#and I want them to be happy but also I love angst | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

netherfeildren · 2 days ago

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Cannibals : 2. LOVE.

Part 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Heavy Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Explicit Sexual Content; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Squirting; Unprotected Sex; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; Toxic Relationships; Miscommunication; Anxiety & Depression; Brief Blood Mention; Mild Violence; Brief mentions of disordered eating; Unreliable Narrator;

A/N: The emotions surrounding the sex in this chapter are complicated, however, both parties are entirely consenting and both want the sex to happen, despite the fraught nature of the situation and the words exchanged. I don’t really know how to tag it or explain it otherwise, but I did want to mention it so that readers can proceed with caution.

Word Count: 15.7K

Read on AO3

2. LOVE.

Christmas day dawns brilliant white, blanketed by snow.

A dog’s bark slips through the crack of your open window, the radiator spitting too much heat in the night to sleep comfortably. Outside, the flurries swirl in a mad frenzy, slipping inside one by one to gather and melt piled on the rug. The sound of the owner’s shushing follows. Another person’s laughter, an apology. Good morning and Merry Christmas, one says to the other. Silence, after that.

You lie in the time machine of your childhood bed and wait for it to move, but it hasn’t been invented yet.

Downstairs, your parents breathe life into the house, dishes clattering, making breakfast. This is the third time your mother has played I’ll Be Home For Christmas this morning.

Last year, when you were still so unsure of one another, when he still felt entirely unknowable, the two of you had been in the car going nowhere, and you’d seen his eyes go tear-wet while this song played—the first time you’d discovered it was his favorite. Seeing him emotional had made you emotional, and when you’d climbed out at the end of the car ride, you’d kissed him fiercely. Feeling more in love with him than you’d ever felt before.

You see, he was real in that moment.

The sound of the barking dog, your parent’s laughter and a favorite song. An apology and merry wishes. Still, all you can hear is the memory of his quiet voice following along to the lyrics in the car.

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before and breakfast is a sad affair with your parents who love you and remind you of it constantly. Your heart is broken.

You don’t call him like you feel the need to. You take the pile of wrapped gifts for the two brothers from atop your dresser and hide them at the back of your closet. You try to forget.

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before.

Time turns a year older and in the weeks that follow, Bo moves out of the apartment the two of you have shared together for the past five years.

You defend your thesis at the end of January and the victory is passing. It makes you angry that the happiness of this achievement is overshadowed by the pain of your lukewarm goodbye, but you can’t help it. You feel badly stitched together.

And after the worry of school has passed and the tepid happiness at the prospect of your new job has settled in, you also decide to leave the small apartment that has been your home for the past five years. Packing your things slowly, pieces of your life wrapped carefully in paper, one box at a time on the bus and over the bridge, back to your childhood home to attempt to pull the tatters of your life back together.

You felt you needed to leave the place where you’d lost all sense of self, go back to your roots, to your mother’s arms.

You’re ashamed to look at her in those slow, lagging weeks. As if moving through mud you seek out the safety of your family home, your creature comforts, crawling into your mother’s bed in the middle of the night, a ghoul playing the part of a child.

But it is only that—he’d taken a piece of you with him, stolen it, or you’d given too much away until there was nothing left like you'd always known you would. Like you could never help but do.

You revert to old habits during those January days, going to the Viewpoint to sit on the benches, even on the days when it’s too cold, to get drunk alone, ten mile runs along the shoreline, watching the water crash and crash and crash. One afternoon: a small boat struggling along in the distance against the waves makes you laugh and then cry hysterically.

The dawn of the year passes and soon it’s February—you develop an obsession with time, with numbers, with the keeping of dates. The day of his birthday is a desperate, manic horror. You can’t look your mother in the eyes, can’t find the comfort you’d always done in sharing everything with her. Too ashamed of what you’d let become of her own daughter. Of your own weaknesses. You go to church on Sundays with them, you decide to finally try to get your driver’s license, fail three times and then give up again, bracing yourself for the prospect of a ticket when you start driving your father’s old Jeep to work, unable to muster the will of responsible fear.

You think constantly of that delicious ability to look across a room and have an entire conversation without words. To have a partner. To know a person so well you’d know what they need at any given moment. To lose yourself amongst a crowd and laughter and still know where they are at all times, to know when they want to go home and then get to go home together.

You think of what it is to know someone—to love someone.

You rail at the tragedy of him, to find oneself unable to love the person who loves you in return.

You horror over the destruction of your failed relationship, going over every detail obsessively in your mind, tearing it to shreds over and over trying to make sense of the minutiae. It’s agony, flagellating and cathartic. To see all the wrong, all the ugly. All the wonderful things that you miss so badly.

After all, everything is remembered more beautifully with the passage of time—fairy lights through the mist of your memory.

You wonder how he’d spent his birthday, with who. If someone had gotten him a cake. If anyone had remembered and made it special for him. If he’d fucked someone. He’ll find another, you tell your reflection in the mirror, cruelly. Men like that are never alone for long—making yourself sick in the streets with the daydreams of it.

Felled by your lukewarm goodbye, this is all you become, a mania of roiling thoughts. Unable to do anything but think and wonder and miss. A deep and unsettling missing that permeates your bones until it’s all you've become. Sometimes to a degree that you worry is not even reality; all the things you never did that seem so real in your memory because you wanted them so badly. And you feel robbed, left without any sort of proof it hadn’t all been some sort of dream. His number, blocked, one day turns to weeks without the sound of his voice. You hear his laugh coming from the backs of rooms and know it’s only your heart’s imagination, you dream of watching your clothes tumble together in the dryer. Nothing but the comfort of videos and pictures left to you.

The first time he’d let you take a picture of the two of you together, you’d gone home and cried. Sentimental and overwhelmed by the silly, girlish idea of doing something so relationshipy. But the first time he’d taken a picture of you, alone—you’d been lying on the couch in their living room, cuddled warmly against his side, close up and goofy, your eyes wide, nose practically pressed to the camera—the end of everything had flashed in your mind. Unable to keep yourself from imagining the inevitable break up, the way that afterwards he’d still have that photograph of you in his phone. The way he’d either have to keep it, let it lose itself amidst the rest of his captured memories and life, or have to hunt for you, find you, make a conscious choice to erase you.

In ways, the passage of time, of memory fading, makes it worse—worst of all, worse than anything—that you’d destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. That you’ve been left with all this nothingness.

The reality that you’d done yourself a great harm. That you’d made decisions for yourself that were immeasurably wrong. That you had been spineless in your silence. That there was a great guilt to bear and that your only victim had been yourself. For how terrible, coming to terms with the fact that this great pain you’d railed against for so long was by a measure, of your own doing.

You wonder on the notion of a fight. What does it mean to fight with a person you love? Truly.

There’s escape in escaping, and amidst the streets of the Cape and your parent’s gentle encouragement, you search frantically for your old self, attempting to let go of the person you’d been dedicated to so devoutly for so long.

You read books written only by women with your mother’s name to feel closer to her. You dedicate yourself instead to being a good daughter. You dedicate yourself to your role amidst the entity of this thing he’d so tragically lost and by which all your joint tragedies had followed; family. And you live amongst their worried glances and their encouraging attempts at healing, and in the midsts of the month of February, you start your new job. Returning to the city with frightened cowardice, overwrought by the possibility of running into him on street corners, terrified and certain you’ll find him around every bend.

But the library, like any house dedicated to the written word, becomes a safe haven. You find a sort of gentle but unambiguous understanding amongst the wisdom of the older women there that you’d found difficult to seek out with your mother in the past weeks, out of embarrassment or pain. They battle your silence and your melancholy and after several weeks you find yourself smiling and joining in on lunches and after work drinks, forsaking your anxiety for a few hours of mindless gossip and careful laughter.

“Why no boyfriend?” Cara, closer to your age than the rest of them, finally asks you one night after one too many cosmos. You flush and stammer, but you don’t tell them about him. Some things you just can’t speak about.

They hold onto it though, the lot of them. Dog-with-a-bone meddlesome but infinitely well meaning, they point out men in restaurants and bars, through the windows on the street—Oh, he’s cute, honey. Isn’t he? What about that one? And they push and push and are so loud and so boisterous and so lovely and kind that you can’t help but feel normal again. Even if it’s only for a few hours a day.

As the only man in the group, Moff pretends to be the voice of reason; counseling you to take your time, warning that boys your age aren’t worth the worry, only after one thing. We need a little more time to stew in the vat of maturity, he cajoles one night over Japanese food and amidst raucous laughter.

You find you like having a group of new friends. You like working in a place where the people are kind and fun and interested in you and your life outside of the four walls of your job. It’s nice, cathartic, to let people who have no idea of your history, of all you’d allowed, get to know you.

And in early March, you start seeing Mark. Two months, Bo says, is more than enough time to get under someone new to help you get over someone old. He works in tech, at an up and coming firm downtown; the swanky sort where it’s unclear if anyone actually does any work or not. His office, located in one of the more impressive pieces of renovated architecture, half eighteen hundred red brick, half glass, steel monstrosity. He’s impressive in a very ordinary way. Handsome and tall and rich, Ivy League. Not as tall as other men…but tall enough. But ordinary, and there’s something safe in that.

He liked to come into the library on Tuesdays. A meticulous sort of man with his routine: check-in, business, self-help, ending his perusal in the nonfiction section where he’d sit and watch you catalogue and type and fret. Chewing on pencils and chugging coffee until all your teeth would surely start falling out. Every time you’d look up to catch him staring, your stomach would pang with aches and burns.

“Mr. Ford is here again—Mark,” Cara had sidled up to you a couple weeks into his routine, bumping your shoulder with her own and poking you in the ribs. “He’s here for you, you know. Been asking the girls in fiction circulation about you.”

“What?” You’d hissed, panicked and sweating. “What did he say? What is he asking? You guys better not say anything embarrassing!”

“Oh, relax. You’re so jumpy, my goodness. You should go out with him.” She’d laughed at first, but then in a more sober tone, continued, “I think it’ll be good for you—help with whatever you’re getting over.” She’d given you a kind, sympathetic smile—showing up your farce.

The dates were meticulously planned on his end, just like the library visits. You suspected he really just wanted a girlfriend, didn't matter who she was. But you also didn’t think you minded that very much, either.

You didn’t want to wonder anymore. You just wanted to know.

And it was comforting, to have someone text you good morning, someone to recount your tuna sandwiches and burnt coffees to. He’d send you pictures of himself in the gym that you’d gag at a little, he’d take you to dinner and take you to brunch, and he didn’t like hot Irish coffee or watching the ocean much. He said he hated children, he read self-help books religiously. It was fine.

After three dates, you’d braved his apartment. The physical stuff was tepid at best, truly bad at worst. But after what you’d had, someone who could bring you to the razor’s edge just with his eyes on your tits, finding someone you could kiss without bursting into tears felt like a miracle. You promised yourself you were taking it slow this time, stopping things before they could get too heavy handed, refusing to go all the way just yet. But the truth was, letting someone new into the place that had been someone else’s for so long felt nauseating. You just weren’t ready.

But he calls, Mark does, every day. And that’s the part that feels good. He doesn’t make you wonder. That is what he has over others. His polar opposite, which feels like revenge and then betrayal.

Bo emerges from her den of iniquity and true love, deep into March—it’ll almost be spring, and then summer, and then so much time will have passed that maybe you’ll soon have stopped keeping count of the days.

The two of you go for tacos and margaritas one Friday evening, girls night out and all; Fennec away at a writing seminar in Vermont. She’s trying to write a book of short stories on love. Bo talks for a long time about how much she misses her, about how their house feels wrong without Fen in it, about how she’s happy.

It’s not that you’re jealous. It’s not that you’re not happy for them, really and truly, so happy for them. You love them both. You can see, like any person with eyes and a notion of who they are as individuals, that they’re meant to be in that novel way, like out of a story and into Fennec’s own writing. They fit together so well. But there is a sort of smallness to be found in looking at the people around you—people that are your friends, that you know well, the people you surround yourself with and who have chosen you in turn for their own lives and must thus have things in common with you that have brought the two of you together—finding partnership like this, when you cannot. It turns you helpless to the onslaught of, well…if they can find it, and we’re friends, so we must be similar in ways, then why can’t I find it, too?

Why not me? Why couldn’t it have been me?

When will it be me?

Why couldn’t he have fixed himself for me?

“What’s up with you lately? Still liking the job?” She asks eventually. Once she’s done describing the exact tone of Fen’s snores and how cute they are, and how when she’s more tired they’re deeper and louder, but when she’s stressed they’re fast and high pitched. Like a baby kitten, she says.

Like really.

“Nothing,” you sigh, leaning your elbows against the bar top, cheeks smushed between your palms as you sip your strawberry margarita from a long straw. “I’m just in a weird place. But yeah, I still like it.”

“You mean a better place without that demon.”

A limp laugh, “Sure, yeah.” You can’t remember the last time his name had been said out loud. It had become the worst sort of curse word.

The Knicks game is on the TV, and you wonder if Grogu is watching now, too. He never used to miss them.

“What’s wrong?” Bo presses, gripping the back of your neck to shake your gaze towards her. “Did something happen? You didn’t lift tail for him again, did you?”

“I hate it when you call it that,” you scowl.

“There’s nothing else to call fornication with men.”

“Ugh, no. I haven’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to him. His number is still blocked.” But Bo hadn’t seen you since early January, when it had been much worse, worrying, really. She’d been busy falling more deeply in love with her person, making their life together, and so she hadn’t been able to see that your progress had slowly plateaued into a numb, unmoving fugue. You weren’t getting better, you weren't getting any worse. You were just passing through the motions, floating through the days waiting for something. To wake up, maybe.

“I want to say good. That I’m glad. But I can see…” she trails off, “So, no. I think I won’t.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eyes, her intense, concerned gaze. But opt to focus once again on the game on the television, too much of a coward to let her look at your whole face and really see.

“You’re not supposed to be scared every day,” she says quietly, leaning closer to you, arm going around your shoulder. “That’s not the way it was supposed to be.”

“I know it’s not,” you reply quickly, trying to open your mouth as little as possible lest something worse come out. But then, you can’t help it, “It’s just that I worry there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s not. I would know by now if there was after all this time,” she tries for cheek, attempting to lighten the mood at the quiver of your chin.

“I think I’m intrinsically unlovable.” It’s the sort of confession you could only give to her. Something you’re embarrassed to even hold in your own mind when you look at your parents and see how much they care and worry.

Her arm around you tightens, her other palm coming to grip your hand atop the bar, like she’s bracing herself. “Just because he made you feel that way about yourself doesn’t mean it’s true.”

You can only manage a small shake of your head, a heat so unbearable rushing up your throat and face your head throbs with it, making you dizzy. How could you possibly tell her that you’d always thought that, though. That sometimes you worried that what had kept you waiting for him to change his mind for as long as you had, was that there was a part of you that was certain it was impossible he could ever do so because it was you that could not cause the change. Afraid that there was something missing in you.

Mark calls after the next round, and Bo insists you move your night to the swanky cocktail bar across the street. Says it’s her right to meet the man and veto him if she must. You comply because you don’t really care, truth be told. Whether she likes him or not is irrelevant when you’re pretty sure you don’t even like him yourself.

He’s moussed and coiffed to the nines when he waltzes in. Shiny Rolex and a money clip with BAND$ engraved on it that Bo gags at when he isn’t looking.

He chugs cucumber martinis while he tells her all about the hot water, apple cider vinegar and green juice cleanse he’s doing, and when he runs to the restroom every twenty minutes like clockwork he calls it the little boy’s room.

