in an appropriate setting. I think it helps that he's actually licensed now lmao but you get the point. Also somewhere here I have to acknowledge that if you're not a small creature it might be less cool. But it probably works on some medium folk still. My point still stands it's like, the vibes aren't cringe failure anymore.

Fig or honestly Gorgug randomly brings this up while they're chilling and then they have to test it out and force Riz to do it several times and he plays along at least for a bit because he loves his friends and Fabian swoons as dramatically as possible and they don't let it rest (and hey that might have honestly flustered him a little bit and The Ball is not supposed to be able to do that. What the fuck happened.) Riz does not understand what the big deal is but apparently the cringey thing he did in middle school is suddenly cool now and he could "get some" (ew) if he wanted (he absolutely does not). He can't decide if his friends are just crazy (not unlikely) (Adaine isn't being weird about it but she's also not saying the others are insane so that's a bad sign. Gorgug isn't being weird about it but he agrees. Oh no.) or if he can never hand out a business card to anyone under the age of twenty again (not that he was planning to I think he had a bit of a career shift. But. Y'know.)

Honestly I think Riz in general had a little trouble after the whole vibe change because now people's perception of him is different, and therefore he has to interact with them differently to get the same reactions. There is a point to which he can't get the same reactions. Like, adults he doesn't know seem to think he's a little less trustworthy now (it's hard not to believe some obvious nerd loser is being earnest. It's harder to believe that the tatted up cool guy has the same attitude) and he has to deliberately proof he's a good boy (mostly). People his age are less inclined to brush him off but also take his bluntness as either a challenge or weird flirting or maybe both when it was just him being blunt and awkward before.

He clocks it after a few times and adjusts, and all it really takes is a slight tone adjustment because it's not like, a huge difference, but it's weird that there's a difference at all. He didn't really think rolling up his sleeves and wearing his tie a little looser and bedazzling himself with rings and bracers would make him seem that much less like a social loser but apparently it does. It helps that he has expertise in persuasion but at first he doesn't realise his "I need to learn how to be palatable" self-training screwed him over in a weird backwards way.

Riz is a weird guy. Social cues are more like, clues to him. That he has to rigorously watch out for and piece together like a puzzle. He can absolutely do it, and he excels at it nowadays, but it didn't come to him naturally and took him. A while. In middle school he definitely didn't get it. What's instinct to others has to be a conscious thought process for him, idk, have i mentioned that he's autistic. I know this, trust. I kinda lost the point idk man.

Being autistic and aroace and falling into some weird niche of attractiveness and also being weird and awkward as shit but "cool now" is hard. Suddenly people approach him in different ways than before and sometimes he doesn't even get it until his friends tell him because it was something completely new and then he has to learn new clues for those specific settings because apparently it's different at a party than at school. All in all weird experience socially. But Riz enjoys puzzles so maybe this can be enrichment or something, who knows.

#joke post istg #rambling into the void #dimension 20 #fantasy high #riz gukgak #the bad kids #headcanons

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orimuraa · 7 months ago

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↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺You got me looking for attention - OT7

(synopsis) ˖⌕ ۫ enhypen falling in love with you at the game caterers picnic ⋮

idol!enhypen x fem idol!reader ˖⌕ ۫ flufff ˖⌕ ۫ love at first sight for enha ˖⌕ ۫ wc 1.3k

𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈 - 이희승

it was definitely getting warmer as the sun came out more and they hadn't even started filming yet! heeseung was fanning himself off when he saw you for the first time. you were walking in with your group, looking absolutely STUNNING and the wind blowing your hair back in a cool effect. heeseung just couldn't take his eyes of you for the entire rest of the picnic. how had he never seen you before? your smile and laughter was infectious and it was like you were casting a spell on him. unfortunately, he was too shy of a person to actually go up to you and start a conversation. but the world seemed to be on his side that day because as all the groups were getting ready to go home, you quickly ran up to him, handing him a note, bowing, and then running off. let's hope the cameras didn't catch you looking at me the whole time ;) text me xoxo xxx-xxx-xxxx -y/n from y/g/n

