#Quiet series

[thedevillovesflowers]

Almost…

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @smallwriter-sideblog ❤️

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Anxious: simon ghost riley x f! reader

This is part of the Quiet Series

Warnings: angst, fluff, Ghost taking cafre of you and being a dumb idiot in love

Ghost didn't like how you made yourself scarce once everyone arrived back at base. He knew you had gone to the showers to wash off all the blood but since then you had disappeared.

You would've come back to eat with him or the others by now. You would've made conversation with him on the helo ride back.

You were quiet however, for a lack of a better word, and you had a strange look in your eyes that made him uneasy. It was unlike the sadness the crept in every once in a while. It was something so much more visceral yet he couldn't quite place what you were feeling.

He noticed almost immediately how distant you were and how it seemed you were stuck inside your head.

Ghost barely took a shower before he was on the search for you. He wasn't good with words and it was a particularly cold night out but lucky for him you seemed to cheer up around his presence regardless.

It made him not want to be alone, strange enough. There was a lot about him that was changing because of you, good things that he decided to put aside for your sake at the moment.

He found you in the armory where you cleaned up your rifle in silence. He waited for you to give him more than an acknowledging look since you were facing the door but when you dipped your head back down he frowned.

A pit formed in his stomach.

"You've been quiet." Ghost grunted and you raised an eyebrow.

Ironic, and he wasn't even trying to be funny at the moment.

"What happened?" He pressed.

He saw you go down but after that his line of sight was cut off by the walls. After that he saw you covered in a lot of blood and you barely communicated at all since.

You paused and glanced away from him. There was an uncertainty in your eyes before you gently set your rifle down.

"He pinned me down." You signed and his eyes hardened. "And I freaked out."

Ghost waited for your to elaborate but that was all you said. He knew there was something more, especially when you grabbed your rifle to hide the slight shakiness in your hands but he saw it.

He saw everything about you.

You weren't one to panic either, not in the field, not like that.

You were keeping something from him and he didn't like it. He didn't like that you were pushing him away, you were keeping him out...but it's not like he had been as open either.

There were a lot of things you didn't know about him. There were a lot of things he didn't know about you even if he wanted to know more.

Maybe he could try it in the future. Just for you.

But right now you didn't need that. He could see how much turmoil there was inside you and to break open the doors, to throw gasoline on the fire would only make things worse for you.

"Are you hungry?" He asked softly.

You shook your head and gave him an apologetic smile that felt forced.

He narrowed his eyes. He knew you weren't being stubborn on purpose but that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be stubborn either.

"Doesn't matter, you're coming with me." He signed to make sure you were listening and turned around.

You made a noise and he glanced back at you to see the confused look on your face.

"Well?"

You got up a little haphazardly when he gave you a stern look and came up beside him with slight confusion before he nodded towards you.

"We'll get a jumper before leaving, it's cold."

Later Ghost sat at your desk with a plate of food from your favorite restaurant. He watched you eat on your bed in silence, the conversation going into a lull while the two of you were preoccupied with food.

He felt better that he had convinced you to eat but you still had that distant look in your eyes.

It wasn't until you set your utensils down that he understood why.

"My old team and I were close." You signed without looking at him. "Like a family."

"Most are." He said and truly believed it.

Though, he'd rather not admit it to anyone else but you.

"They're gone."

Ghost clenched his jaw. It hadn't occurred to him that your old team being gone was the reason why you transferred. He thought it was because you had outgrown them, you had gotten too skilled and wanted something more.

He didn't ask any questions especially as you tensed up.

"I don't want to lose you too."

His eyebrows knitted together. He's not entirely sure what brought along that but he didn't make any comment about it.

"You won't." He assured you but you shook your head.

You looked up at him and his heart sank from your pleading eyes. He watched you open your mouth as if you were trying to say something which made his chest tighten even more.

When nothing came out shame flashed across your face and you turned away from him.

Ghost said your name, your real name and you flinched before you shut your eyes tightly.

He didn't really think when he stood up and sat down beside you or when he gently grabbed your wrists. He wasn't one for physical touch, not until you came around and always spared him light taps on his arms or shoulders.