Bo looks at you like you’ve gone absolutely batshit, but all you can manage is a shrug. And on impulse and out of sheer, agonizing misery, you order a tequila soda with sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry. You try not to cry while you down one and then another and then another, and as you get progressively drunker, Bo following suit loyally and Mark spending more time in the bathroom than he does at your table—you’re pretty sure he’s snorting coke like a mother fucker in there—she starts with the long list of his grievances. The Demon, she calls him. Asshole, dick bag, spawn of Satan. Whore. Lying, cheating whore. Each word is like a physical blow to your system. You nod and nod and nod, not bothering to correct that he’d never actually cheated on you, it doesn’t really matter, and you drown yourself in the grenadine. And if you focus hard enough to the point you can almost feel your brain vibrate, it’s like he’s the one that’s made them for you, it’s almost like he’s the one you’ll kiss and go home with after this.

“Fuck him!” Bo shouts, clinking her glass roughly against your own, beer and Dirty Shirley sloshing sloppy and dripping over the glass edge. She toasts to the demise of the dick who’d broken your heart, wishing him nothing but the worst. “You’re so much better off now,” she promises again, but you aren’t sure you believe her, if it’s the truth.

The shit talk feels good in a rotten way, the grenadine and tequila carbonated kisses Mark presses against your mouth later, tepid, but distracting. Distracting in a way that hurts, still connected to him but not directly. In service of him, in imitation. It’s not who you want, the flavor of this mouth. It’s all only your own delusional desperation, something self serving and small.

You throw up in the alley behind the bar after another round, spewing hot and acidic, burning it’s way up your throat as your body heaves with painful sobs, hot tears squeezing out between your shut eyes. The sight of your sick makes you gag, the way the horrible beating thing in your chest twists, even worse.

Begging off after that, you take the bus back home, no sweet twelve minute offer for a drive over the bridge and a kiss before you run inside anymore. And if you spend the way crying, with the flavor of someone else’s mouth against yours, well at least it’s all been your choice.

Right? Right.

The irony isn’t lost on you that choice had always been your excuse with him, as well.

On March twentieth, five days before Fen’s birthday and the party her friends are planning for her, your phone rings with a call from the bar. His bar. Watching the alien thing buzz and buzz until it goes to voicemail, you stare with wide eyed horror. Your fingers shake so badly you can barely press the notification of a new message in your inbox when it comes in with a hollow chime. Your heart does something so anxiously painful you worry you might keel over and die before you get the chance to listen.

Eighty four days of dead silence and now—

“It’s me. I—I keep checking to see if you’ve unblocked me. I can’t help it. But…shit—I don’t even know if this is still your number.” His laugh is hollow, horrible, the vowels slurred, a long pause. “But I need to say something I have no right to say. I’m very drunk and I’m in love with you and I’m so sorry for everything. If I was a better person I’d want you to never think of me again. And I—I wish…” his voice whispers, mumbling, and then comes back. I wish… “But I had to—I had to say the words out loud. Even just once. And I’m so fucking sorry. I am. I am.”

Before, it had been difficult because he’d been so overtly careless with you all the time, while you had been so painfully, so strictly careful with everything. The way you acted, the things you said, the way you moved and breathed and existed in front of him. You were never real. It was all a game he’d beaten you at. A game that became too hard, so you couldn’t play anymore. So it felt like you were being ripped in two at all times.

Afterwards, you were both more careful. Tried to do things the way they should’ve always been done, more honest, more yourselves. But there was still something missing. Trust, perhaps. You wanted more, and he couldn't fathom what that more was. You loved him. And at times, you had thought he might love you too, at least as best as he was able to with his broken heart the way it was. But he'd never realized, or couldn’t recognize such a thing in anyone besides his brother. He’d never known what to do with you. You could understand all of that now, could see it more clearly, riding that sick and strange passage of time; a train leaving with half your body still on it.

But in the end, it hadn’t felt like you were being ripped in two anymore. It had felt like you were being erased.

What a cruel and selfish thing to do—I’m in love with you.

For the millionth time, you wish that you could hate him. You wish that you could see all the bad that Bo sees in him.

You think that perhaps you do hate him. Perhaps you hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your whole life. But it’s a sad, weak sort of hate. Because well…because well you love him, also.

Still.

You move like a ghost in the days that follow those words. Going back to search through old text messages and notes and photographs, desperate for proof that would substantiate them. Fixated on the idea that it couldn’t be true, that you’d hate the idea of him only realizing this once you’d left him. You want to know if it’d always been—this supposed love. If he’d felt it before. And then sick with humiliated, hysterical laughter that you were so unaware about the going ons of your own life and relationship you couldn’t even make sense of what had or hadn’t been between the two of you. Had you ever truly known him? Had you ever truly known what he felt or thought or wanted?

The go around in your mind makes you desperate for action, for movement, for any sort of answer or second of peace. A single moment of warm sun. Anything to distract from the what ifs.

When Peli’s bar is listed on the e-invite Fen’s best mate Boba sends, it feels like cruel and mocking kismet. Bo apologizes profusely, promising she’ll force them to move it, that if you don’t want to go they’ll all understand. But the spinning of your mind, of his words tumbling like those clothes in the dryer, the idea of being in a crowd with him and knowing where he is at all times, wondering if Grogu still loves the Knicks and if he’d won the end of year art competition at school, I’m in love with you, it all leads to anger. Fierce, sticky anger in your brain, poisoning everything so that you’re turned reckless. Maybe even vindictive.

When you step into Peli’s bar for the first time in months, and he’s just there, the same nose and mouth and eyes, hair longer, pushed back beneath a backwards cap and curling over his collar, it’s like motion sickness, like years have passed in the blink of an eye. And when Mark’s hand curls familiarly over your shoulder, pulling you into himself, when Din looks up and sees you for the first time beneath the hand of another, this revenge feels like kismet too. Like that last chance you’d wished for all those months ago to hurt him just as badly as you’d been hurt.

You look away quickly, passing around hello’s to the arrived party, not bothering to turn towards the shattering of glass from behind the bar.

Bo squeezes you tightly, pressing kisses to both your cheeks and promising that she’ll protect you, that it’s going to be a good time, and then passing you off to be kissed and squeezed by Fen, as well. Mark makes his introductions, and you’re grateful that he’s good at playing this part, the charming boyfriend. His laugh is loud and handsome, his conversation easy, if a little shallow. But maybe that’s okay, to have this shiny new toy to show off.

Your mind is sluggish with anxiety and your hands shake so badly even Mark notices, playing it off to no food since breakfast.

You feel his stare like a burn slipping against your skin. Tucked between Fennec on one side, whispering gently into your ear, her pretty laugh making it seem like everything’s alright, and Mark on the other, his arm around your shoulder, his fingers playing in your hair, a kiss to your face every once in a while.

But his words, the tinny sound of his message from last week, they’re a live wire bouncing around the walls of the bar, slithering between the happy people.

And it’s there, that awareness you’d thought on for so many months, that knowledge of another person in a crowded room, that’s really what makes your eyes pinch hot with agony. That’s really what makes you turn to look for him after an hour of forced, fake, fucking horrible laughter, the light-bulb moment that this phenomena you’d thought on so much was alive and well here between the two of you despite the now eighty-nine days of interrupted silence—being able to find your person in a crowded room.

Of course he’s looking when you turn—his gaze, unblinking on your face. Piercing.

It hurts because it also doesn’t. Because you’d become complacent. Because it would always be the same, always good, always half finished, even at completion.

At your side, Mark whispers something, lips brushing close against your ear, his finger tip caressing beneath your chin and Din’s face—you have reason to say his name again, Din Din Din—it spasms with anger, grief, something sick. Gaze moving to assess the man putting his hands on you while you take careful stock of his face, his clothes, his body. The tip jar next to the register is, like always, filled with half bills, half phone numbers. You used to sit there and pick them out, letting people think you were stealing his cash. The memory makes you smile helplessly. Just a small one.

And when his eyes come back to yours, there’s a question there, confusion, or maybe an alighting, like he’s realizing he might not know you as he once did. But when he sees your smile, the corner of his own mouth lifts too—oh, oh, don’t do that—the dimpled one that’s your favorite, like he’s also helpless to it, like he’s answering you. And then it’s gone with a blink, being overtaken by that unfathomable look again, melted away.

Sometimes, the thought that you were a real person that existed in his head, that he remembers and has memories of, that he’d known you and who and how you were, was too much for you to handle. And right now, with that question in his eyes, that wondering, it makes you desperate enough you could rush over and demand he tell you what he’s thinking, what he thinks of you.

Mark says your name, voice insistent and annoyed now, wrapping his fingers around your bicep and shaking you into attention.

“Sorry, what?” you stumble out of your reverie, faced with the unwelcome sight of his face puckered in irritation at your ignoring him.

“I said we should shoot some hoops. Don’t tell me you’re drunk already, babe. We’ve barely been here an hour.” Your inability to hold your liquor turns him off sometimes, you know.

“No. I’m not. Sorry, just sleepy, I think.” You squeeze his fingers, trying to inject warmth and some sort of caring into your voice. You don’t want to push him away. You don’t want to lose him, you realize suddenly. If he dumps you, you’ll have to face the fact that you don’t care about him at all, but you’ll also lose your distraction, your cheap get-love-quick scheme. Sometimes you worry you’ve turned into a bad person, but you can’t help how you’d tried to stitch yourself back together. This is what you had. And Din’s gaze on you is triggering enough you need Mark at this moment. You need him to keep you focused on anything but how badly you want to go over there and talk to him.

The two of you leave the table, and he buys a round each at the arcade basketball machines in the corner closest to the bar. The embarrassment that washes through you is inevitable, like you’re flaunting yourself, your new boyfriend, your body that’s been touched by both of them. Your stomach churns sticky and hot and you try and laugh and engage Mark's attempts at flirtation, angry that you’re letting yourself be so affected.

You have no reason to be embarrassed. To feel ashamed. You have as much right to be here as anyone, and you’re not going to not be where your friends are just because Din is here. He doesn’t own the bar. He isn’t the boss of you. And you can do whatever you like and go wherever you like and take your new boyfriend with you if you feel like it, and Din can’t say or do anything about it because you aren’t together anymore.

Mark wins the first round and pays for another, teasing your weak attempts at the game and your bad shots, pinching your hips and poking your ribs. Playful. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. Perhaps picking up on the strange, almost violent energy that sizzles through the night.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bo approach the bar, saying something to Din. She throws her head back in mocking laughter. Cruel with all the contempt you know she has for him. His face is impassive, a mask you recognize well when he’s trying to protect himself. He nods once, turning to fill two pints from the well and handing them back to her. She says something else, and you think he almost flinches, you feel crazy, heart beating in your throat, like you're going to be sick watching your friend berate him. He turns to look at you, immediately finding where you are at the machines as Bo turns back towards the party. And Mark is saying something to you again, voice snapping when he realizes you’re not paying attention to him once again, and then tugging you none too gently back towards the group. Din scowls, brow pulling low, and whips the rag off his shoulder onto the bar top. You feel like you’re wading through mud again, like you did during those horrible early January weeks when the wound was fresh and putrid without the balm of him.

“Can you pay attention to me for one fucking second,” this man, who you don’t like even a little bit and who you’re suddenly so thankful you never fucked, whines in your ear. He pinches your cheeks tight, almost painfully between fingers that are too soft and well moisturized, jerking your face towards his and pressing a too hard, reprimanding kiss to your mouth. You struggle in his hold, and suddenly hear Bo’s voice call out too loudly and in a tone that’s out of place amidst what is supposed to be a birthday party.

“If you don’t quit jerking her around, I’m gonna kick you out of my bar.”

Mark pulls his mouth off of yours lazily, giving your face one more harsh squeeze before his indolent gaze moves to Din behind you. He doesn’t give up his hold on you, though.

“And who the fuck are you?” He asks, words all slow and arrogant.

You struggle in his grip, suddenly feeling that the situation is at a boiling point you need to quell or run away from immediately.

“You need to get your hands off of her now before I make you,” Din warns again.

He sounds very calm, and you squirm out of Mark’s hold, feeling like you’re not where you’re supposed to be, like you’re on the wrong side. But Mark keeps his hold on your elbow, tight enough you worry you’ll have a bruise there later, and Din’s eyes catch the harsh grip, jaw tightening at the edge the way it does when he’s furious.

“I’m not gonna say it again.”

Mark puffs his chest out against your back, still keeping you partially in front of him, like he’s using you as a shield from the taller man in front of him.

“And I’m going to ask you again—” Mark says, petulant, a boy who’s not used to not getting his way, “who the fuck are you to tell me shit? Just some loser fucking bartender who—”

“Baby,” Din says very slowly, looking down at you, ignoring your stupid boyfriend’s tirade. His eyes are soft, your heart flutters madly. “I’m gonna need you to get the hell out of the way while I kick your boy’s ass right now.”

Gently, he grips you by the elbow, attempting to move you out of the way while his other hand presses against Mark’s shoulder, trying to shove him back from where he’s got your other arm caught in a vice. But at the same time, Mark reaches behind himself, grabbing the closest thing in his vicinity. The empty beer bottle whistles through the air when he swings it towards Din’s face, knicking him in the brow with a sickening little sound before Din jerks back and out of the way of worse harm.

“Damn, maybe that’ll finally knock some sense into him,” Bo quips jovially somewhere in the background.

In less than a second, Din is moving faster than your anxiety-addled mind can compute. Pulling you out of Mark’s painful grip and shoving you behind himself and out of the way. You let out a weak little half-scream, realizing, finally, what’s happening, mind catching up, how Mark had tried to smash a glass bottle against Din’s face and how Din is now shoving him backwards while Mark swings his fist in a pathetic attempt at a right hook. Bo’s loud voice berates the two men, and Fen’s comforting hands are pulling you back and into herself. The security guard that checks IDs at the door is rushing back to help Din throw Mark out.

You bury your face in Fen’s shoulder, her hands hugging you to herself. Bo’s voice signals her change in allegiance now, as she tells Mark what a fucking douchebag he is.

“Aren’t you going to fucking do something?” You hear Mark’s voice scream in your direction. You peek out from the safety of Fen’s shoulder to look at him being pathetically dragged out by the security guard. “Huh?” He screeches, perfectly coiffed hair flopping lamely against his forehead, asking the security guard if he has any idea who he’s dealing with. God. “Are you kidding me! This asshole just attacked me, and you’re fucking staying? Fuck you!” His voice is nasty, childish. You’re humiliated you’d even brought him here.

Din gives him one last hard shove for good measure, and a little slap against his cheekbone that’s more humiliating than anything else that’s transpired yet. “Keep talking to her like that— I fucking dare you,” before Mark is finally dragged out the door.

When your eyes fall on Din, he’s got a palm pressed to his brow, a trickle of blood sliding down his cheek. You almost choke on your gasp, shrugging off Fen and Bo’s hands as they try and stop you from going after him when he moves towards Peli’s office in the back.

He whips around when the sound of the slamming office door is stopped by your hasty grip as you slip in after him. The quiet snick of the lock turning is deafening in the silence of the room between the two of you. The months of separation reach a crescendo as you stare at each other, the both of you panting as if you’d run miles just to be here.

He lets his bloody palm fall limply to his side, revealing the split skin of his eyebrow, and wipes away the slick crimson against the thigh of his jeans. Simply watching you as blood slides down the side of his face. You can't help the thought that it’s exactly what he deserves. Or exactly what you'd needed, to have him split open and bleeding for you.

“Din…”

“What is it?”

His voice makes you want to cry. The familiar, deep sound; hopeful and fatigued.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re bleeding,” you say again.

“Please. You have to listen to me,” he insists. “I’m so sorry.”

His face scrunches up with that same agony his voice supplies, wincing when the split in his brow beads blood again. Ah— he hisses, turning to rummage through the desk drawers for the first aid kit, knocking a stack of papers to the ground in his haste, snapping you awake.

You rush forward, “Here, let me,” unthinkingly, taking the little square of gauze from his fingers, gently urging him back to lean against the desk’s edge. “It’s alright. Let me help you.”