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈 - 박종성

jay had just received his mission and he knew straight away, who to go to. you. he had never really interacted with you before but everyone in the industry knew that you had a talent for limbo. quickly running over to you, he took your hand in his and ran back towards the center of the field. "what's the mission?" you whispered to jay, curious why he picked you. jay looked over and immediately realized he was still holding your hand and quickly flushed. dropping your hand, he was able to get a good glance at you and how pretty you were. why had he never really noticed it before? you had the visuals of a freaking angel! "o-oh! right, it's limbo," he stuttered, still a bit flustered from the moment before. you confidently smiled, finding the boy quite cute. at the end of the picnic, jay thought he would only see you again if your groups had comebacks around the same time, but you proved him wrong. as he was cleaning up his seat, he saw a small piece of folded paper on it. i had fun meeting you today. let's not make it a one time thing! call me, xxx-xxx-xxxx -your limbo champion, y/n.

𝑺𝒊𝒎 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒚𝒖𝒏 - 심재윤

jake was so done for. the moment you had come into view, he knew his career was over. he literally couldn't take his eyes off of you and if the camera caught him more than once, there would be dating rumors flying all over the place. he realized just how beautiful you were now that he could see you in person and he even had the privilege of dancing right next to you during the entire random dance play segment. you and him struck up some light conversations and it only made jake fall even harder for you. his members were constantly teasing him for being whipped for you from the start, but how could he not be when you were so sweet and pretty? jake realized that he probably wouldn't have another chance to interact like this with you for a while. however, right before jake was about to go back to the dorms, you stopped him. "i know it's really sudden, but i really liked chatting with you today and i hope we can talk to each other more! here's my number so don't be shy and send me a text sometime!" and before jake could answer, you were already running off to catch up with your group.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒏 - 박성훈

wow. sunghoon was so jealous of your group. you had just won the word relay and now your group won every prize there was to win. sunghoon couldn't help but smile a bit at the sight of seeing how cute you looked while celebrating. this wasn't the first time he had interacted with you. you and him actually had a special mc show together, so you at least knew each other. but sunghoon was not expecting for you to come over to the enhypen tent with a small plate of everything on it for his group to share. "we only have 4 members so we thought it would be better to share! please enjoy sunbaenims!" you did a 90 degree bow before turning on your heel and jogging back to your own tent. you really were so cute. sunghoon had been moping around after that because he realized that due to the industry the two of you worked in, you wouldn't be able to see each other more without some sort of consequence. but he didn't wanna follow the rules. he saw you gathering your items and he took the shot. "hey y/n! i was just wondering if you wanted to maybe meet up outside of work? just as a friendly hangout?" he asked, surprised by his new confidence. "yeah! that sounds nice," you smiled. damn, he was one lucky guy.

𝑲𝒊𝒎 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒐 - 김선우

the two of you were becoming an iconic duo in the random dance play. you happened to be next to each other and you two decided to help each other out if needed. sunoo couldn't help but steal glances your way, admiring your beauty. you had caught sunoo in your love trap because he was down bad for you by now. you smiles and laughter were so contagious and he just couldn't help but smile as well whenever you did. he did know you and your group before this picnic but he never really paid attention until now. you had pulled him in and now he was intrigued by you. while taking a break from filming, you quickly came up to him, giving him your number on a small note and then running off back to the safety of your eonnies. sunoo found you so cute the way you blushed like crazy while getting teased by your members. how could he not fall for you?

𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒐𝒏 - 양정원

after jungwon and his group did their little intro, it was your group's turn. jungwon wasn't one to pay full attention, but for whatever reason, he felt himself drawn to you. you were doing the moves so effortlessly and with the prettiest smile on your face that he just couldn't resist. your group lined up beside enhypen and jungwon felt his heartbeat quicken when you placed yourself right next to him. out of respect, you bowed to him and all his other members with a quick hello. you didn't even do anything but jungwon found you so cute. throughout the picnic, he just couldn't take his eyes off you and he was sure to get into a scandal with you with how many times he glanced your way. he thought he was being sneak but when you came up to him at the end of the picnic, he knew he hadn't been. "here's my number, i hope to see you around more," you winked. oh that dating rumor would be so obvious.