When you still didn't open your eyes he held your face gently and you finally looked at him.

He stared into your teary eyes and in that moment he nearly kissed you.

He wanted to. He wanted to kiss you to take away all of the pain you were feeling, to know what it felt like to feel your lips against his own and to show you how he truly felt. More than the times he walked with you or told you jokes to make you happy, more than everything else.

Ghost glanced down at your lips and he leaned forward.

It was the wrong moment.

He rested his forehead against yours and looked deep into your eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere." He stated firmly but low enough for only you to hear. "That's a promise."

You blinked a few times before you shut your eyes and a shaky breath escaped your chest. You wrapped your arms around him and it only took a moment for him to pull you into his lap and hold you tight.

You clung onto him and hid your face in the crook of his neck.

He rested his head against yours and wrapped his arms protectively around you in hopes that he could bring some sort of comfort to you without saying anything else.

Ghost lost track of the time and when he woke up in bed with you in his arms the next morning he realized he much preferred this to his own bed.

a/n: things will come about and they will open up eventually

Tags: @buckysjuicyplums @thedevillovesflowers @sleepyycatt

[several-breathing-eyes]

I saw somebody say that watching the Percy Jackson show made them realize that in the first books Percy doesn't even say half the stuff he thinks and he's just a quiet kid silently judging everyone, like they're so right.

Think about it from Grover's perspective. You know Percy as a quiet boy who certainly has his judgy thoughts but (aside from telling them to you) keeps them to himself. He's just trying to make it through school, for his mom.

Then his mom dies. And he loses the ability to give absolutely any fucks. He starts saying all this shit he never said out loud and to people who could do infinitely worse things to him than anything Nancy Bobifit ever even tried. And it only gets worse as he gets older.

Like bro went from quiet kid in the back of the class to fist fighting a god in the span of like a week. Then he openly told the gods to pay their child support. Grover was having heart attacks every other minute.

[hinamie]

long way home

[benevolenterrancy]

honestly. if you decided to create giant fucking corpse-head-spiders to populate your world with then this is exactly what you deserve.

[amelia-mariee]

people be like “omg this is my comfort movie” and it’s a bunch of people having the worst day of their life

[bird-inacage]

Love Sea Episode 6 | Rakmut NC Scenes + Tender Manhandling

[canadiangold]

[logan-the-artist]

the world is quiet here

[stevebabey]

part one here. ze part two to touch-starved stevie that absolutely no one requested hehe <3 but i gots to let my boys have a wee kiss :")

So, hugs with Eddie become… well, a thing.

Not a thing. They’re not a thing, Steve and Eddie. It’s totally the same as when he gets hugs from Robin. Eddie’s doing him a favour as a friend. It’s got the 100% platonic energy of getting a hug from a friend — a hug that usually melts into some form of a cuddle, limbs all tangled together until they can’t tell whose are whose.

Except, Steve doesn’t really do that second part with Robin. Like he hasn’t done it ever with Robin.

So, it’s an Eddie thing.

But they’re not a thing. Not matter how much Steve would actually very much like for that happen. Okay, maybe Steve’s overthinking the whole thing a bit, but he just can’t tell.

Where’s the line? It’s infuriating not being able to discern between platonic and more, just because Steve wasn’t held enough as a fucking baby. Out of all the things he resents his parents for, Steve’s surprised that this is so near the top.

Because, sure, Steve’s had more than his fair share of hookups. He knows that sort of touch. He knows the shape of lust; the scrapes of fingernails down backs, the tight grips over skin, the push and pull of the heat of the moment.

And this thing with Eddie… is not that.

So, really, Steve knows that it’s all friendly. Eddie is just being nice. He’s being a decent dude and helping his friend out — by catapulting himself into Steve’s arms at every opportune moment.

(Steve’s only dropped 3 mugs of coffee because of this so far. It’s only because Eddie says good catch, big boy with a devilish grin every time that Steve manages to catch Eddie that Steve hasn’t completely told him to knock it off. Just yet, at least.)