You press the little white pad to the cut, watching the crimson bloom spread slowly. He’s breathing fast, panting, your chests almost brushing together with the way you’re leaning into him. Seeing his wide, shocked eyes at your touch, your nearness, you let your own gaze go unfocused in the line of your hand against his face so that you’re not forced to meet his stare.

You keep the pressure of the gauze light, not wanting to hurt him further. You’d always tried to cause no harm.

“Thank you,” he says through a swallow.

All you can manage is a short jerk of your chin, letting your jaw loosen so that you can breathe through your mouth. He smells so good, like cinnamon and warm sweat. You can’t help it, really, when your eyes fall closed, lulled by the heat of his body so near to yours, skin prickling almost painfully, your eyes filling with tears—wanting to touch—and you hear his sharp intake of breath, the creak of wood. You open your eyes to look down at his fists wrapped tightly against the desk edge, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

He struggles through several more swallows, mouth opening and closing before he finally says, “Did—did you end up liking the library? Did it turn out well?” This question spurned out of nowhere, out of days and days of silence after having known everything about each other for months and years. Or almost everything.

He’d waited with you, through school and struggle, for you to finally find something to do with your life that was fulfilling, and then he’d gone and missed the actual happening of it, and you’re angry at him for it. Amongst so many other things.

“Yes. I like it.”

That’s good. “That’s good.” His nervous nodding dislodges your hand at the split in his skin, and you take hold of his jaw firmly, holding him in place, freezing him up. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” he chokes out.

“Yes. I made friends.”

“That—That’s so good. I’m so glad to hear it.” He sounds like he really means it. Entirely out of your control, marionette on a string, your hand moves to cup his shoulder. The jutting wing of his clavicle pressed against the most sensitive hollow of your palm.

His breath skips once, twice.

“Did you get my message?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Your breath seems to go round and round, trapped at the hollow of your throat.

“I know.” He tugs gently at your hair in soft reprimand. “So that’s a yes.”

“Yeah, I did.”

You take a small step closer, your knees between his knees so that when you reach for another pad of gauze, the curve of your hip presses into the muscles of his hard stomach.

Pinpricks of heat move up and down your back at the sound he makes, and your hand shakes as you press it back against the cut. The blood flow is stopping, soon you’ll have to move away and mentally scramble for an excuse to stay close.

The only thing you can come up with is to kiss him.

It’s thoughtless, out of your own control. You still haven’t really looked at his eyes, and your mind has gone so far away, back to January perhaps, back to missing him worse than you’ve ever missed him before.

Here, stood before him, with his hands on you once again, for the first time in eighty nine days, you feel lonelier than you had ever been.

This is the only solution.

Teeth clicking, it’s slippery, uncoordinated, pressing too hard against his mouth as you throw yourself at him, his grunt of pain when your fingers press too roughly against the cut on his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” someone says.

He tastes like cinnamon, like memory. The way you remembered him during nights when your mouth felt full of salt. The tug at your hair is more insistent now, the only place he holds you, jaw hinging wide so that his tongue can slide fully against your own, he leans forward and off the desk to eat at you better. There’s a high pitched, pathetic sound coming from somewhere in the room, and you bring your arms around his neck, hugging yourself fully to him, moaning into his mouth and knocking his cap back off his head to run your fingers through his soft hair.

He’s yet to put his hands on you fully.

You pull back, ripping your mouth from his with a wet, smacking sound, “Touch me, Din.”

His palms flutter nervously over your shoulders, wide eyed look on his face, mouth kiss-reddened and wet.

“We shouldn't do this.”

“Yes, we should.” You kiss him again, licking at his chin, teeth scraping along the stubbled edge. You want to press your hips to his, but you’re scared. “Please,” you say instead.

He moans and you watch the working of his Adam’s apple, the up and down bob, pressing kisses to his throat and then licking into his mouth again. That out of control feeling from before bubbles inside of you, desperate for action. Desperate for him.

“Wait—we shouldn’t,” but finally, his hands have reached for you, wide palms around your waist and pulling you into himself. He nips at your bottom lip hungry, kiss turning sloppier, uncoordinated, his mouth working desperately at yours. “We should—we should talk,” he struggles.

“No. Let’s just do it.”

“You’re going to hold it against me afterwards.”

“I won’t. It doesn’t matter.”

Your mouth slides against his. Your hips meet, and you can feel him half hard and thickening down the leg of his jeans against your thigh. It makes you careless.

“I don’t want you to hate me anymore,” he begs.

But with a grip on your bum, he grinds against you while you clutch tightly at his hair, his desperation at odds with his refusal, trying to pull each other closer. Some horrible sound of want pulses up from your belly and out your mouth like vomit. You want it so bad your cunt hurts.

He’s saying stuff about how he doesn’t want you to be mad at him, about how he doesn’t want to hurt you, asking what it is you really need, asking to wait, to talk, but you aren’t listening anymore. You want him. The feel of his body, the way no one else will ever be able to give it to you like this. The way sex is good and real between the two of you because you love him and now he’s said he loves you too. You want him to erase the past eighty nine days with his hands and his mouth and his cock, and you don’t care how it’ll make you feel afterwards.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

You slip your never before said words onto his tongue. His whole body shivers and jerks. And you press your pelvic bone against the thick ridge of his erection, grinding frantically.

“Fuck—”

“I love you,” you say again. “Please, fuck me.”

“We shouldn't.” But he’s still kissing you back, straightening off the desk to walk you towards the couch against the wall.

“We should. We should. Please, Din,” you beg.

In the center of the room, in the midst of Peli’s green shag rug, he stops you. Pulling back to cup your face in both of his wide palms, he looks between your eyes. You have that desperate need to know exactly what he’s thinking of you again, to know how he sees you, but it’s overridden by the fear of what you suspect he might actually be seeing. A desperate girl who hadn’t learnt her lesson, come back for a second walloping.

“I don’t want you to be angry with me after this,” he says again. He sounds so sincere saying it, but you don’t know if there’s an alternative.

“I won’t be. This is what we do.”

His eyes shutter, once, twice. You think pain flashes there, but you’re not certain you care. You wonder again if you’ve become a bad person after all this.

“This is what we do?” His voice morphs into something hollow in the way he turns your words into a question.

“I want you so badly. I’m so wet for you.” You pull him back towards your mouth, “Please—please, don’t deny me this also.”

He hesitates only a second more before he’s kissing you again, laying you back against the couch as you cling to him, trying to climb your way up his body.

Jesus, fuck— he curses when his hips fall in the cradle of your thighs, nothing but the flimsy cotton of your panties and fluttery sun dress keeping you from him. He pulls at your waist while he devours your mouth, hips rutting against the heat between your thighs.

Taking a strong hold of your jaw, he holds you in place, restraining your squirming, palm cupping your bottom to lift you into his thrusting cock. The kisses he presses down the column of your throat turn slower, steadier, longer, and when he reaches the junction of your shoulder and throat, he tells you how much he’d missed you, and the way he says it, the way his voice comes up out of his throat, you know he’s telling the truth and you can’t help your sob of grief. You can’t tell him you’d missed him too, the words sound too small for the horror you’d endured the past months.

Clinging to him, you wrap your legs around the small of his back, sandals lost and discarded, pressing kisses to his temple, his ear, his cheekbone. He kisses down your chest, in turn, pushing your cardigan back over your shoulders, pulling your dress low to find you braless, breasts hot and bare for his mouth. When he pushes the hem of your dress up your stomach to kiss the soft curve of it, tongue tracing around the ring of your navel, you think you’ll come just from that.

When his whole mouth covers the curve of your sex, when he kneels on the ground between your thighs, sucking on the pink cotton turned translucent with your wet, you change your mind and tell him you’d missed him too.

He growls against your clit, dragging his teeth along your mound, all “Pretty little cunt. I fucking missed you—thought about this constantly,” as he pulls your panties down your thighs.

Not so far gone you miss the way he tucks them into his jean pocket when he thinks you’re distracted by the spear of his tongue.

The orgasm he sucks out of you is painful with how fast it comes on. Twisting in your belly, and wrung out of your cunt in a way you’re unaccustomed to after months of celibacy. Your knees shake around his ears, and you dig your heel into the meat of his shoulder, trying to grind against his face and kick him away in equal measure. And the sounds he makes between your thighs are obscene, the wet slurping, his groans as he palms the hard cock between his legs, humming when he sucks on your clit and presses the strong, flat muscle hard against you.

When he crawls up the length of your body, kisses smeared with the sweet salt of your arousal, he whines into your mouth, unzipping his jeans and only managing to shove his pants down enough to tug his cock out. It hangs thick and heavy between your spread thighs shiny with your slick, making your insides heat, your cunt clench. Gently, he rubs the pad of his thumb against your clit, slippery and hot from orgasm.

Spit, he demands, and when you do, head turned towards his hand, he not so gently shoves two fingers inside, deep and in one go, smearing your sex with your saliva to ease the way further.

It’s gross and so fucking hot. It hurts.

“Oh, fuck—baby. This is not going to last long, I’m sorry.” Hand twisting, making room for himself, he pulls his fingers from you, little hole fluttering madly around nothing and slicks his cock in your wet, the dripping tip smearing against the inside of your thigh, against your sex.

It’s okay, it’s okay, you tell him. Arching your hips to urge him inside of you, needing that heaviness to stretch you until you can’t take it, tugging him closer by your fingers twisted in the sides of his shirt. He pushes one knee to your shoulder, trapping it between his side and the couch-back, hooking the other one over his elbow so you’re caught and immobilized, folded in half as he starts to slick the wide head from the base of your spine all the way up to the swollen bud of your clit, the entire wet curve, pressing there hard once, making you cry and then circling your opening.

He’s looking down at the wet mess between your thighs with what looks like open mouthed awe, and your eyes roll backwards, spine arching tight when he pops the head in, your breath coming in fast little pants.

“Oh, fuck, finally,” he whispers, his long lashes fluttering shut.

“Ah—go slow, go slow. Fuck—gentle, please.” You dig your fingertips into his ribs.

“Yes, baby. Yes. I’m gonna be gentle with you. Fuck—” He pulls out, lets the ridge of his head pop out, catching on the rim, stretching it, and then back inside a couple of times, loosening you up before sliding in further just a tiny bit. With his thumb to your clit, he rocks slowly in and out, nudging deeper in small jerks of his hips, making sure it never really hurts. Being careful of the delicate muscles. You can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, sliding beneath your bottom and onto Peli’s couch. God.

“Is your period soon?” he asks breathlessly, a tiny nudge of his hips following. It’s like all you are is a bundle of nerves as you feel him slide further inside of you, a beating heart.

Hmm— you mumble nonsensically, sweating, trying to wiggle closer to him despite the way he’s got you hooked open. You don’t want him to be careful, you change your mind—you just want him to fuck you. “Please, Din,” you whine.

“Your period—it’s the end of the month—”

“What? No—no. It moved.”

Fuck—he grunts, drawn out and guttural, pulling all the way out, “Look. Look down. Watch how I fuck you. God, you’re desperate for it, hungry little pussy—” You can see the way your sex clings to him, dragging wetly so that a creamy trail of you is left slicked along his cock.

He pulls you into himself by the back of the neck, pressing in again as he kisses you roughly, sliding almost all the way inside, pressing against a deep hurt like a muted bruise that makes your mind wake up. Fuck— “Condom—you… we need a condom.” He pulls back, pushes in again, there’s a wet slap of his thighs meeting your ass when you roll up to take him better.

“I don’t have one. Do you?” he asks through gritted teeth, picking up the pace.

“No.”

“Then I’m not wearing a fucking condom.”

Oh my god, you moan, clinging to him. You’re helpless like this, and Din groans against your cheek, stubble scraping along your jaw, and you sob with every thrust of his hips. The heat in you is overwhelming, the stretch of the wide base of him everytime he bottoms out and presses deeper than anyone else can, grinding there for a few seconds before pulling all the way out and pressing in again and again. You feel helpless like this, thighs spread wide and cunt dripping wet while he fucks you open, shoves against that spot that blinds. Helpless like you’re ruining your own life, like you never want it to stop, like all those months meant nothing, like it’s too much of a too-good-thing so it’s turned bad and rotten.

You wonder, in a far away manner, if you can want someone too much. If something that was born of a good and desperate heart can turn ugly, easily weaponized—

You wonder who it is that’s wielding that weapon here and now. For some reason, you feel sure it isn’t him anymore, but it doesn’t make you feel good.

“How many other girls did you fuck?”

It’s not your fault, his cock is too good, it makes you ask, makes you stupid.

“None,” he says through clenched teeth. He pinches your clit, a little mean.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear. I promise.” You whine against his throat. “I couldn’t even think of it. I only want you—” He pulls your mouth back to his.

The too-deep pain of his thrusts brings you to momentary awareness again, back to your previous thought— “You—oh, God, just like that— you have to pull out. You can’t come inside me. I’m responsible now—oh, that feels so good, Din, yes.”

Pressing your knees back against your shoulders, he nods once, jaw tense, intensifying the angle. You look down to watch the way your cunt parts for him, swollen and shiny wet with use, the way the thick of his cock slides in and out, it’s obscene, almost looks wrong, and he shoves in so, so deeply, a humiliating little squirt of liquid spurts from your cunt.

He groans savagely at the sight, fucking you harder, squeezing the joint of your knee so tight it hurts.

You’re coming. Each press of the tip of his cock against your cervix is a pulse of your orgasm. The twisting heat between your hips moving up your belly to your breasts which you squeeze in your palms, tight so it hurts.

“Yes. Yes— don’t stop working my cock. You're such a good girl coming for me, yes, baby. I’m going to come, too,” he moans in your ear, pressing his hot chest against your bare one, biting down on your neck out of pure, raw instinct.

“Pull out. Please, please, you have to pull out.”

He withdraws with a snarl, pressing his painfully hard cock to your stomach, sliding his palm over himself until he’s coming with frantic urgency. His spend falling in thick, long spurts across your sex and belly and breasts. The force of his orgasm so strong you can see each jerk of his cock as he grips himself, the tip flushed an angry red. As his pleasure hits it’s peak, he shoves two fingers back inside your still fluttering cunt, his middle finger tightly hooked inside of you, his thumb against your clit, squeezing both fingers tight until another little spurt of fluid trickles out of you.

Looking at your eyes, he asks, “Who do you belong to?”

And in the aftermath of all this, there really seems no point in lying.

“You, Din.”

He works his fist over himself fast, brutally, squeezing the head tight enough it looks painful, milking the thick spend out of himself. When he finally pulls his hand away, his fingers from your overwhelmed sex, he’s still half hard, as if unsatisfied he hadn’t been allowed to come inside of you.

Looking down at the picture he’s painted of you, he hums contemplatively, smearing his come into your breasts, against your swollen sex and then pushing it inside, your cunt fucked open and shivering.

You whine, wanting to tell him he shouldn’t but unable to manage the lie. When he presses his still half-hard, almost ready to go again cock back inside of you, laying himself over your chest, you start to cry. First a little hitch of your chest, a broken, silly thing, but building into true weeping, heaving sobs. He pulls back, afraid, eyes wide and panicked.

“What’s wrong? What is it? Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes. You’ve hurt me so much.” But you pull his head back to your breast, hugging him to yourself, letting him comfort you even though neither of you deserve it.

How do you tell him that you’re crying for this soft and helpless feeling filling the cavities of your heart, how you want to feel open and powerless beneath him, how giving yourself to him makes you feel good, letting go of that control, above all, desperate for him to give himself to you.

What would he think of you if you did?

The question sits on the tip of your tongue, half a mind to ask him without even explaining the question. What would you think of me if you knew how I really feel?

Limp and shivery beneath him, he asks you, “Why are you doing this?” his mouth brushing against your nipple—crying, letting him back inside, hurting yourself or the both of you—who knows.

“I don’t know. I can’t help it,” you tell him honestly.