𝑵𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒌𝒊 - 西村力

it was finally lunch and the unbearable sun was really wearing ni-ki down. he had been having a blast but he definitely needed a break. while waiting in line to win his lunch, he struck up a small conversation with you. to be truthful, he had been admiring you the whole morning and how kind and pretty you were and he wanted to get closer to you. you laughed at his jokes and the two of you got along so well. his hyungs had to practically pry him away from you so he wouldn't get you or himself into a serious scandal. but that wouldn't stop him. he was determined to get your number. the two of you continued to converse with each other and ni-ki was building up more and more courage to ask you now. luckily for his chicken self though, you came up to him at the end of filming and slipped him a quick note with a cute message and your number. this picnic was the best thing that happened to him (besided debuting ofc).

this was so fun to write and i may have gotten a little carried away with it....but anyways! special thanks to @taehyunnzly for the idea! and if you enjoyed, pls send feedback, like and reblog! i appreciate it so much <33

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries

⚘. Perm taglist: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip

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mwahcarpenter · 12 days ago

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packing it up | OB87

popstar!reader x oliver bearman

fans know you as a hopeless romantic but when you start soft launching they go insane, who is this mystery british boy!

yourusername

liked by, olivia rodrigo, alexandrasaintmleux, and 736,231 others

big things coming soon! 🤍

comments:

user: who are the flowers from miss y/l/n ???

youruser : no comment

user : HWAT??

alexandrasaintmleux : aaaaa girl i cant wait

youruser : you get special privileges angel 🩷😊

charlesleclerc : stop stealing my girlfriend

youruser : god forbid a girl hads hobbies 🙁

user : does our hopeless romantic have a romantic now???

user : low-key hope so she deserves it our queen is too lonely

replies

olliebearman oh they are definitely going to know now

youruser is that such a bad thing?

olliebearman not at all love

alexandrasaintmleux i’m taking credits for this

youruser ugh i love you you’re like my big sister

alexandrasaintmleux i love you more now FINISH YOUR ALBUM

olliebearman

liked by, youruser, charlesleclerc, kimiantonelli and 593,394 others

been a bit busy (she wanted me to say busy bear)

comments :

youruser : stocks!!

olliebearman : birks!!

youruser : next it’s a birkin! (hahaha i’m not joking)

charlesleclerc : i’m scared of this soft launch oliver

olliebearman : what soft launch? cant a man go shopping?

charlesleclerc : for g-strings?

olliebearman : ..yeah!

user : our baby bears been taken

user : feel like it’s y/n

user : the singer??? lol

user : imagine that she’s embarrass herself

user : you don’t even know if it’s true or not hop off it

estebanocon : double points today! ❤️

olliebearman: proud of us

alexandrasaintmleux

liked by, olliebearman, youruser, charlesleclerc and 984,284 others

ma petite sœur 🪽🐻

comments:

youruser : bestest day

alexandrasaintmleux: always 💞

olliebearman : woah

olliebearman : MINEMINEMINE

olliebearman : pretty

youruser : why thank you mr bear

charlesleclerc : she cancelled our date for this

youruser : damn right she did!!

alexandrasaintmleux : cant say no to her cute face

olliebearman: too right

user : ollies deleted comments i cant stop laufing

user : he’s down bad

user : bless him

messages :

olliebearman you wrote a song for me?!?!?

youruser i don’t know why you’re surprised

olliebearman i want to hear it love please

youruser what if you hate it and then hate me forever

olliebearman impossible and you know it

youruser it’s out next week, you can wait with everyone else

olliebearman WHAT? I RHOUGHT I GOT BF PRIVILEGES

youruser hehe you wish

yourusername

liked by, oliviarodrigo, olliebearman, charlesleclerc, and 1.3 million others

i did swear i wasn’t looking for much

my first love song for my first love <3

je t’aime @olliebearman

comments:

olliebearman : i sobbed like a baby i love you

youruser : meant every word

olliebearman : can i openly kiss you on camera now?

youruser : if you must

user : ‘i i’d love to complete you’ she’s so cute and in love and polite

user : ugh they make so much sense i love it

user : right????

alexandrasaintmleux : my girls in love 🥹🥹

youruser : can we ditch our boyfriends and run away together

olliebearman : woah! let’s not

charlesleclerc : let it happen

olliebearman : NO???

oliviarodrigo : cutest evaa!!

youruser : double dates with louis???