And he’s different in other areas. He’ll always seem to choose the seat next to Steve on movie-nights now, content to snuggle right up to him. They get thigh to thigh, arm to arm — and Eddie only needs to get about 20 minutes in for him to do a big sigh, like an old dog, and slump over, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve notices though. He always notices.

It’s impossible not to— the skin, even if there’s 3 layers between them, burns blazing warm. Eddie’s hair drapes over his arm, a curl inevitably tickling along Steve’s collar. He can feel the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the little shake of when he laughs.

It drives Steve a little insane— insane in the way that makes him think about burying his fingers in those curls again, about pressing his lips against Eddie’s pretty mouth just to feel the smile against his skin, about digging into his chest so he can climb into his chest and live there.

Yeah, it’s— well, it’s safe to say that the effect of Eddie’s touchiness has sent what was once a fleeting thought of a crush into mind-melting levels of affection.

But he can’t fucking tell.

-

To Steve’s credit, neither can Eddie.

Which is not surprisingly considering sometimes he catches himself wondering how the hell he ended up here; in a close-knit friendship with band-geek Robin Buckley, princess Nancy Wheeler, and King Steve Harrington.

Okay, the Robin one sort of makes sense. He thinks that if no matter when their paths crossed, he and Robin would’ve always even some sort of strange friends - her snark complimenting his bitchiness. Also, the whole super queer thing helps too. Even the friendship with Nancy works, in its own weird way.

Steve though? He’s the fucking curve ball.

It works though, the two of them. Surprisingly well, actually — the two of them get on like a house on fire, bitchy quips back and forth. Even better, is the quiet that they can share. Steve loves to come around and do… nothing. Do nothing with Eddie, though.

So, even though Eddie had noticed the tension in Steve with touch, little moments where he turned rigid when Eddie’s usual wandering hands got too comfortable — Eddie chalked it up to the usual. Guys bring too uncomfortable with him, too weird about another guy being touchy. It didn’t matter than Eddie wasn’t even out to Steve yet, he was still might be that type of guy.

Well, Eddie had certainly thought so. Sure, Steve might not be one of those jocks who smacked around boys who looked too long in the locker room, but if he knew a smidge of the truth, who really knows. It would explain the tenseness at least.

But then— ‘Can I… have a hug?’ There had been a dozen things Eddie was thinking that Steve could’ve asked for but that? Wasn’t even in the ballpark. It was so left-field it left Eddie speechless for a whole moment. And Steve had been staring at the ceiling, his hands curled up tight again like- like he thought Eddie might say no.

A ridiculous thought, honestly. Anyone who knew Eddie well enough knew he was touchy; loved giving it, loved getting it. Like an overly affectionate cat, Wayne had once called him, just 11 years old, because Eddie’s need for affection seem to never be sated.

After that night, Steve’s lack of touch became far more obvious. It’s always hair ruffles or high-fives, yet never hugs. Normally, Eddie would keep to that boundary; some people are less touchy other than others, he knows that.

But… “Sometimes I realise it’s been awhile, since I’ve had some touch.” That’s what Steve had said, his words. Eddie doesn’t even think he meant to say something so heartbreaking. In fact, the guy seemed embarrassed.

It had thrown Eddie for a loop— because Steve gets around. He’s nearly notorious for one-night stands and failed flings, as Robin loves to drone on about considering she’s subjected to all the flirting. What had originally been a point of envy for Eddie, just saturates the bleakness of Steve’s words. Sex but without a moment of intimacy.

So, while Eddie is miles away from being the person who gets into Steve’s pants — not for lack of want, mind you — he does try hike up the touchiness. Little things. Lingering when he taps him on the arm, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peer over it, leaning up against him when they’re side by side watching a film.

It’s good. It helps Eddie release the pressure of his stupid monumental god-awful crush he has. Yeah, yeah, it’s laughable, even to Eddie. It’s like Gay 101; don’t get crush on straight dudes, especially the ones you’re friends with. And yet…

Steve lets him. He lets Eddie give him touch, more than he lets anyone else. He still tenses; there’s still always a moment before he can remember to relax, like he’s trying to shake off bad thoughts but then he melts. He always melts into Eddie’s touch eventually — in a way Eddie knows Steve actually loves it, drinks it up as much as he can.