Eventually, he pulls you off the couch, and onto his lap on the floor, his cock gone soft with your crying, but still tucked safely inside of you. He lets you cry all the tears you need to cry, his mouth sliding soothingly over your temple, petting the crown of your hair. You stay like that long enough his cock starts to fill out again, and those deep inner muscles, accustomed now to months of disuse, flutter and twinge around him, making you whine softly.

Christ, baby. “You’ll be sore,” he rumbles in that deep, sleepy voice.

And the thought of that, the thought of that—of your body having to go through the physical healing process of forgetting him, marks fading, soreness healing, period coming, that’s what wakes you up. That re-lived horror, that physical loss—it’d been one of the worst parts of losing him.

You tense.

His sigh, one of recognition, of hurt, is long, before he’s shifting, pulling you off his cock and helping you to your feet.

Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me? you mutter, spinning to look for your discarded dress you hadn’t even noticed he’d pulled off of you, your panties that you’ve now forgotten you won’t find because they’ve been stolen away in his pocket.

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

His only response is a groan of frustration.

You find your dress, pulling it roughly over your head. You can hear the sound of clothes shuffling behind you as he puts himself to rights, as well.

“Was that a test, us not fucking, that I failed?” You whip around, turning on the offensive.

“It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t—You’re the one that came in here—we should've talked. We need to talk, and you said this is what we do. You said this is all we are.”

“Well am I wrong? Did I lie?” you yell at him. It feels good.

“Yes!”

Jesus Christ—he groans, pulling his palm over his face, hissing when he meets the forgotten cut on his brow.

“And that out there?” He flings him arm towards the door, “Your boyfriend, or whatever the fuck that clown was.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, sure. God. Fuck that—of course it’s my fucking business. Everything to do with you is my goddamn business.” He stomps towards you, jerking you up into his grip, giving you a little shake as if to jostle some sense into you.

You stand barefoot before him, entirely unwilling to make this easier than you already have. You want to be difficult. You want to continue being careless. You want to make him suffer.

“I don’t care.”

He blinks once, that hateful, indecipherable look, and lets you go.

“That was really fucking embarrassing for you out there.”

The way he says it— “You’re being mean, Din,” makes all your bravado flee. Makes you small and scared in an instant.

“Does he fuck you like I just did? I doubt you get that wet for anyone besides me.”

“You’re being mean, Din,” you say again.

“Am I?” he laughs once and humorlessly. “Then fight with me! Say something. Say anything. I am so sick of this goddamn silence!”

“For what? Not that it’s any of your business,” you’re stupid, senseless mouth, “But we haven’t had sex. I’m taking it slow. I’m not going to make the same mistakes anymore.” He gives a real laugh at that. Jackass. “And why should I fight with you? Are you going to change? Or will you just say you’re changing and then do nothing—stay exactly the same and we’ll continue on as we’ve always done and I’ll have laid down and rolled over for fucking nothing? Hmm, tell me.”

He looks at you for a long moment in a horrible way, like he sees everything. Like he sees all your shame and all the things you see in yourself that you hate so much.

“Stop looking at me. I want to leave.” You’re horrified with yourself, sudden and sharp.

“Fine.” His voice is quiet again, the fatigue is back. For a silly moment, you panic like you’ve disappointed him. “Go. Win your fight of nothingness. I’m done.”

“Fuck you. I’m done.” You turn for your shoes, scooping up your purse from where you’d dropped it by the door.

He trails behind you like something you’d captured. Like a forgotten thing.

“Why did you even come in here?” You fumble with the lock, crying. “Why did you follow me?”

But you have no answer, and nothing to show for yourself or your own dignity. And like a coward, or that same captured and forgotten thing, you run away from him. A little like a dance the two of you have been playing since you first met him.

There is a phone number that calls the house sometimes.

When his daughter picks up, she’ll stand quiet for several moments to listen to the voice on the other end without saying anything. When he is the one to answer, he finds the voice of the young man he has come to expect, asking if his daughter is home. His name is Din. The man has been given clear instructions to always refuse the boy—man. To always make excuses for his daughter.

He’s good at following the direction of his wife. Of listening to the underlying tone of his daughter’s voice when she isn’t as forthcoming with him as she is with her mother, although he knows that this year she has been less so than she’d always been before.

He knows something happened with the boy.

When she moved back home, there were parts of the man that were glad, happy, to have his only child back under their roof. They’d always been a close family, the trio. Tight knit in that way that two older, desperately yearning parents and their only child could be expected to be. They loved each other, but more importantly, they liked each other. They had always been very close and very honest.

This year, that had changed. With her return, a pallid melancholy had followed her into the house that was impossible not to notice as much as she tried to hide it. He’d watch her on days when she’d walk down to the beach from the deck of their beloved home, the way she’d sit on the rocky sand, frozen by the gusts of sea-swept winds. Watch her walk back up the path too many hours later, blue in the face and bleak in the eye.

But the man also understood that sometimes these things of the heart needed time and space to crawl their way out of the soul and let themselves be swept away to sea on their own. There was no easy scheme for a cure, only patience of which he’d always found he had an infinite well of for his wife and daughter.

He had always been a soft man by nature, tall and thin, but pudgy enough around the middle which belied how good of a cook his wife had always been, how much he enjoyed a lovely glass of vintage and a rich dinner, or a large spot of brandy with dessert by the fireplace in the evenings. They’d always lived a comfortable, indulgent sort of life. They were professors by vocation, the both of them; mathematics and ancient Roman history, his wife and he, respectively. Purveyors of books and art and music, comfortable things. A love of knowledge had always been a thing that brought them together, had been the basis for their relationship, one of the reasons they’d fallen in love in grad school. And they had, truly, fallen very deeply in love. They still were, thirty years later, and they’d always made a conscious effort to show that to their child, to provide a strong example of an honest relationship. And they’d tried to instill the same sense of purpose and being in their daughter that they’d always strived for, raised her to live in her own mind, fed by the things she read, by honesty and kindness and responsibility. You see, the point was that they had been particular in her upbringing, sheltered and cared for and given everything they possibly could to ensure she’d turn out as self fulfilled as she wanted to be, that she was able to make for herself the things she dreamt of.

He’d always felt that his personality, the things he enjoyed and gravitated towards, had set him up perfectly to serve as the father of an only daughter. A role that could sometimes be delicate for there were so many ways that she could’ve turned out; stoic and independent, anxious, removed, fanciful, perhaps a bit spoiled sometimes, but secretly that’s what he liked best, that’d she’d had a good life full of the things she wanted. But she was also mercurial, his daughter, sometimes, and given to bouts of distraction. She liked to live in her head, get lost in there on occasion, in her own worries and grievances. She was sensitive, too. Something he appreciated, respected, the great depth of feeling and empathy she’d always moved with. She was much like her mother in that sense.

Given all of this, the man thus knew that whatever it was that had happened with the boy his daughter loved, had been something troubling indeed. Over the course of their relationship, he had been critical of the young man, of his obvious absences at his dinner table and their outings which had always been such a crucial element of what made up the nexus of their family’s core. But over time and the gentle admonishing of his wife, he’d understood that not everything was always as it seemed.

The man sees this clearly, several weeks into April when the boy comes to their home.

His daughter is upstairs in her room, unwell again, the way she’d been earlier in the year. Dark circles under her eyes, not eating enough, crawling into the safe space of their bed beside her mother during the night when they thought he was sleeping and wouldn’t notice. He watches from his comfortable leather wingback at the desk in his study as the young man sits in his car for almost an hour in front of their house. He recognizes him for the car, really, stories of the old thing fondly recounted by his girl as she’d tell them about the boy she cared for. The young man clutches the wheel tightly between his fists, rolling the window down, rolling it back up, talking to himself, tugging on his own hair, smoothing down his collar an unaccountable number of times, before he finally gets out of the car, walks around it three times and then finally makes his way up the path to the front door.

The hydrangeas are out in full bloom in the garden now, one of the most beautiful times of year in the Cape.

Standing from his desk before the boy knocks, he looks up at where he knows his daughter hides, sure she’s spotted the car already and must be waiting to see what her father will do now, how he will protect her.

He stands at the door for a few moments after the knock comes, trying to collect himself—he’s wanted to meet this young man for a long time, after all—and makes sure to check the front of his sweater vest for any stray crumbs of the rum cake he’d had after lunch, before he pulls the door open.

The young man looks terribly frightened. But also terribly brave.

“Can I help you?” he asks in that patient voice he uses on students when they’ve come to beg for extra credit for their failing grade.

“Hello, sir. My name’s Din. I’m looking for your daughter. I was wondering—well, I just…” He splutters, “If I could speak to her, is all…”

“I’m sorry, Din. But she isn’t home right now. Perhaps you could give her a call later and see if she’s in.”

His jaw works several times, a flush of embarrassment bleeding across his face.

“Of course. Of course. I should have called first,” he says, which he had. The man had been the one to pick up the phone this morning and give him excuses.

He considers for a moment, before he says: “She works at the main branch of the library in the city, perhaps you’ll find her there.” Deciding suddenly to have pity on the sad sight taking up space on his doorstep and in his daughter’s heart. He’ll make it up to the girls later, this aid to the other team.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe—yeah. Maybe I’ll try that. Thank you, sir.” The young man shuffles awkwardly, running his palm over the back of his hair, turning to look back at the front garden. He sees his eyes catch on the flowers.

“Do you enjoy hydrangeas? I tend to them myself.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, they’re great. Really beautiful.”

“Soothing practice, gardening.” He tells the young man that he’s trying to teach his daughter, but that she hasn’t taken to it so far.

Din laughs at that, familiar in a way, with her tendencies. “No, I wouldn’t imagine she’d have the patience for it.” There’s fondness there, he can see. Maybe even love, too. It makes the man feel suddenly very sad for his girl and for this man, neither of whom can seem to find their footing with each other.

“What year is that?” he asks then, tipping his chin at the old car.

“Two thousand eight, sir.”

“Ah, not so bad—good model. It’ll last you a while yet, if you take care of her.”

“Yes, sir. She’s been reliable.”

“Always a good thing to be.”

“Yes—yes, sir,” he trails off awkwardly, nodding, but he lets the silence sit for a moment, never one to mind a lack of chatter. There’s much to learn in the silences that sit between people. “Well, okay. I’ll go, then. Goodbye. And thank you. And I’m sorry, sir.” His voice is grave.

“It’s alright, Din. Maybe next time,” the man tells him gently.

“And I— I just wanted to say that… that it’s really good to meet you.”

“You too, Din. I’m glad I got the chance to meet you, too.”

“Alright, goodbye.”

He turns to go, walking down the steps, when the father calls, “Good luck, son.” There’s gratitude, also heartbreak, in the boy’s face, when he nods back at him.

The man follows him down the steps, waiting to watch him get in his reliable old car and drive away from the girl that hides in the house upstairs. Turning to look at their home, the old New England build on the waterfront that he’s always been so proud of, the home where they raised their daughter, where he and his wife will grow old and die together, he sees his girl’s face, just there, in the window of her bedroom. Peering down the street to where the car has disappeared, perhaps waiting to see if the young man will turn around and try again.

Through the month of May, you go to the beach every day. You’ve always been a little afraid of the ocean, of water you can’t see the bottom of. The water is never warm, but every day you manage to make it a little further out—trying to face your fears.

You’d not been able to set any resolutions in January, no energy to think of anything better on your horizon. But now, with the dawn of summer and warmer months coming into bloom, you make this your goal—to make it out into the water until it reaches your heart.

Each day you make a little bit of progress, and afterwards, you return home to your mother, a little sunburned but cheerfully tired. At moments, there is cheer to be found—while you wade in the ocean—even if the bruise of Din still remains.

And eventually, as you’d always suspected, change comes because things always change.

It had come on a Wednesday afternoon, picking up tomatoes for your mother after work. You’d seen an old man shopping alone. He’d been choosing his produce very carefully, a little hunched, fingers gnarled and liver spotted. For some reason, the sight of him had stolen your attention. And afterwards, in the parking lot, you’d seen him again, carefully stowing his groceries in the back of his little car. It had been a randomly chill day in April, wind swept in from the sea over the Cape, and he’d had no one to help him, a plaid scarf wrapped around his throat in the middle of spring. He’d been wearing two too big shoes, the orthopaedic sort, and his pleated trousers were tucked into the back of them, a little funny looking. He’d taken a bushel of bananas out of one of the brown paper bags very carefully, turning them this way and that to make sure they were unharmed. His movements, careful and precise in his aloneness.

It’d made you cry for no reason, and you’d had to sit in the parking lot for thirty extra minutes, making sure the puffiness in your face had gone down before you’d been able to drive home to your parents.

And the thing was, that you were very tired, that you didn’t want to be sad anymore. You didn’t want to cry in grocery stores ever again.

Or, perhaps, it was that after that brief, harried space of time in a locked office, you’d realized you’d been using him as a sort of excuse, Din. That you’d thought on the measure of a weapon, on the significance of a fight, how a person or a love could be turned into something self harming for no reason at all, how for some silly or broken fault in your character you didn't think you could ever deserve to keep him for yourself, and so you’d kept your rules and your distance the same way he’d always kept his. And everyone had ended up hurt and alone anyways.

There was no rhyme or reason to it. You had never seen that in your home, been given reason to believe that you were a person that could not deserve a good thing, and yet, you did sometimes.

And you didn’t want to be like that anymore.

You didn’t want to use Din as a vehicle of that belief anymore. You wonder if the two of you had ever approached the other without the intent to sabotage. You wonder if he hadn’t, if you’d even have been able to recognize it.

It had been like waking up one morning, hearing a dog bark, knowing you're in your parents house, remembering your own history and who you are and meeting that limit of pain which you will put up with for love, reaching that line and knowing it cannot be crossed. You’d met that limit within yourself, and after that there was only a great fatigue to settle into.

You wanted to be sunburnt. You wanted to be content. You wanted to let go of the things that served you no purpose.

On the mornings you’d go out for a swim before work, your father would set up a portable radiator in your room for you to come home to and warm yourself from the ocean chill. Now, you sit on your bed wrapped in a towel after a warm shower, letting your hair drip cold down your back onto the duvet.

When your mother comes in, a gentle knock preceding her, she sits down next to you, her soft hand on the warming skin of your back. The little radiator from your father belches hot air across your shivers.

“Breakfast?” Her voice is quiet—sometimes you worry she’s afraid of you.

You nod your head slowly, eyes out the window and unseeing, stomach full of a grief that you finally feel prepared to purge.

“I saw Din,” you tell her instead.

“I figured as much.” She waits for you to say more, and when you don’t she can’t help but press, “And?”

You shake your head, shrugging. “Nothing. Stupid…”

“Something happened?”

“I just got my hopes up. I’ll do better next time.”

“Daddy said he came here. That they spoke.”

“I know.”

She pets your hair, brushes water droplets from your shoulders.

“Would I sound…” you continue, “Would I sound crazy if I said I can't understand how it ended?”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I wish I’d been stronger. More honest. I thought I’d hold out longer.”

“You tried for a long time.”

“But I don’t think I was ever honest.” You finally turn to look at your mom. “He isn’t bad.”

“I know he’s not.” She smiles at you kindly. You’re ashamed you’ve tried to hide from her all year.

“He isn’t bad,” you say again. “He’s just…I don’t know. He’s a lot of things. Heartbroken.” You look away, the heater finally churns to a slow stop and your skin tightens with the drying water. “I think he needed me to hold out longer.”

“I don’t think you’d love him the way you do if he was bad. You’re my sweet girl, I know that sometimes you’re unsure, but I know your heart is honest even if sometimes your words don’t come out the way you’d like them to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth about our feelings. Sometimes, people say things that aren't easily understandable because they've never been taught how to say it another way. ”

“But I was taught. You taught me.”

She shrugs, shaking her head, still smiling. A sort of well, what can you do? type of look.

You can’t understand why you’d taken so long to talk about this out loud. Perhaps you’d been ashamed, perhaps it was more of that unsure self doubt that had kept your tongue locked away. Terrible, festering insecurity. But you realize now that the only solution is to take better ownership of the things you feel, the things you want.