oliviarodrigo : absolutely

olliebearman

liked by, taylor swift, oliviarodrigo, youruser and 1.2 million others

my gf is better than yourssss hahaha

@youruser

my love forever and always 🩶🩶

comments:

youruser : i love you boyfriend

olliebearman : i love you girlfriend

youruser : AAAAAAAAAA

estebanocon: so this is why you’re late

olliebearman : oops

olliebearman : TAYLORSWIFTLIKEDMYPSOT

youruser : NO WAY.

a/n : yay first fic on here

#f1 x singer!reader #ollie bearman fluff #ollie bearman x reader #formula 1 #charles leclerc #olivia rodrigo #gracie abrams #ollie bearman #oliver bearman #f1 #f1 fanfic

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helianthus-tarot · 1 year ago

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RELATIONSHIP: What do men think about you? How do they see you? (general)

This reading is about men, people who identify as men and/or people who have a strong masculine energy, and their perception of you. It's meant to be about men as a group, but you can try asking about your person, though I can't promise you'll get an accurate answer. If you want to ask about a woman, or someone with a strong feminine energy, you can try, but again, I can't promise you'll get an accurate answer. Keep in mind, when we talk about perception, it's bound to be biased in some way, so if you get a negative message, don't let it affect your self-esteem.

I posted the extended version on my Patreon which includes what do men who are ❤️ romantically attracted ❤️ to you think about you 👀📝 There are other 60+ fun and juicy readings on Patreon too so definitely check it out!

Disclaimer: Here | Instagram: Here

Instructions: Focus on the topic and ask yourself the question. Choose a number/picture that you feel the most drawn to or that you can’t stop looking at. Trust your intuition. May the message resonate. Let me know which pile you choose! Feedback is appreciated!

Like my readings? Tip here!

PILE 1

General: 10 of Pentacles, 6 of Pentacles, 6 of Swords Rx (The Hermit). The Sun, The High Priestess.

They sense a stable and grounded vibe from you; they think that you are the type of person who moves slowly or who takes time to evaluate things before you make your decisions, the type of person who considers future impacts and future gains when you make your decisions, the type of person who cares about being sensible, like, having good personal finance skills, knowing how to take care of your health, etc. Some of them think you come from a wealthy family, upper middle class and above, you are privileged, or you receive material support from your family. For some of you, this could be the wealth or the material comfort that you’ve built on your own, but they assume it’s provided by your family.

Despite the privilege/wealth they think you have, whether it’s coming from your own effort or your family, they think you are also generous with it. You share your abundance with others, you guide and help others when you can, especially by providing practical help or material help. So them seeing you as well-off isn’t really coming from jealousy or envy, it isn’t something they do to look down on you or to treat you like you grew up spoiled; it’s just something they think you have, and they think you use it for good.

Some of them see you as someone who could be a good spouse, whether they are romantically interested in you or not. They could simply think that you’ll make a nice partner for their own son/daughter/etc, for example. They think you’re quite reserved and conservative. What I mean by conservative here is not necessarily you believing in traditional beliefs, it’s just that, you give off the vibe of someone who doesn’t really party a lot, you are kind but you aren’t exactly a social butterfly, perhaps you prefer to stay at home and cook or read or do activities that are pretty lowkey or that make you feel calm and stable. That vibe. You come across as committed and responsible to them, hence a good spouse material.

But they also think that you secretly have some wounds or sources of stress that you haven’t moved on from, and they wonder if these wounds are the things that make you feel a little distant sometimes, like, you don’t properly open up. Some of you lowkey give off a sombre vibe, despite outwardly showing that you are happy or you are enjoying your time and interactions with people, so they pick up on it.

You ‘make’ them feel at ease with themselves, they feel like they can be who they truly are around you and perhaps they also feel like you bring out their good sides, you ‘make’ them feel inspired or encouraged to be truthfully and authentically themselves. For some of them, your responsible vibe brings out their inner child, so they usually get the desire to express themselves more around you, without shame, without insecurities. Some of them may be more playful too as a result, it depends on their age, but they could ‘poke’ you playfully so you come out of your restraint, especially if you have a serious demeanour. They also feel open towards you, they feel inclined to receive you with open arms. You evoke curiosity too, hence why some of them may poke you playfully just so they can see more of you. Some of them are drawn to you in a way that they can’t explain, though this is probably because you bring out their inner child.