And maybe, Eddie is the biggest fool to grace the Earth to let that fact give him some hope. Sue his gooey heart, he’s a romantic. It’s a quiet hope but, it’s there.

Tonight, it seems relaxing for Steve is been harder than usual— several times has Eddie traced a quite long along Steve’s arms, a subtle point that they were far too tense for someone who was wrapped up in cuddles on the couch. ‘Cos that’s 100% what they are now. Eddie will still call them hugs, but usually, when it’s just the two of them, it becomes this.

Steve, tucked up into the corner of the couch, one leg flush along the back of the couch and one hanging off the edge. It’s the prime position for Eddie to crawl up, wind his arms around Steve’s middle and give him a good squeeze and then settle there. Head on Steve’s chest, lying in the cradle of his hips. Safe. Warm.

It makes him warm, oh very warm to know that he gets this. That Steve doesn’t give this amount of trust to many, if any, other people but Eddie — he trusts Eddie.

“Y’know,” Eddie says, cheeks smushed against the plain of Steve’s pec. It feels deliciously warm and Eddie’s fairly sure he can feel how toned it is just through his cheek. Hot bastard. “I’m actually real glad you asked for that hug all those weeks ago.”

He leaves it there ‘cos he knows Steve will ask. Eddie’s eyes stay on the buzzing tv-screen even as Steve’s head shifts, turning to peer down at the boy slumped on his chest. Eddie’s pretty sure he can see Steve’s mouth twitch up into a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie affirms, giving a nod and his eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for just a moment. “Think I’ve had some of the best hugs in the world.”

Okay, that was maybe more honest and sappy than Eddie was going for. He is just letting Steve know he isn’t just doing it for Steve — that he enjoys these moments just as much. He lays it on thick, tries for a smarmy angle.

“Swept up in these pillowy arms?” He croons, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze, making the other chuckle softly. “Who wouldn’t think so? I’m a lucky guy.”

Despite the joking tone, there’s no quick comeback from Steve. That’s alright. Eddie’s quite happy if this is one of the times Steve just takes the compliment; let’s the word sink in and hopefully, believes them, even if it’s just a little bit. He watches the film and doesn’t read into the silence.

Not even when Steve says, “Eddie?” all soft. Nearly shy sounding. It doesn’t quite register to Eddie’s ears.

“Mm?”

“Eddie.” Steve says again, a little firmer and that catches Eddie’s attention. He turns his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest, his brows drawn together in silent question.

But the moment he makes eye contact, Steve’s doing that scrunched up face again. Is studying the ceiling instead of facing Eddie. And just like all those weeks ago, his hands clench up tight. Twists up the fabric of Eddie’s sweater in between his fingers and uses it to ground himself.

Last time, he asked for a hug. Considering he’s currently just about squishing Steve beneath his body weight, Eddie can’t fathom what he might be worked up to ask for. Unless he was going to ask for something more than a hug— which, well, just wasn’t going to happen, even if Eddie really wanted it to.

“Can I-” Steve starts. He sucks in a breath, almost like he’s gathering courage. But he’s not, because he’s not about to ask for what Eddie hopes for, he’s not, he’s—

Unless…?

“Can I… have a kiss?” Steve asks, barely audible. The sentence is murmured, soft words that hit Eddie like a gentle kiss in itself — imprinting right onto his heart. Steve Harrington wants a kiss — from him!

“Oh.” Eddie says, in a breathy delightful way. He’s fairly certain the little monkey in his brain is clapping its cymbals at double-speed as the words process; or maybe it’s his heart, which feels like it’s leapt up his throat.

“Oh?” Steve echoes, a smile already playing at the edges of his mouth, because he can see Eddie’s want. Because he knows him.

“Yes.” Eddie says suddenly, with a frantic nod, pushing up closer so their faces are aligned. “Yes, absolutely, you can.” He affirms.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at the eagerness and then his arm that had been slung around Eddie shifts. It moves up til his hand caresses along the line of Eddie’s jaw, tilting him just how he likes.