“It’s just that it’s hard because all this time has passed and all this silence—we were never honest with each other, and I was so hurt and it was all just so terrible. And anyways, still, I’d do anything for him. And I’m so worried I’m never going to find anyone else I love as much as I love him. That I’ll never find anyone to be with the way you and Dad are together.”

“That’s not a reason to go back if you don’t really want to, though,” she says gently.

“Sometimes I think that if he came back, and he’d changed completely, I’d take him back then.”

“If you’d change him completely, then maybe you don’t really love him.”

“Maybe. Maybe I only love parts of him.”

“You can’t fix a person, my love. They have to choose to do that for themselves.”

You wonder if she might not be talking about you.

“But also…part of what it means to be a partner is helping them fight for that fix. And fighting—conflict—I know you’re afraid of it, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You don’t always need to be so afraid—holding onto that much fear will hurt a good heart. You have to let it go. And sometimes to fight, to fight for something you love, it’s a good thing. It’s a concession or an admission, a dedication and a strengthening of that love. Don’t be afraid to fight.”

“I think he wanted that—to fight with me.”

Tears slip down your face and she wipes them away from your cheeks.

“Then go fight with him. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes it’s okay to try one more time. It doesn’t make you weak or naive. All it means is that you tried again. Sometimes we all need one more chance.”

That Sunday, you wake early and go for a swim. It’s warm outside, and the rocks are sun baked when you step carefully over them toward the water, letting them burn the soles of your feet. You start slowly, first only your ankles, then up to your knees. The Atlantic is never warm, no matter the time of year, and when the saltwater reaches your thighs you’re wracked with gooseflesh and shivers until you’re up to your hips and decide it’s time to abandon all fear. You wade forward until the water has finally reached your heart, but you don't need to go any further. You have no interest in being swept away and lost anymore.

Your feet are firmly planted in the sandbed.

You let yourself sway there, jerked by the waves until the morning sound of children’s laughter fades and then it’s just the water.

Sun high in the horizon, the water is dark ahead of you, and looking back at the time you’d met him, you’d been so young. So naive. So ready to let yourself be hurt. So ready for failure, desperate for it, even. Neither of you had been prepared for the intensity of what it was you’d find together or the struggle it would be to work through your respective faults. And you’d insisted for so long that it would all end in nothing, shattered glass left on the table cloth, looking for the end of everything in photographs. Sure that it could never work.

But look at you now, unable to move on even after that very failure.

You’d read books, you’d starved your body. You’d tried to be closer to God, to understand your mother. Still, you could not purge yourself of him.

You swim back to shore. Your shoulders are sunburnt. You get in your father’s car, and you drive to him.

You tell yourself that if he’s not there, it’ll be your sign from God and that’ll be your answer. There will be no more wondering, no more second chances, no more glances back at the past. And you repeat your mother’s words like a prayer, some things are worth fighting for.

Standing in front of his door, twelve minutes and some later, it really is a lovely drive, you hold your five fingertips up to the face of his front door and you don’t wonder whether you’ll do it or not, knock, because you’ve already decided on his second chance, but there’s a strange part of you that wishes he’d just suddenly know you’re out here and come open it without having to.

But there’s no crowd here for him to find you instinctively in. There’s only just the two of you, separated by all the things you could never say. You make a fist, you rap your knuckles, and there he is.

He pulls the door open and he doesn’t say anything at first but neither can you. What’s there to say to the person you’ve decided to love again with honesty? To the person you want to give all your second chances to and who you hope will give them in return. To the person you want to fight with. Because faced with him, the imagining of seeing hearing touching tasting again when faced with the corporeal reality is almost fragmentally unimaginable, makes all your carefully planned words scatter at your feet.

He’s right where you left him.

The specter-like-hologram of that terrible night made reality, but with something else equally intangible or unbelievable which you can also now tell is different. That tells you something has changed here, that it isn’t exactly just as you’d left it.

He gapes like a fish for a few seconds, you've taken him by surprise. And then he flushes bright red, scowling angry all of a sudden.

“Are you ever going to unblock my number?” he demands, furious.

It makes you want to laugh, which you do, and then cry, just a little. Yes, you think, fight with me.

The sight of your laughter throws him for a loop again, but then that helpless thing, and he’s smiling back at you, too.

“My father really liked you,” you tell him. “He wants to know if you’ll come to dinner Thursday night.” This is your second chance, Din. Take it. “And I’m here to fight with you, too. Just so you know. I want to fight. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, smile blooming bright and real. “Can I bring Greg?” His perfect, true smile. Pulling you inside by the wrist, he takes your face is his hands and he kisses you—fuck, I love you. Maybe it’s a moment of mutual understanding, that everyone deserves a second chance. That everyone deserves a chance to be honest just one more time.

From the back of the house, you hear Grogu’s gleeful shriek of your name, screaming that he can’t believe you’re back. Din kisses you again, deeply, like he loves you the way he said he does. And you finally feel prepared to believe him.

Later that evening, after hours of dinner-time conversation where half a year of school time shenanigans and art projects and the highs and lows of loving the Knicks have been recounted, you and Din lay together in bed. You don't know what time it is. You’ve promised yourself that tomorrow, you won't look at the calendar, you won't count days ever again. There’s no reason to be a keeper of time any longer.

With your nose and mouth pressed against his throat, the humid wash of your breath fanning against his skin, he gives a nearly drunk sounding purr of satisfaction. Exchanging honesties and apologies and self doubts, his fingers travel up and down your naked back, and you tell him that the day you met him never ended for you. He tells you that you had always felt so far away, so far removed, but that he only felt alone when you weren’t with him anyways.

A second chance is not an easy thing to earn, but it doesn’t have to be a difficult one either. Sometimes, it’s easy to just be grateful, to just bask in letting yourself have the thing you want.

You drift in and out of sleep in his arms, and when he turns you over onto your belly, stretching himself out over your prone body to cup the swell of your stomach and the weight of your breast, pushing inside of you again, it feels easy to be grateful for the chance to be here.

And he tells you: “If you give me the chance, I’m going to make you happy every single day. I’m going to try harder every single day.” You tell him that you will, too.

The cricket song comes in through the open window, and you believe in each other.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#vic fic #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian AU #din djarin AU #din djarin fanfiction

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 3 days ago

Text

The Meet-Cute - Zoro's Story - 6

Source for pic

Trouble 6

Word Count: 4648

Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader; Protective!Zoro; Soft!Zoro; Sexual Tension; Teasing; Flirting; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Reader is being stalked; Fear; Paranoia; Angst; Rom-Com Vibes; Mild Gore-like Descriptions; Blood; Dead Animals Mentioned; Reader in a terror-like state; Fluff; Romance; Banter; Manipulation; Miscommunication; Frustration; Reader is very clumsy;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. You and Zoro are slowly returning to your easy friendship filled with banter and flirting and you actually begin to glimpse a future with the green-haired cop. But then you start to receive weird gifts. They quickly escalate to manipulative texts. And now you're stuck in a spiral of terror and there's no way to get help because the Stalker, whoever he is, is threatening something other than just your life.

Notes: I really thought I wasn't going to get this chapter out this weekend! I had a very tough week and I really wanted to share something good with you guys. I hope you enjoy it.

Masterlist

You can't sleep.

Not only because the room is still spinning around you - a sensation that only gets worse when you close your eyes - but also because you can't stop replaying what happened.

Zoro's lips, Zoro's breath, Zoro's firm grip. Zoro, Zoro, Zoro. It all comes back to him.

You suppress a squeal into your sheets and cover your face with them, your feet kicking the comforter while you grin maniacally. You feel like a teenager in love.

Oh…

No, not love. It's too soon for that. But it's a heavy crush. And damn it, you want to act on it right now.

Why the hell did your alarm start blaring out of nowhere? You don't even have an alarm set, the rooster is enough as a wake-up call.

Stupid phone.

And damn criminals. You were about to kiss again, but someone had to commit a crime serious enough to drag Zoro back in. Damn drunkards.

A heavy sigh parts your lips as you emerge from beneath the sheets. You try closing your eyes again, and just when you're fighting vertigo, your phone buzzes.

Your heart skips a beat, and the silly grin finds its way back onto your lips. It must be Zoro. You unlock it and squint against the bright light before dimming it.

Unknown: You looked gorgeous tonight, Kitten.

What? It must be a wrong number. You ignore it, ready to lock your phone again, trying not to feel disappointed, but it buzzes again.

Unknown: You're a happy drunk. Makes you loose. You're cute. Too cute. You attracted too much attention. Unknown: But it's okay. I took care of him just for you. Can't have any other men ogling what's mine, can I?

You sit up, trying to figure out the meaning behind the texts. They can't be meant for you.

You: Wrong number. Unknown: Oh, no, Kitten. I've got the right number. Unknown: Sleep tight, Princess. I'll keep watch.

You delete the texts and block the number from your phone. What a creep. Definitely the wrong number.

But you can't seem to shake that familiar unease in your stomach. Nor the way your heart is thumping against your ribcage.

You keep telling yourself the texts weren't for you. Lying down, you close your eyes, willing sleep to come fast. Somehow the walls feel closer, the air seems staler, your clothes tighter.

All giddiness is now gone, and though you wish Zoro would say something, you fear hearing your phone buzz again.

Even if it's the wrong number.

Right?

-*-

Morning comes too soon, and now you're rethinking your life choices. You shouldn't have drunk that much.

“Shut uuuuuup!” The pillow muffles your scream, but even if it didn't, it's not like the rooster can hear you yelling at it.

With a heavy sigh and a low grunt, you get up, ready to start your morning, dreading all the chores since your head is still pounding and your throat feels drier than the desert.

You don't even recall the texts you received yesterday, they're so far back in your mind that they seem like a dream. You still feel the faint brush of Zoro's lips against yours, though.

It's not until you open the door to go outside that the eerie events of last night swim back to the forefront of your pounding head. There's another box waiting for you.

You hesitate, your hand hovering over the handle of the door and your feet staggering backwards. Should you just ignore it?

Biting your lower lip, you take a tentative step out onto the porch, your eyes scanning the property, almost expecting something - or someone - to jump out.

Your eyes fall back on the package. It's crumpled, and there's no ribbon. It also seems dirtier. Is it…? Blood?

It can't be.

Clenching your teeth and taking a deep breath, you kneel down, acting braver than you actually feel and ignoring the trembling of your hands as you open the box.

You're not sure if your scream actually leaves your lips or if it only stays in your head. But the incessant pounding of your heart is so loud that it's all you can hear.

There are two bloody eyeballs staring right at you inside the box.

-*-

“You think they're a match, Cap?” Zoro raises the plastic bag upwards so it catches the morning sun. The eyeballs, wet and glassy on their surface, stare back at Zoro, a lifeless dullness in the irises, though blood still lingers on them.

“Unless there's someone else with missing eyeballs, Roronoa, I'd say they're a match.”

Zoro's deadpan look doesn't seem to faze Mihawk one bit as he looks around the scene, coordinating his team.

“Why here?”

Mihawk’s gaze falls on the vast scenery, a slight breeze dishevelling his hair as a hawk glides effortlessly in the sky. Then he looks back at the coin-operated binoculars, where tape still sticks from holding the eyeballs in place, his team still busy gathering all evidence before disrupting the scene further.

They're at the overlook.

“It seems like they were sending another message. What do you reckon it is?”

Zoro hands the bag over to one of his colleagues and steps closer to the binoculars, his gaze landing downwards, scanning the town's buildings, the beach in the distance, and the Ferris wheel from the fair.

His department doesn't have detectives, they're too small, and Mihawk is a seasoned cop. They never had enough crimes - or crimes grisly enough - to justify it. But Mihawk - even though he'd rather die than admit it - has taken Zoro under his wing, so, when an investigation comes by, Zoro acts as a lead investigator, even if he's not officially a detective.

And Mihawk likes to test him.

“I'd say it means they're watching. Or something like it.”

Mihawk hums appreciatively, his eyes still scanning the vast horizon. “I agree. But I would delve even further.” He gestures with his hand. “The overlook was not randomly chosen, I believe. If that was simply the message, they could've taped the eyes to any given binoculars, and the message would come through, right?”

Zoro nods, his gaze landing on your father's farm, and he feels a slight clutch at his chest. “The overlook has a view of the entire town.”

“Exactly, Roronoa. They're not simply watching. They're watching everything.”

-*-

Fake. They're not real eyeballs. They're plastic eyeballs smeared in red paint.

But damn it if they didn't give you a fright.

Who the hell would even consider this a practical joke? Usopp? Luffy? Would any of them do this? Most likely they wouldn't. Their jokes are usually more of the childish kind, not the scary kind.

With a grumble and a snarl, you shove the gift into the trash can and push it to the back of your mind.

Freaking gifts.

Your phone buzzes as you take the first step off your porch, and you freeze as last night's texts slip their way into your mind again.

Another buzz.

You swallow hard and take a deep breath. It was just a wrong number yesterday, it doesn't mean it will be another creepy message again.

Right?

You try to ignore the way your hand trembles as you reach for your phone or how your heartbeat races.

Zoro: Hey, Troublemaker. Making trouble?

A sigh escapes your lips as you sit down on the first step of the porch, both your hands clutching your phone tightly while the sense of dread washes away and a small smile paints your lips.

You: Not yet! Just got up. You? Zoro: Didn't even get to sleep yet 😴 Got tangled in a weird-ass case. I'll fill you in later. You: Later? Zoro: Got any other plans that don't involve me? Should I be hurt or worried?

You smirk, the ghost of his lips still tingling on your own, along with the promise of a continuation.

You: I marked out ‘complete unfinished business’ on my schedule after last night. Zoro: You did, did you? I'll make sure to get some sleep first, then, since I plan to take my time with you.

The smirk gracing your lips after you're done exchanging texts remains plastered on your face the rest of the day.

-*-

“But I just worked an all-nighter, Cap!” Zoro grunts, his hair still disheveled from sleep.

“And now you're fully rested, Roronoa. Johnny had an emergency, Yosaku is on vacation, and I need you to cover his shift. You can have tomorrow off.”

Fuck.

“I have plans today.” The sheets fly away from him when he kicks them, though the gesture does nothing to curb his frustration.

“Yes, I just told you what they were. Besides, Lucci is awake at the hospital and stable. You need to check in on him. I'm hanging up now. I hear enough complaining from my daughter, I don't need it from you either.”

“Fuck!” Zoro curses loudly as he drops the phone onto his bed, raking a hand through his hair to try and chase away the sleep.

He usually doesn't mind doing extra shifts. He likes the work, and it keeps him busy. But he doesn't usually have dates planned.

And he really wanted to continue that kiss.

With another sigh, he picks up the phone again and starts heading towards the bathroom.

Zoro: Hey, Trouble. Sorry, Cap just called. I need to fill in for a shift. Guess we'll have to postpone our unfinished business for another night.

It takes you a few minutes to answer back, and he uses them to get ready and slip into his uniform.

You: Really? 😟 And I bought some really good sake, too…

The groan he releases now comes from the depths of his soul. Being with you and drinking sake have to be two of his favourite things in the world.

You: It's okay, Zo. We'll have other opportunities to spend time together! Zoro: Yeah, you're right. Stay safe, Trouble.

-*-

Stay safe.

You smile and sigh, sinking into the cushions of the couch. You had finished your chores earlier to grab that sake for Zoro, taken a nice bath, and were just about to start cooking dinner for two.

“Well, dinner for one it is.”

Getting up with a grunt, you head to the kitchen and decide that dinner for one might as well be a bowl of cereal. You don't even notice your phone buzzing until you sit down and reach it.

Unknown: Did you like my gift?

Uneasiness sets your heart pounding against your ribcage as you drop the spoon back into the bowl with a soft clang and a small splash of milk.