EXTENDED VERSION IS ON PATREON! What do men who are romantically interested in you think about you? How do they see you? Is it the same or is it different? Do they notice the real you? 🫢 Find out here! 👀📝

PILE 2

General: The Empress Rx (Judgement Rx), The Moon Rx (3 of Wands Rx), Temperance. Ace of Swords, 10 of Cups.

They think you are mild-mannered and placid, kinda passive. Perhaps you don’t react much, or perhaps they often see you taking the less confrontational way out. There’s this appropriate, agreeable and peaceful vibe coming from you, like you try to be mature, and patient, and try not to ruffle feathers. They think you often choose to be the bigger person, but some of them disagree with this decision. They think there are situations where you need to be more forceful and push for what you want, but you choose not to. Some of them could think that your peacefulness is actually coming from a lack of maturity (as if you aren’t fully ‘developed/mature’ yet to them, whatever this means) and a lack of self-assurance. Basically they think you haven’t properly come into yourself or stepped into your power.

This is just an example, let’s say you chose not to confront a problematic situation because you were secretly scared or you were insecure about something related to it, but you acted as if you just didn’t want to fight or force things to go your way, you wanted to be mature so you chose to let go of that situation instead. That’s the vibe that they get from you, or that’s the assumption they make about you. You sound wise when you talk and they might think that you are interested in the spiritual or philosophical side of things, but yeah. Remember this is their perception, in reality it could be that you actually speak and act from experience and wisdom.

They think you are secretive about your feelings, not in a good way, they think you suppress a lot of things, especially negative emotions. They think you often choose to show a smooth and kind demeanour to the world instead of the murky, ugly feelings that you truly have. And some of them see this as harmful, because they think you aren’t really dealing with those, or you don’t really address those issues. Honestly if they are right about you, I wonder if you have Enneagram 9, because this sounds like it.

Some of you may not fit the beauty standard, they think you look like you could become more beautiful but you are still in the process of becoming, you’re still in that awkward stage or the stage where you haven’t quite realised your own worth/value/beauty yet. They may not see you as someone to pursue romantically, or to introduce to someone else, because of the lack of self-assurance that they perceive, they think you aren’t properly yourself, like you suppress parts of yourself and you could have insecurities with regard to that, and you don’t seem like you are open to working on those either.

Whether they are romantically interested in you or not, your presence makes them think about your romantic potential, about how you act in a group and around other people. Especially if you are a woman, some men think about the romantic potential of women around them, especially when they are deciding whether they want to stay friends or pursue something more. And they can be critical of your romantic potential, of how you act around people and in a group; it’s like their critical nature comes out more when you are around, their mind starts to turn and they start to sit and think and observe, and notice things that could be problems if you were to become their partner or their friend’s partner, etc. It’s very clinical though, I’m not saying it’s good, but they aren’t actively trying to be mean when they think these things.

Despite that, they think a connection/friendship with you can be very pleasant, not much drama because you aren’t the type for it, and so they are open to including you in their group, they are open to being nice to you and getting along with you. Some of them could see you as someone to protect, despite not having romantic feelings for you.

PILE 3

General: 5 of Wands Rx (Ace of Swords), The Emperor Rx (Ace of Wands), 6 of Pentacles. 4 of Swords, Page of Swords.

They think you are assertive and confident, but there’s a negative connotation to this. Not super negative to the point that they hate you, no, but it bothers them a little. They think you are outspoken and combative, you fight for what you believe in, you say what you think, you stand strong in yourself, but they think there’s something wrong with this, or they think you need to do it in a certain way, or in a better way, you need to be less this or less that. It’s that kind of feeling. You behave in a way that ruffles their feathers lol.

In reality, it could be that you are actually pretty chill, you know how to balance yourself, when to push and when to wait and receive, you may not be that aggressive or difficult, just healthily assertive and forward (some of you actually come with rough edges, but I don’t think these are bad). Regardless, many of them just don’t receive your masculine traits well, as if those traits challenge their masculinity or beliefs/comfort in some way. Some of them could think that you are a little stuck-up or full of yourself, perhaps they judge this based on your demeanour (or your face, maybe you have a resting bitch face), so when you are just out and about minding your business, getting what you want, to them it looks like you are acting as if you own the place lol.