Eddie holds his breath. Counts the freckles he can see this close. Tries to feel Steve’s heartbeat through where they’re pressed so closely together; can Steve feel his? Thundering and hurried, beating so hard Eddie thinks he might bruise the inside of his ribs.

Then Steve kisses him. And shit, Steve’s lip are better by ten-fold than every daydream Eddie’s ever had about them. They’re warm and so soft — plush and pressing against his own and Eddie is freezing. Fuck, wait, how does this go again? Right, Eddie’s never… well, kissed anybody before.

Steve pulls back and Eddie screws his eyes up — not ready in the slightest for the disappointment of his own shoddy kissing skills. Fuck, did he really just freeze? Steve — Steve Harrington — asks for a kiss and Eddie decides to stab himself in the back by not figuring out how to fuck to kiss back.

“You call that a kiss?” Steve teases and Eddie’s well aware of the parallel — of the irony of Steve repeating his own words back at him. But he can’t make himself laugh even though it’s funny. Instead, a little groan wiggles out his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, earnest. He forces his eyes opens — he needs to see what’s Steve’s thinking. Where he’s expecting disappointment or perhaps regret, is only patience. Maybe a touch of concern. Eddie continues, despite the humiliation that makes his throat sticky.

“I haven’t- I don’t do this often.” He coughs awkwardly clearing his throat and hoping it hides the next word. “Ever.”

There’s a jump in Steve’s eyebrows, a moment of surprise in his eyes that lets him know he did, indeed, hear that final word. It makes Eddie feel… well, it’s nice that Steve had expected him to have been kissed by now. Even if he hasn’t. He tries to take it as a compliment.

“That’s okay,” Steve assures. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs soothing along Eddie’s jaw. It makes Eddie shiver, some outrageous amount of joy clawing into every nerve. Steve likes Eddie. He wants to kiss Eddie.

“Do you want to try again?”

Eddie nods before the questions even out of his mouth. Steve smiles, all sunshine. This time when he draws Eddie in, he notices the way Eddie holds his breath — the rigidness in his body.

Steve kisses him again, another short and soft one and then whispers against his lips, “Relax.”

‘Cos isn’t tonight just full of the parallels, Eddie thinks. He listens, tries to focus on how sweet Steve’s kiss is than his panicky heart, forcing out a breath between the kisses. His hands along Steve’s sides find a grip, grounding and good, and by the fourth kiss, he begins to feel a bit melty.

It’s good. It’s really good. Kissing Steve is top 5– nay, the top moment of his life so far. Somehow, it’s made all that much better knowing the build-up behind it. Knowing that Steve knows he isn’t just kissing him for a heat of the moment — that Eddie wants kisses here, kisses before bed, in the morning, on dates. Eddie wants Steve.

And with the way he kisses, Eddie’s pretty sure Steve wants him just as bad.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach what Eddie decides is an ultra pretty fuckin’ state; lips swollen from kisses, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed up. He bets he looks no better. The thought makes him grin, enough they have to break the kiss ‘cos Eddie can’t stop his stupid happy grin ‘cos shit— he actually gets to have this Steve.

“What?” Steve asks, somehow half heart-eyed and half suspicious at the mischief in Eddie’s eyes.

“Can I... have a hickie?”

now with a part three !

[dustykneed]

oh.....old married spones...... the old men yaoi ever

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Drinks: Simon Ghost Riley x f!reader

This is part of the Quiet series

Ghost held the door open for you and let you walk into the pub first. He directed you towards the bar and made sure you were sat in a place that you wouldn't be bothered in before he sat next to you.

The outing hadn't been planned, which was the reason why it was just the two of you, and it was only just a day before the two of you would be flown out for another mission.

Neither of you seemed to mind however. Ghost felt restless and needed to go out before he left and you had been melancholic since he had found you underneath your bed. It killed two birds with one stone; a chance to cheer you up and a chance for him to stretch his legs.

"You drink bourbon?" Ghost wondered and you raised an eyebrow.

"Have you ever seen me drink it?" You signed with a confused smile and he huffed out a laugh. "Do you?"

"Yeah, Kentucky."

Ghost ordered a glass for you both, smiling when you gave him an incredulous look. When the drinks were sat out in front of you both, he lightly clinked his glass with yours.