Gift? The eyes?

Shaking your head, you delete the text and open a streaming service, searching for a mind-numbing show to shake away the edge.

Unknown: I don't want anyone to look at you like that, Kitten. Unknown: You're mine.

Delete, delete. Block.

You turn the phone screen down and stare at the device as if it’s about to sprout legs and jump at you. It has to be a mistake. Those texts aren't for you.

Unknown: Cereal is not a proper meal, sweetheart. You need real nourishment. Unknown: I don't want you to get ill.

“Fuck.”

The chair scrapes against the floor as you get up abruptly, stride to the front door, and lock and bolt it. You draw every curtain in sight, making sure all locks are in place. But not even all the security measures in the world seem to calm your racing heart.

“It's a mistake. It has to be. Someone's messing with my head.”

You pace the kitchen after putting the cereal bowl into the sink, the food nearly untouched as your stomach roils and churns in revulsion.

Unknown: It's not a mistake, Kitten. I'm here for you. You're mine.

You nearly drop the phone this time as a cold wave of fear rushes through you. Darting your eyes around the room, you half expect someone to jump from the shadows. Everything seems alive, just waiting to pounce at you.

A hiccupped sob shakes you from your momentary paralysis, and you fumble to unlock your phone again. With shaking fingers you scroll to Zoro's thread while your eyes still dart from every nook and corner of your kitchen back to the screen.

“Come on, come on.” You whisper as your lungs constrict and the air seems heavier. You start to type, not wanting to call Zoro and disrupt his shift, even though it feels like something he would want to be disrupted for.

The buzz from your phone makes you gasp and swallow a shallow scream.

Unknown: Don't tell the cop, Kitten. This is our little secret. Unknown: You don't want to misbehave, do you?

No, no, no! This can't be happening.

Your fingers hover on the letters and you take a deep breath, continuing your text to Zoro.

Unknown: Don't hit send, Sweetheart. You don't want me mad. Unknown: Who do you think made your precious cop go to work today? Who do you think made him be dragged to the station yesterday?

What?

Your legs give out and you slump on the floor, knees pulled up against your chest as you hug them tightly.

Unknown: Do you know how easy it would be to lure your hero cop into a trap? Unknown: I don't mind hurting him like I hurt the other one.

Other one?

Unknown: Maybe you haven't seen it yet, Kitten.

And then there's a link to a local newspaper website. You hesitate, every creak of the old house making you hyper-aware of your surroundings. You still click on it.

Gruesome crime in the Calm Belt. The police are still baffled as to who could have maimed Rob Lucci, local shipwright, with such a heinous crime. He was found last night after a party without his eyes–

You close the link, the taste of bitter bile rising up your throat. The gift, the fake eyes, Rob Lucci… it was all their work.

Another buzz draws your attention, and you blink away the tears to clear your vision. It's a picture.

Unknown: The things I do for you, Kitten.

You know you shouldn't open it. Your thrumming heart and the coldness rushing through your veins are living proof that you shouldn't open it.

Yet you do.

And as you gaze at Rob Lucci’s pained expression, his eye sockets hollow and dripping blood, his mouth drooling while hanging open and at a big, tanned and veiny hand holding two bloody eyeballs, you can no longer stop your stomach from heaving and retching all over the kitchen floor.

It's your fault Rob Lucci ended up like that.

And if you tell Zoro about what’s happening, he could be next.

-*-

“Atchoo!” Zoro sneezes and runs one hand over his nose.

He's pissed.

Lucci didn't remember shit from last night. Nothing useful, anyway. Someone stabbed a needle into his neck, whispered a cryptic: ‘You should've never have looked at her’, and next thing he knew, he was in the hospital.

At least he wasn't awake when they took out his eyes. Could've been much worse. But Zoro didn't tell him that.

Useless Lucci couldn't even say who ‘her’ might be referring to. He just said he’d hit on a lot of girls at Franky’s party. It could be referring to anyone. Maybe Khalifa, he'd mused, since he'd been hovering over her until the ship docked.

Zoro felt a bit guilty about the relief that washed over him, the implication about Khalifa leaving you out of this gruesome business. Then he left Lucci to take his painkillers and rest, requesting that an officer keep an eye outside Khalifa’s apartment until someone took her statement in the morning.

But what's got him even more pissed is the fact that he was looking forward to spending more time alone with you, seeing where you could take things.

But since he has to take over Johnny's patrol, he can swing by your house for five minutes. Just to see you. Then maybe he can focus on his job instead of the way your lips felt brushing against his.

Or how stupidly giddy he feels because you wanted to kiss him back.

That has to mean you like him too. Right? You don't seem like the type to just lead him on. He knows you, and he doesn't think you've changed that much.

Parking in front of your house, Zoro steps out of the car and raises an eyebrow. There's still a bit of light outside, why are all of your curtains drawn? It doesn't seem like you… Then again, maybe it's because you're all alone in your house.

With a shrug, he climbs the steps two at a time and knocks on the door. You don't answer so he tries again, trying to shove his apprehension down. You're fine, he talked to you about two hours ago.

You're fine.

-*-

You're not fine.

You hear a car approach and instantly know it has to be Zoro. You barely hold down a sigh of relief, but as soon as you get up, ready to open the door and jump into the safety of his arms, your phone buzzes relentlessly, text after text, without pause.

Unknown: Don't tell him anything. Unknown: Don't let him suspect. Unknown: Don't even think about letting him touch you. Unknown: I do not make empty threats, Kitten. I don't want to hurt him, but I will. Unknown: Don't tell him our little secret.

Your throat dries up and you swallow back a sob. Crying won't help. Nothing will help.

Zoro could help.

But you can't tell him. You won't risk his safety.

Another insistent knock startles you, and you get up swiftly, stopping by the hallway mirror to try and disguise your tears.

You can't do anything about the fear in your eyes, though.

Unknown: Don't disobey me. I do not want to punish you.

You shove the phone into your pocket, and just as you're about to unlatch the lock, Zoro pounds harder on the wooden door.

“Hey, Trouble, are you okay?”

Deep inhale. You just have to fake it.

“I'm opening the door, Zo, calm down.” Too shaky. Your words are too hiccuped and weak.

He'll notice.

The door swings open, and you try to focus on Zoro's chest instead of his eye.

“Damn it, I was already considering breaking the door down.”

You force a dry chuckle as he leans on the doorway, a devious smirk on his lips, even though his brow raises slightly when you don't meet his gaze.

“That's exaggerated.”

“Is it? I wouldn't put it past you to fall down the stairs, or burn yourself, or get trapped behind some furniture. You're that clumsy.”

This time, your chuckle is even drier, and he notices it. Zoro takes a small step forward, his hand reaching as he lifts your chin so you look at him. You flinch, and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

“Trouble?”

“I'm fine! I just… There's food on the stove. I have to… It’ll burn.” Weak voice, weak excuses. Another buzz, and you pull away from his touch.

“Is something wrong?” Zoro's eyes dart behind you, inside the house, half-expecting to see someone there.

“No. I'm just tired. That's all.”

-*-

Tired, my ass.

You're fidgety, jumpy, and scared. You don't even meet his gaze. The fuck’s going on?

Zoro tries to get past you, but you block his path. You don't want him inside? What's going on?

“Do you need help with something? I can spare five minutes.”

For a second, your gaze meets his, and Zoro's heart skips a beat. It's almost as if you're reaching out to him, seeking something. But it's fleeting, and you drop your eyes back down, your body trembling slightly at the same time he hears a faint buzz - your phone?

“No, I'm fine. Everything's all right. You should go.” You take a step back and start to close the door.

Was it the kiss? Did that mess things up? No, it couldn't have been, or you wouldn't have flirted back with him over texts in the morning. It has to be something else.

“Bye.” You whisper, but the word doesn't sound final. It sounds like a plea.

Zoro's hand stops the door, and he reaches again, this time making sure you meet his gaze by holding your face with his hand.

“You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?”

-*-

Yes! Yes, you want to tell him so badly! Stay, protect me, help me. I'm being watched, I'm so scared.

You'd say all of it to him in a heartbeat. Just his presence is enough to make you feel safer.

But the insistent buzz in your pocket tells you he can't stay. You don't know who the person on the other side of the texts is, but you already know enough to believe his threats.

You can't risk Zoro’s safety.

You can't.

“Come on, Zo. Of course I would. I'm just a bit under the weather, that's all.”

Tired, food on the stove, under the weather? Shit.

You should just stick to one excuse and run with it. He's never going to believe you like this.

His hand feels hot against your skin, and so strong. A safety line. And you want to keep him there for as long as possible.

Unwillingly, you raise your hand and cover his, forcing a smile on your lips. “I'm fine, really.”

He squeezes your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin softly. “You sure?”

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

With a shaky breath, you fall back, pushing yourself away from him.

“Yeah, talk tomorrow, okay?”

But you don't let him answer and close the door. You can't pretend anymore. Not when hot, wet tears are burning your eyes, not when your heart is pounding madly against your ribcage, not when your legs give out and you fall to the floor.

Your hands fly to your mouth and you stifle your sobs against them. It's only when you hear Zoro's car driving away that you reach for your phone, where a mountain of texts stares at you.

Unknown: Don't let him touch you, Kitten. Unknown: Tell him you're fine. Unknown: Tell him you don't need him. Unknown: You only need me. Unknown: What did I say about him touching you? Unknown: Move away, Kitten! Unknown: You're being very naughty. This won't do. Unknown: I'm very displeased. Unknown: That's it, move away. Close the door. Unknown: Good girl. All is well. Unknown: You're mine. No one can touch you. Unknown: No one will touch you. Unknown: All mine.

You don't quite know how long you sit on the cold, hard floor, staring at the possessive, disturbing texts.

You don't quite know how this situation escalated so fast and so far.

You don't quite know how to feel or what to do in order to escape.

All you know is that you feel trapped.

And so, so scared.

-*-

You don't sleep, even though you locked all the doors, all the windows, and checked them all three times before climbing into your room.

And even there, you lock the door. The one door you never once locked in your life.

You spend the night curled into a ball, trying to disappear against the headboard. Flinching at every little sound your old house makes. Every shadow looks threatening, every sound is overwhelming.

You can't do this.

You can't be controlled by an invisible threat. You need to tell Zoro.

You make up your mind. As soon as you get up and take care of the animals, you'll march into the police station and speak to Zoro and his captain. If the police know about it, Zoro is going to be safe.

He has to be.

You can't face this alone, and you need him. He'll know what to do, how to find who this man is, how to make this stop.

Zoro will know what to do.

-*-

The knocks on the door follow the rooster’s call by around fifteen minutes, and you raise your brow.

Everything seems less menacing with the morning light. The shadows are no longer threatening since they're brighter, and the sounds are merry, instead of haunting.

And now that you’ve decided to tell Zoro about your torment, the fear seems far away.

But you're not expecting anyone this early. “Who is it?” Your voice sounds hoarse and distant.

“It's Ace, Princess, open up.”

A sigh of relief parts your lips as you unbolt the lock. “Morning, Ace. Want some coffee?”

He looks a bit worried, a single line furrowing his brows as he scratches beneath his ridiculous cowboy hat. “Later. I got started earlier since I have a morning shift at the station, and I waited until I saw you were up, but one of the cows is sick. I called the vet, and they should be here any minute now.”

“What? Oh, no!” You love those cows, some of which you've known your whole life. So, you grab an apple from the counter and close the door, following Ace into the barn.

Texts, phone, and worries, all forgotten inside the walls of your home as something else takes the forefront of your mind.

-*-

Ace leaves a bit before his shift starts, but the vet arrives quickly. The sick cow is one of the younger ones, and you spend the better part of the morning with her and the vet, taking a break to make some sandwiches for both of you to serve as a meager lunch while trying to fulfill the rest of the chores and still care for your poor sick cow.

For a moment, your heart constricts, the thought of losing an animal a weight hanging heavy on your shoulders, but it passes the moment the vet sighs with exhaustion and assures you that the cow is fine. Tired, battered, and hungry, but fine. And she will live.

You offer some refreshments to the vet since the afternoon sun is already starting its descent in the sky, and it's only after the vet leaves and you sit in your kitchen, tired and weary, that you pick up your phone, which had been forgotten inside the house for most of the day.

Dread spreads its tendrils across your veins, sending icy chills through you as you stare at the screen.

Three unanswered calls and half a dozen messages.

All from Zoro.

Zoro: Hey, Trouble, just wanted to check in with you, but you must be busy. Call me back. Zoro: How are you feeling? Still haven't called me back, need anything? Zoro: Shit, Trouble, I was selected to go on a week-long training retreat with other cops from other stations. It's random and mandatory. The commissioner pulls one of these every now and then. I'll be unreachable. Call me back, will you?

Unreachable? A week?

No, no, no!

You fight the urge to immediately call him as you skim through the other texts.

Zoro: I'm about to leave, Trouble. I tried calling you again, still nothing. Is everything all right? I can't leave the station now. Call me! Zoro: Okay, I just spoke with Ace. I hope your cow is feeling better but this is really the last chance to speak to me before I leave. For a week. Zoro: Be safe, Trouble. Call Nami if you need anything, will you?

Shit.

He's gone. Just like that.

The phone stares at you mercilessly from the table, as if taunting you. Why didn't you bring it with you outside? You needed to speak to Zoro. You wanted him to know. You wanted his help.

Now you're all alone.

And someone is watching your every move, making you feel small, trapped, and scared.

Unknown: Don't worry, Kitten. He may be gone, but I've got you. Unknown: I won't let anyone hurt you. Unknown: You're mine.

Taglist: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium

#one piece #x reader #reader insert #the meet-cute #reader x roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #you x zoro #zoro x you #zoro x reader #reader x zoro

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sissylittlefeather · 3 days ago

Text

If You Talk In Your Sleep

Chapter 1

A/N: I wouldn't be me if I only wrote one series at a time. So here is Elvis x reader in Vegas in 1969. It's going to get dramatic, so hang on tight, friends. Hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: 18+ minors absolutely DNI, smut, kissing, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, also a tad bit of angst and mentions of domestic violence (not Elvis)

Word count: ~3.8k

The only thing that glitters more than Las Vegas in 1969 is you. Your dress, your shoes, the insane amount of jewelry you're wearing, even your purse shimmers under the lights. It's almost like you're trying to catch someone's attention. And truthfully, you are. Your husband is a cruel man and although he keeps you dripping in diamonds, you'd be lying if you said you weren't lonely. He's what they call a “Casino Boss”. You're not exactly sure what that means, but you know it's hard and violent. It must be pretty stressful too because he yells at you constantly. He's never hit you, but he has pushed you and grabbed your face and you do everything in your power to keep him happy. Despite his anger issues, he swears that he loves you more than life itself, so he always comes back to you with presents after he's particularly harsh. Still, you're tired of it. Tired of walking on eggshells. And as much as he says he loves you, it's more like he loves the idea of you. He never listens to you or treats you like anything beyond a pretty little trophy that he can smother in jewelry and ignore. It's not an ideal existence, but what can you do?

Most nights you dress to the nines and sit somewhere in a casino waiting for someone to see you. In the beginning, your husband made you come to work with him, but as time has passed, he wants you near him less and less. You're not sure if he's messing around or if he's just secure in the fact that you aren't going anywhere, but you spend most of your time alone. Men approach you all the time, but they've never been interesting enough to tempt you into anything dangerous.

Tonight, you sit here in a gold dress, your hair in big waves as it cascades down your shoulders. You swirl a straw in your drink and take a sip, bored. It feels like you might suffocate if you sit here for another second, so you stand up and walk away, headed for a back door to get some air. As you walk, the reality of your life overwhelms you, you feel the tears start to gather, and by the time you make it outside, they're running down your face. You wrap your arms around yourself and sob. It's cold in the desert at night and the emptiness is overwhelming.