Some of them could pick up on your more playful side, but perhaps you don’t show it often or openly. It feels like for some of you, they think your playful side is something they need to bring out, and in order to do that, they need to deal with your sharp edges. Despite the edges that they think should be smoothen out, they think you are generous and helpful. You share what you have with people who need it, especially things like skills, expertise, practical knowledge, money and material possessions. When you are in this energy, they think you come across as reliable, secure and responsible. It’s the quality that brings out your calmness and conscientiousness. Some of them think you are good with children, or good with people who need your help since you know how best to support those people. It’s a good quality that they think you have, yet there’s that but.

But they are often triggered by you. Again, not in a super negative way, they don’t actually hate you, not really. It’s just that you make them want to say something to you, to poke you, to challenge you, to get you to talk and respond to them, to argue with you a bit. It’s like you disturb their peace for some odd reason, and they have a lot of opinions about it. They could be slightly mean with their words just to see how you react or just to scratch the itch of their annoyance. They may be randomly or unexplainably confrontational, making sharp comments out of nowhere, or telling you what they think about you unprovoked and in a way that isn’t really kind, as if they have no social skills to handle the situation with tact. You ‘disturb’ their peace, now they want to do the same to you.

Some of them could take a more playful approach; they could intentionally be annoying towards you, tease you, make jokes and start random conversations with you, just to get you to respond to them. You evoke curiosity and desire to know, the way they go after this varies, like I’ve described, it depends on how kind and mature they are. Some of them may not be able to leave you alone without some kind of annoying behaviour or comment. They act like they know who you are, but it’s like, there’s a subconscious part of them that is lowkey open to change, as if they’re waiting to be proven wrong or they are waiting for reasons to change their mind about you. Perhaps they secretly feel like they don’t completely understand you, hence the desire to poke around.

PILE 4

General: The Sun, 4 of Pentacles Rx (King of Cups, 8 of Pentacles), The Empress. The Hanged Man, The World Rx.

You seem very genuine and positive to them. Your vibe is light and joyful, like a beautiful butterfly, it’s like you shine wherever you go. They think you like to laugh or smile, or you bring a lot of laughter and joy to people. They think you make people feel comfortable, you make your surroundings more beautiful and positive. They think you are full of inspiration and you seek to live your life the way you want, instead of following what’s accepted or what’s well-regarded by the external world. There’s this authenticity about you that is very freeing or liberating, like someone who passionately pursues what brings them joy and lives their best life. There’s a childlike quality to you, maybe you look youthful, or you give off a youthful, sunny vibe. Despite you having the wisdom to know that the world isn’t always good and nice, they think you are the type of person who chooses to see the good in others and the world anyway. Despite your youthful vibe, they don’t see you as naive.

They think you attract attention; some of them think it’s because of your vibe, it’s positive to be around you. Some of them think it’s because of your looks/beauty. Some of them think it’s both. They think you are stereotypically beautiful (i.e. you meet the beauty standard), or you take good care of yourself, like smelling and looking good, which makes you look beautiful. They think you have a good self-esteem, you value yourself, you know your own worth, so you live your life like that, but without arrogance. They think you are loving, generous and kind; to people, to animals and plants. It’s the vibe that they pick up on.

If you are a woman, they could think that you like stereotypically feminine things, like jewellery or the colour pink, cooking or baking, or being a homemaker or a mother. They think you deserve to live a good life, you deserve to have your needs met and some more. They think you aren’t closed off, you are open, you show your vulnerability with grace and integrity, you aren’t ashamed of what makes you human. When you have something you are working on, like a flaw or a weakness, you don’t mind showing it to them. So they can only acknowledge the emotional maturity that comes with that ability, i.e. they think you can do that because you are emotionally secure.

You ‘make’ them feel calm, to be honest, it’s like being around you put them into this introspective mode. They start thinking and pondering life, and feeling open to having their perspectives changed, to shift their understanding, and to look deeper into things. You make them more philosophical, and possibly also spiritual. Maybe through their observation of you, or words that you say; they learn more about the world and themselves, about their previous beliefs and misconceptions and how these can change, about a better way to be, a better approach to take, nuances they haven’t considered. They are also more patient around you, gentler and slower to react. They feel more open and willing to change their ways and adapt to you. Some of them are also more open to giving you what you need, even if it’s not something they normally do.

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