"Give it a try. You might like it." He lifted up his mask and took a sip, letting the burn warm his chest and ignoring your eyes on his mouth.

You hummed and studied your glass. You swirled it around pensively before you raise it up to your nose and smelled it.

"You a connoisseur?" He teased and you sent him a look. "It won't kill you."

You raised the glass to your lips and he saw you hesitate. He gently tipped the glass forward and you sipped some of the alcohol. He chuckled when you shivered, your face screwed together for just a moment before the burn went away, leaving you feeling warm in your chest.

"Smooth." You signed with a small smile and he snorted.

"I'll buy you something different-"

"No. I like it."

Ghost watched you take another sip and suppress a shiver. He didn't say anything but smiled as he drank more of his own. He could see some of the tension leaving your body as you settled in the chair next to him.

"Once it warms up we'll go on more walks together." He said and your eyes brightened up.

"Good, I've missed them." You signed with a warm smile that had his heart skipping a beat.

"I have too."

A funny thought crossed his mind and he clutched his glass a little tighter. He would consider you a friend, everyone in the task force was his friend, which was why he took it upon himself to walk with you whenever you got like this. However, he found himself thinking about things to do with you when you weren't upset.

Things that were less platonic than what he considered before.

Sure he had an odd thought here or there when he was alone at night, he had an inkling you did too, where he thought about what it would be like to feel you around him, but these thoughts were more then just carnal lust.

Dinners, movies, anything else that would be fun he thought about it. Thought about how you'd smile, thought about how you'd laugh, how you might cling to him...

He wanted it, more than he wanted to admit even to himself.

"Next time we'll go somewhere else." He signed and you tilted your head. "Not a fan of using this place to ease nerves."

Your eyes widened and you nodded, glancing down at your drink. You stared at it in thought before you took another sip, your eyes more downcast than before.

"Does it get better?" You wondered and his face fell.

Ghost didn't have to ask what you meant. He wished he didn't know. For him it was years ago, for you he wasn't sure but he figured it had to be incredibly recent for your scars to not be faded. He was more or less better, not the same and definitely still had days that were worse than others but you...

He stayed quiet for a moment, avoiding your sad eyes as he stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.

"Eventually. It's hard and you'll fuck up a lot." He said softly before he got the courage to look at you.

You stared at him sad yet accepting eyes. You almost looked relieved if it weren't for the pain that he desperately wanted to take away. You let out a long sigh and nodded.

"But you have the team." He added and you smiled.

You have me, he wanted to say.

"Thank you." You gently clinked your glass with his and took another sip.

Ghost grunted and took a sip as well. He didn't know what else to say so he didn't say anything at all.

The two of you went silent, taking in each other company but also enjoying the calm and cozy atmosphere that the pub had. He barely paid attention the news or the rugby match that was playing on the TVs before he felt a weight on his shoulder.

He glanced down and saw you leaning your head against him, your chair scooted closer to him. You didn't look up at him and he couldn't see your face but he didn't need to.

He didn't shake you off or move. Instead he let the warmth spread across his chest while he fought against pulling you closer.

a/n: somebody in love

Tags: @thedevillovesflowers @buckysjuicyplums

[p4nishers]

in a parallel universe or another world or a different life, we sit across from each other at the kitchen table and go over the grocery list

[spirk-trek]

imagine amanda watching how mothers on vulcan share a telepathic bond with their children and not being able to do this for spock

imagine how it would break her heart, how she might worry they'll never connect when she sees a mother touching her daughter's face or holding her son's hand with purpose, without words

imagine spock melding with her as soon as he's able, showing her he loves her because he can't say it, he'll never be able to say it

imagine her being so proud of her little boy for researching and teaching himself to meld with a non-telepath just for her, all for her

holding him after when he's so exhausted he goes boneless in her arms and she strokes his hair and thanks him

and he mumbles something about it being illogical to thank him before falling asleep and she holds his little hand and feels the tiniest sparks of love still there, so small she might've imagined them before he's snoring softly

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Chu Wanning, kit-tea man. (Part 2)

(for @onionlings)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

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

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

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

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

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

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

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

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.”