Elvis sits at the blackjack table surrounded by pretty girls and all of his best friends. But even with all the company, he stares at his cards and soaks in the loneliness. His career has finally started to take off again and on stage he feels like he's found himself. But when he's not on stage, he feels trapped. Trapped by a marriage he didn't really want, forced into curated friendships with people that seem to like their paychecks more than they like him. He somehow feels completely unseen, despite the constant attention.

“Sir…?” The dealer asks him hesitantly. He shakes his head and slides his cards forward. Then he stands up and half of the men at the table stand up too.

“Where we goin’, boss?” Several of the girls stroke him and whine that he's leaving so soon. Their hands feel cold and all he sees is dollar signs in their eyes.

“Bathroom. Don't follow me.” He turns from the table and walks away. Several of the men try to and he dismisses them. He heads down a hallway, but doesn't turn into the restroom. Instead, he heads for a door to the outside. He doesn't even care if he'll be able to get back in as he pushes it open aggressively and steps out into the darkness.

You try to wipe your eyes and fade into the shadows, praying he won't see you. But of course he does.

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry. Is this spot taken?” He smirks playfully and then notices your face. His eyebrows come together in concern and he takes a step closer. “You okay?”

“Oh, I'm just peachy.” You shiver and wish you had a cigarette. He pulls a cigar out of his pocket and lights it, watching you closely.

“You don't look peachy. I mean, you look beautiful, but not happy.” He takes a drag from the cigar and you look into his face. You know who he is, but you're not in the mood to acknowledge his celebrity status. You need a human.

“Well, thank you. But no, I'm not happy.” As you say it, more tears slip down your cheeks. His heart breaks a little for you and he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a white handkerchief with “EP” embroidered on it in dark blue.

“Here, doll.” You take it and dab at your eyes and he notices how you shiver. He has a thought to take his jacket off, but he can't. “I'd give you my coat, honey, but I've got nothing on under it. Here. C’mere.”

He holds the cigar in his teeth and reaches for you, running his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm you up.

“That better?” You smile a little, but you're still freezing.

“Thanks.”

“I'm Elvis.” He smiles and holds his cigar in his fingers as he continues rubbing on your arms.

“You don't say.” You giggle and he chuckles. Then, emboldened by your drinks and the privacy of your location, you gesture to his cigar with your head. “Can I get some of that?”

His eyes widen in surprise, but he nods.

“Sure, honey.” He hands it to you and watches as you take a few drags and exhale slowly. After you do, you shiver again and he clicks his tongue. “You're still freezing.”

He flicks the cigar, there wasn't much left anyway, and unbuttons his jacket. When he holds it open for you, exposing his naked upper half underneath, you blink several times.

“Get in here. I'm warm, I promise.” You look at him in awe and wonder if he's noticed the ring on your hand. It's 7 carats, so it's hard to ignore. “I won't bite ya, honey.”

You look around and realize that no one would ever know. Then, you decide you don't care if they do and step towards him, sliding your arms around his waist. He wraps the jacket and himself around you.

“Ain't that better?” You nod against his chest. He really is warm and it feels so nice to have him around you like this. Add to that the way he smells and you're practically swooning. “You wanna tell me what's got you so upset?”

You take a deep breath and try to decide what you should say.

“I really don't.” He nods and looks down at you.

“I understand that, honey. Better than you know.” For a minute it looks like he's going to kiss you, but he doesn't. Instead, he sighs deeply. “I should go back inside.”

You nod and start to pull away from him, but he squeezes you tighter.

“Just a second. This is nice.” He doesn't say how badly he needs the affection, but you can sense that he needs something from you, so you snuggle into him again. “What's your name, doll?”

You tell him and he whispers it back to you. To your utter shock, he kisses your forehead before he backs away.

“Okay. It's probably time.”

You nod and pull away as he turns back to the door. But there's no handle and he stares at it in disbelief.

“How were you plannin' on getting back in?” He asks, still looking at the door. You miss his arms around you, but you shrug.

“No idea. Hadn't thought that far.” He chuckles and then takes your hand.

“We better head around to the front of the casino.” He guides you back to the entrance of the building and then stands there with you in front of the doors. After a few beats, you pull out his handkerchief and try to hand it back to him.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“You keep it, honey.” You stand there for another couple of seconds.

“Well, I guess I should go back inside–” As you say it, his crowd of followers busts through the door and there's a flurry of activity as they fuss over him and scold him for leaving them. You think to yourself that he seems like a child being admonished for running away. When your eyes meet his, they're full of bitterness and he shrugs.

“I'm fine, y'all. Let's just go.” He calls for his car and you turn to make your way into the hotel. “Wait, honey.”

He jogs over to you at the doors and takes your hands in his.

“Come with me.”

“Elvis, I can't.”

“Why not?” You hold up your left hand for him to see your ring.

“Yeah, I saw that. Something tells me you need to take it off for the night.” He looks at you, his blue eyes piercing your soul. For a second, you wonder how he knew, and then you don't care anymore, not one bit.

“That would be nice.”

“I thought so. Come on.” He slips the ring off your finger and into his pocket and then takes your elbow, leading you towards his car. A bunch of the other guys pile in with you, but they don't say anything about the fact that you've joined them. You ride along in silence with his arm around your shoulders, his hand intertwined with yours. It doesn't take long at all to get back to the International hotel. At the elevator, the guys try to come with you expecting a party like they've had almost every night, but he shakes his head. That's all it takes for them to stay behind. Once the doors close, he turns and leans against the wall of the elevator. You know he's married too, but you hate to bring it up. Instead, you smile awkwardly.

“C’mere, honey.” He holds his arms out to you like he did behind the casino and you go to him, wrapping your arms around his waist again. You stand like that, snuggled together, until the doors slide open and he guides you into his suite with his hand on the small of your back.

“You wanna drink?” He asks, walking to a bar at the side of the room. You've never cheated on Carl before. A drink would probably help.

“Sure.”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you have.” You hear him put ice in a glass and then pour some things in it. He brings it to you and you immediately recognize it as a screwdriver. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome, honey.” He watches as you take a small sip. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” You shake your head. “The situation does. But you don't really.”

He smiles warmly and then settles himself next to you on the couch.

“Please talk to me. No one ever talks to me.” He looks over at you with a look somewhere between bitter and sad.

“You have so many people–”

“They talk at me and about me. No one ever talks to me. Not really. Not about anything real.” You take another big gulp of your drink and then turn to face him, kicking your shoes off and tucking your feet up under you.

“I don't wanna be married anymore. My husband is not… nice. And I miss being a person.” He looks into your eyes with more understanding than you expected.

“My wife is cold. She wasn't before we got married, but after? She's just… cold.” You lean forward and push your fingers into his hair.

“You seem like the kind of man that needs warmth.” He nods.

“I really am. So I guess what I'm sayin’ is I understand not wantin’ to be married.” He sits in silence for a bit, reveling in the feeling of your hand in his hair. Then, he looks at you again. “Does he hurt you?”

You pull your hand back and move away, but he gently grabs you and pulls you almost into his lap.

“Sometimes. Not bad. No bruises or anything.”

“Honey, he doesn't have to leave marks on you to hurt you.” He grits his teeth a little, obviously angry that anyone could ever hurt you. “What's he do?”

“He's the Casino Boss at the Flamingo.”

“Oh.” Elvis understands that means he's dangerous. But he doesn't let go of you or anything. Instead, he buries his head in your neck and leaves soft kisses there. He continues pressing his lips to your skin, moving down your chest.

“Elvis…”

“Yes, doll?” He asks between kisses on your breasts.

“This could only ever happen once.”

“I'm not known for my faithfulness to women.” He murmurs and you take that as him understanding what can and cannot happen. You pull away from him and stand up, his eyes wide as he watches you. Then, you push the straps of your dress off of your shoulders and let it fall into a shiny pool at your feet. This leaves you in just your panties, so you turn and walk towards what you assume is the bedroom. It doesn't take him long at all to stand up and follow you. At the doorway, you turn and wrap yourself around him. He leans down and kisses you deeply.

“Tonight is a vacation.” You whisper.

“Viva Las Vegas…” He whispers in return before grabbing the backs of your thighs and lifting you into his arms. You whimper as he carries you to the bed and lays you down on the satin sheets. His jacket and pants are off before you even know what's happening and then he's on top of you, pressing his lips to every inch of you that he can reach.

His mouth finds your nipple and he teases it with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth. He moves to the other one and gives it the same attention. You haven't been this turned on in years and your body responds as such, making a damp spot on your panties. He continues to kiss down your body and then rolls your underwear down your legs and off, leaving you completely exposed to him.

“Need to taste you, doll.” He moans softly, dropping hot kisses on your hips and thighs. You spread your legs for him and he groans at the sight of your glistening pussy. He settles his body into the space between your open thighs and teases your slit with his fingertip. “So wet for me, honey. Such a pretty pussy.”

Two fingers slide inside you and you gasp at the sensation. When he lowers his mouth to your clit and begins to lick you, you damn-near pass out. Carl hasn't gone down on you since before you were married. And even when he did, he wasn't this caring or skilled.

“Oh God, Elvis…” You moan, your hand grasping the front of his hair.

“That's it, baby. Let me give you what you need.” He growls against your sensitive flesh and you tremble with desire. You feel the edges of your orgasm as it starts to approach.

“I'm gonna cum…” You whimper and roll your hips against his face as he eats you. He groans and nods, looking up at you with his face buried in your pussy. His tongue moves so fast that you'd swear it was detached from his body. But it's not and the delicious sensation of him working you with his tongue has you so close you can almost taste it. “Fuck! Elvis!”

You scream as your climax washes over you, filling your body with electricity as you pulse around his fingers, curled just right to hit your g-spot. He licks you until he feels you relax and then pulls back, his lips and chin shiny with your arousal.

“You taste like heaven, doll.” He whispers as he presses his lips to your body again, rolling his hips against your thigh. His cock is rock hard where it presses into you and you moan softly when you feel it.

“I wanna make you feel good, baby.” You murmur to him as he makes it back to your mouth. He kisses you deeply as your hand trails down his chest and you take his member in your hand.

“Mmm, honey, just like that.” He moans softly as you pump him, sliding his foreskin back and forth.

“Please fuck me, Elvis. Please.” You moan and nibble on his earlobe. He groans and nods.

“That what you want, doll? You want this cock?”

“Yes, please.” He hovers over you, lining himself up with your entrance. You whimper as he slides his tip through your folds. Then, he slowly starts to push into you.

“Fuck, honey, you're so tight. Breathe for me.” You take a deep breath in an attempt to relax, but all you can think about is the fact that Carl will kill Elvis if he ever finds out about this. “You okay?”

He lifts his head up and looks down at you with his eyebrows pulled together in concern.

“I-I'm scared.” You whisper.

“Of me?” He pulls out and settles beside you.

“No. If my husband ever finds out… he'll kill you.” Elvis sighs deeply and runs his hand through his hair.

“So he won't find out. Do you not want this?” He gently runs his fingertips up and down your body as he speaks.

“I do. I really do. I'd just hate to read about you being found in a hole in the desert.” You turn your head to look at him and he smirks.

“Honey. I'm Elvis Presley. You think I'm afraid of your husband?” It dawns on you that he has no idea who he's dealing with and what it would mean for anyone to find out about you.

“Elvis, my husband is a dangerous man. And he works with a lot of dangerous men who live to beat people with baseball bats. I'm not sure you want to do this.” He moves his hand up to your cheek and looks you in the eye.

“Honey, listen to me. I'm not scared. I have a lot of bodyguards and I know how to protect myself. If you don't wanna do this, I understand, but if you do, you’re safe.” He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and then kisses your cheek softly. There's a strange amount of intimacy between the two of you, considering you've known each other less than 6 hours. You look into his eyes and think to yourself that it's not you you're worried about. But his eyes are so reassuring that you decide you'll cross that bridge when you come to it. For now, you need him.

“I want this.” You whisper as you roll him onto his back and straddle his hips. Again, you drag the head of his cock against you and then sink down onto him. It takes a bit for you to slip all of him inside you, but it's worth it. When he fills you fully, you moan in unison, throwing your head back in pleasure. “Oh God, Elvis.”

As you begin to move on him, his hands go to your hips and he guides you, moaning. He rolls you deep and slow, rocking you back and forth like a ship on the ocean. The speed, depth, and angle of his movements have your eyes rolling back in your head.

“That's good, doll. Fuck, that's good.” He moves you on him with more speed and more pressure as he races towards his high. You feel another orgasm start to gather in your belly and lean forward onto his chest as he starts to fuck you from underneath. He punctuates each thrust with a soft moan. “Cum for me again, honey. I wanna feel you.”

It doesn't take much more for you to do exactly as he asks and tumble over the edge into another climax, your pussy squeezing him just right.

“Oh, fuck.” He fully intends to pull you off of him, as he always does with his one-night girls, but something keeps him right where he is and he cums deep inside you, his cock throbbing with his release. You relax into each other, panting and sweating and he wraps his arms around you. What is it about you that's making him like this? After several minutes in this position, you peel yourself off of him and start to get dressed. “You have to leave so quick, honey?”

You glance at the clock on the wall. It's almost three.

“My husband gets off around four. I have to be home when he gets there.” He tries not to sigh too deeply. For some reason, he had kind of hoped you'd stay and sleep with him.

“Where do you live?”

“The Flamingo. We have a suite.” He nods and watches as you put yourself back together again, walking to the living room to fetch your dress. You walk back into the bedroom fully dressed and look at him in the bed.

“Elvis, I told you. One night only. This can't be a thing.” He nods reluctantly and holds his hand out for you to walk closer and take it. You do, kissing his knuckles softly.

“I know, doll. But it was fun while it lasted.” You sit on the bed and he pulls you into his arms, not wanting to let go.

“How long are you here?” You ask quietly.

“As long as I want to be. But it doesn't matter. Does it?” He asks with a sliver of hope in his voice.

“No. It doesn't.” You stand up away from him and move towards the door. “Goodbye, Elvis.”

“Goodbye, honey.” He watches as you disappear through the bedroom door and then listens for the front door of the suite to close. He lays back, looking up at the ceiling for a while, missing you. On the street, you hail a cab and make it home just in time. You're in bed, almost asleep when you hear Carl open the front door. He doesn't disturb you, but instead gets undressed and slips under the covers. Every single part of you wishes he was Elvis and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep the tears from falling.

Back in his room, Elvis tries to go to sleep without thinking of you, but he's wildly unsuccessful. There's something about the way you seem to understand his loneliness that makes him wish he could see you again.

Still, you both lay in your respective beds trying to go to sleep. But the sun comes up on both of you still awake.

Elvis sighs deeply and drags himself out of bed, resigned to the fact that sleep is not happening. He walks to his jacket, picking it up off the floor and shaking it. Something falls out and hits the floor with a small thud.

“What the…?” He picks your ring up and holds it up to the light, a sly smile spreading across his face. Now he'll have to see you again.

******

Do we need more?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @polksaladava @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69 @pxpresley @kxnnxy

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis fanfiction #elvis smut #elvis fic #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fanfic #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x you #Spotify

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okaysonny · 3 days ago

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how would the crew heads confess to you? (lookism)

A/N: a follow up post to: how easy is it for the crew heads to crush on you? (lookism)

thanks for all the love on it :) takes place during the current story!

✦ you're blissfully ignorant + their feelings are not reciprocated... (until you're aware of them anyway lol) because i like the #disbelief 👅

1. ELI

eli decides to take a leap of faith. he's not sure what to expect, but he's witnessed warren and sally's situation. he doesn't want his own love life to be a repeat 🫠

now that he's more sure of himself, more sure that he's allowed to feel someone's affections, he wants to know if his aimless pining for you really is aimless.

i think he'd confess to you in hostel's living room 🫡 (where warren + sally kissed) a simple but special place for him. it's where eli spends time with his family, and he wants you to be a part of that too.

he gets a pep talk from warren and sally first ofc! since they ended up together after all that tension, they remind him of their own experiences. warren would defo say something like: take it from me, gangdong's mighty...and romantic.

the gist of their speech is that: it'll be awkward, but better than waiting three years to properly confess. just be honest - if you don't try, you'll never know.

─ and if you get rejected? i'll be here with popcorn.

─ hush warren! don't listen to him eli. you've got this! (sally flashes a thumbs up 👍🏽)

he also gets motivation from amy and natalie <3 (you can do it uncle!)

eli can only smile bashfully. in the end, they're genuinely here supporting him, no matter what happens.

when the time actually comes, they all leave to give him privacy •ᴗ• (but they'd be listening through the door the whole time 😭)

his confession...is very cute and sweet 🥲 he doesn't have jake's guilt or johan's awkwardness, so he actually looks happy to be admitting his feelings, listing off all the things he admires about you.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

eli's daughter is the most important thing in the world - she's changed him for the better. so, seeing yenna so happy with you has made his heart flutter. (didn't mean for that to rhyme lmfaooo)

his feelings for you go beyond romantic attraction. it's also how well you've fit into his life, how it feels like you're meant to be there. bringing someone into his family's world is a big deal for him - but it would make him so happy to have you in it.

not that he doesn't love being a dad - he clearly does! but eli's life has been centered around taking care of yenna, handling hostel's issues, working hard to make ends meet...he's never really thought about who he is outside of that.

with you, eli feels like he can explore life more freely. he feels appreciated - maybe even a little carefree in a way that’s new for him. with you, even though the pressures and responsibilities are still there, he feels lighter. he remembers he has dreams and aspirations like anyone else. for the first time in ages, he feels like he can be just eli.

he hasn't properly liked anyone since heather - and even that's slightly different. this time, he actually knows what he's feeling. and if there's even a slight chance you'd want to be with him, he would do everything he can to make you happy - just as much as you make him.

eli acknowledges that it's a lot to ask, having a child in the picture. still, should that always prevent him from pursuing a relationship? if he gets that privilege, he would only want you. you would give him (and yenna) so much joy.

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eli's words are filled with quiet hope, his cheeks pink as his confessions spill out.

even if you don’t feel the same way, having you in his life, even as a friend, means the world to him. he doesn't want to lose that.

if eli can't be with you, he can live with it, but he doesn't want to wonder if he missed the chance to tell you.

2. JAKE

this man is filled with such angst and anguish 😂🤦🏽‍♀️

BTW - i think by this point, you'll know his job + past actions. you were unnerved when he admitted it...but jake has faced the repercussions (partly). he still has interests and hobbies like everyone else, he's still good company. you can't bring yourself to fully judge him, because you've never been in that position.

jake wasn't going to say anything. it's less messy, less selfish, if he keeps his feelings to himself.

that doesn't stop you from occupying his head though. he can't help but wonder what you're doing. are you safe? are you happy? if not, could he make you happy? ...possibly?

still, he pushes these thoughts away.

it's only when members of big deal notice his spacing out and lapses in concentration that he thinks: okay...i should probably do something.

he'd rather hear your rejection than keep wondering if there's a chance...+ to not have you (unknowingly) interfere with his duties.

first things first though, he needs some advice.

he'd totallyyy go to sinu. i can picture it so clearly 😂 jake is a smooth talker, but he's never actually liked someone. he can't talk his way though this. (he can try, but he'd fail miserably)

sinu would be so chuffed that his (practically) little brother is coming to him for relationship advice. (i never thought i'd see the day...you're all grown up. and he wipes a tear 😭) given jake's lack of interest in dating, he's pleasantly surprised at his change of heart! you must have had a big impact on him.

jake asks if sinu felt guilty liking yeonhui, considering his role in big deal. he was perceived as a gang leader back then...did sinu ever feel like she deserves better than that?

sinu gets nostalgic and starts reminiscing about his relationship 😅 jake zones out halfway through, wondering why he even bothered to ask in the first place.

EVENTUALLY THOUGH, he reels it back in and gets #serious 🙂‍↕️ something like: how long will you let your role and past define you?

the gist of sinu's speech: sure, jake has done bad things. (...worst than most people) but he shouldn't let that hold him back. jake can still try be something better, he's not some heartless monster. there's no harm in being honest, he'll never know what could happen.

jake is gobsmacked... a man of passion indeed.

i think he'd confess to you at the sea side! (where samuel found out who jake's dad was) he'd rather watch the waves than your confused face.

he tells big deal to stay away from that area, because he has important business there. (jake knows they'd be spying from a distance if he didn't 😭)

i think he'd practice in the mirror beforehand...but it does nothing to settle his nerves (-.-)

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

jake likes you. he knows it's unexpected and out of the blue, but he has to tell you.

you don't realise how amazing you are, how smart, how caring. it's the little things...helping jerry with his homework (god knows no one else can) or paying for your meals even though it's not necessary - he'll always let you eat for free. + plus the food is lowkey shit anyway <3

...or how well you get along with the girls. (they constantly tell him to ask you out 😪)

he knows he's not worthy. there's people who can easily give you their undivided attention. you deserve only the best...and he's the furthest thing from that. but he wishes he could be.

he doesn't want you to think he's the same person as before. you deserve someone way better than an ex-convict. jake wishes he could change the past - so badly. he regrets not trying harder for a better solution back then, just for the opportunity to take you on a date...to be with you.

jake wants to be the best version of himself. you make him think that being a better person could change some of his past...and eventually make him worthy of someone like you.

and if there's even a sliver of hope you feel the same way, that you'd give him the honour of being his first...everything, he'll do everything in his power to be a boyfriend you can be proud of.

he doesn't need you to say anything, jake would never pressure you for a yes or no. he just needed to say the truth, to be honest with you - and himself.

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jake kim, who's always so sarcastic and sure of himself, is suddenly so nervous and quiet before you. it's a side you've never seen of him.

there's a lot to consider. sometimes you'd never see jake, he'll be in danger a lot, and if he really had to - he'd be ruthless again to protect big deal. he knows that too.

even so, he's pouring his heart out, trying so hard for you...and you don't even think you're that great, to be honest.

you find your cheeks flushing at his words, and the earnest way in which he utters them.

3. JOHAN

johan...i found him hard to write. i don't like this little mouse.

if you like someone, you should probably tell them. johan would rather die. but eventually, not saying anything has gotten more painful than the prospect of confessing.

he hasn't liked anyone since mira and that feels like...a lifetime ago. so, he (very reluctantly) goes to zack for help.

zack would be sooo annoying about it, he'll never let him live it down. johan seong coming to him for dating advice...another indicator that their worlds are healing ❤️ he shuts up though when johan threatens to beat his ass.

i think zack would give the same bs advice he gave to vasco in the blind date arc 😭😭

─ alright...you really wanna know? let me give you a piece of advice i told a certain knuckle head. Be gentle...but fast. Be manly...but kind.

─ wait...have you got together with mira yet?

─ all in good time johan...all in good time. (zack taps his noggin 🧏🏻)

so that was useless.

there is another person he can go to though...mother knows best, as they say 🫡 johan would invite you to have dinner at his place, just a causal meal...obviously 😁

─ so you're johan's friend! it's great to finally meet you. help yourself! (he got his cutie patootie genes from his mom)

johan's mom gives him playful nudges when your back is turned 💘 he silently pleads with her to cut it out.

now that he has his mother's seal of approval, he feels ready to...confess or whatever.

i think johan would confess to you while sitting at the river with eden + miro. (the one where lua pushed him in 💔)

unlike eli and jake, johan's confession isn't planned. he decides to tell you when it feels right. and this place feels right.

he'd be avoiding eye contact the WHOLEEE time 😭 his face would be so red too...a cutie patootie to the max.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

johan starts by talking about the little things, like how his dogs are always happy when they see you. eden and miro get so jumpy and excited when you come over, as if they can sense how much he cares about you. it's something he can speak about easily - they're a big part of his life.

and his mom - johan's mom is so important to him. her approval means a lot…and she definitely approves (of you). she really likes you, especially after that dinner at his house. his mom is his rock in so many ways, the fact that she sees what he sees, means the world to him.

johan hid behind a stoic facade for so long. he's grateful to zack and mira for showing him that having feelings for someone…it can be a beautiful thing. with you, he feels more okay stepping out of that shell. maybe it's the way you always listen when he talks…or how you're there for him without making a big deal out of it…or how you celebrate the small things with him. (aka…barely passing english)

the professions are still foreign to him. it’s not just about liking you, it’s about the vulnerability that comes with it. he’s afraid of how this might change things between you two. but, johan knows hiding it would only make things worse. he can’t keep pretending like nothing’s there. it’s been weighing on him for so long.

still, he’s ready to face that fear of vulnerability, to show you all the sides to him. he’s letting you in — not just with his feelings for you, but with his whole self, all the things he’s kept locked away. for johan, that’s a huge deal.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

the man who united all of gangbuk, who went toe to toe with gun park...is suddenly so shy and awkward right now. truly a rare sight.

he's mumbling almost every sentence and you have to scoot closer to hear him, which definitely doesn't help things.

johan is thankful for eden and miro's barking for once, it fills the silence that passes.

it's not the smoothest confession, but that’s exactly what makes it sweet - he's showing you a bit of his heart by saying nothing and everything at the same time.

4. SAMUEL

he'd confess you're his fav BOOTY CALL maybe!

an actual confession of his: when samuel sees cheap instant noodle packs in the store, he can't help but think of big deal.

If it means I can eat better food later...I don't mind eating here now.

but he's annoyed the lavish food he can buy now doesn't quite fill him up the same way.

✿ who would have you blushing the most?

A/N: first date headcanons next?? 🤷🏽‍♀️ if ppl like this one too

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sporeclan · 1 day ago

Note

🪲 for Puddle!

[Ask game]

🪲: What do they value most?

Definitely connections and reputation! This man thrives off of knowing everything about everyone at any moment, and he needs his good standings with everyone else to be privy to the newest drama on the block

@lilpepperspray

🌳: What are their life goals? Deputy, Leader, MedCat/Healer?

Puddle doesn't have any grand ambitions to be honest. He just wants to hang out and be a bit too nosy. In fact, he might already be living his dream just by virtue of being around a large group of people who have tons of interpersonal drama to angst about all the time lol

(I will do Fennelacorn later!)

😸: 3 fun facts!

- The reason he squints all the time is just that his eyes are really sensitive to light! He has a similar gene to that of the Topaz cat, which depigments the eyes specifically. That's also why they're such a pale blue and the pupils are all pink-ish! I imagine he probably has some level of visual impairment due to how intense the light sensitivity is, and his habit of squinting isn't helping that either

- He actually wasn't planning on staying in SporeClan long and really just came here to check the situation out. But after a while he decided he enjoyed it here so much that he settled down for the long haul!

- While, yes, he DOES enjoy himself some good ol people watching, a good amount of what his clanmates perceive as him staring at or watching them is honestly just him zoning out so unbelievably hard. Most of what he learns about others is by conversation, not actually by witnessing

💤: Are they a heavy or light sleeper? What are their dreams like?

Very, very light sleeper! In fact, so light of a sleeper that he can't fall asleep around loud sleepers. This leads to him being regularly found sleeping in hard to access and oddly out of the way places around camp by his clanmates

As for his dreams - I don't know! I feel like he'd probably be one of those people who just don't dream, or at least don't recall their dreams

(Thank you! :D His in game eye colour is blue!)

🐁: Favourite prey?

I think he'd really enjoy pheasant! It's kind of a rare treat and he gets to enjoy it with multiple clanmates

🕸: What does their family tree look like?

It's nothing really special :') He was born a single kit to town cats, either strays, kittypets or either or. He doesn't really talk with or about them. Good luck getting any information about them at all out of him though lol he's a man with a death grip on his secrets no matter how trivial they are!

🧹: Favourite and least favourite clan task/chore/patrol?

He would probably really enjoy changing out the bedding in the dens! He gets to eavesdrop and stay in dim, temperate conditions. What's not to love?

Now he isn't really one to complain, and he's generally happy so long as he has some form of company. So I think his least favourite activity would probably be something like hunting alone? Especially during winter where it's cold, it's bright and the prey is scarce.

#chitchat #ask #bonus #ask game #sc lore #sc:puddle #the idea of fennelacorn just being scared shitless of puddle just for being Like That is so funny to me #mr paranoia vs mr mysterious. we love to see it #rip puddle you wouldve loved keeping up with the kardashians </3 #hes still alive but its the thought that counts. ykno #also dont take any of these doodles too serious!! i was just in a silly funny mood <3 #long post

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jayhyunglover · 2 days ago

Text

Mr&Mrs

Pairing: Zayne x non MC! reader

Part 2 to Send my love to your next lover

Synopsis : is he really going to let her go (no MF go get your girl)

Content: angst , hurt/comfort , smut (I am still ovulating leave me alone) , oral sex , unprotected sex (p in v).

A/N : that's the fourth time I am uploading this if Tumblr make it disappear in a black hole I swear I am gonna...

Edit: hopefully Tumblr didn't make it disappear as I thought, here's part 2 finally finally . Y'all are lucky I am ovulating and boosting with energy if not you'd be getting triple dic- I mean triple angst (no I didn't) , also I just realized the song is send my love to your new lover and not next 💀 , any way I yap too much . Happy reading!!

Now playing : Send my love to your new lover by Adele

Send my love to your new lover played for the 17th time through your headphones, small droplets of tears falling off your cheeks on your lap.

This was for the best you thought.

He will be happy, now he will sign the divorce papers , you will be finally free.

Then why did your heart hurt so badly ? Why did it feel like it was getting wrenched out of your chest and tossed on the floor?

You wiped your small tears when you caught a little brown haired girl looking at you curiously.

You offered her a small smile trying to not appear scary but you knew with those heavy eye bags you looked more like a frightening panda than anything.

What were you thinking , crying your eyes out in a restaurant known for their family gathering while you just lost yours? Pathetic

To your surprise, the little girl approached you ,her fluffy brown hair bouncing with every step.

When she finally reached the table where you were sitting at , she pulled out a small flower from her pouch.

A fragile blue spider Lily, faded due to being confined in this small place, longing for sunlight and water just like your heart longing for Zayne's love.

“Mom said the best way to comfort someone is to offer them something meaningful” she spoke up , her small fluttery voice sending a pang through you.

“T-thank you” you murmured, sniffling before taking the small flower from her chubby hands

“You're welcome” she smiled, showing off small dimples that reminded of all the times you managed to pull out a smile from Zayne.

It always got your heart racing

“Also smile , pretty lady , crying makes you look ugly” she added, making your eyes widen.

“Oh sorry” you apologized, quickly wiping the remnants of your tears, your cheeks heating up slightly.

The little menace gave you a toothy smile before running off to her mom. Leaving you flabbergasted but less depressed.

With your flower clutched firmly in your hand , you walked down the street, intending to head to your best friend's house since you didn't want to see Zayne anymore.

The wounds were too fresh to throw salt in them.

“Fuck” you cursed , trying your best to cover yourself with your cardigan as the raindrops started to splatter on your face and hair.

“You shouldn't stay there , it's raining”

Zayne's words barely reached your ears too entranced by the sight in front of you.

“Don't you like the rain , Dr Zayne?” You offered him a sheepish grin , twirling like a fool under the pouring raindrops

“I dont like the prospect of you catching a cold” he retorted in that familiar monotone voice but the twinkle of concern in his hazel eyes spoke volume.

“Worried about me ?” You chuckled

“You know I am” he retorted without missing a beat , the words sending a warm feeling spreading throughout you despite the cold water soaking through your clothes.

“Let's get you inside Mrs Li” he grabbed your hand to intertwine your fingers and guide you back home .

Mrs Li . How you loved when he called you that?

You blinked back your vision, a shiver running through you as you realized you were still standing under the rain and there was no handsome husband/doctor guiding you back home.

It was all the past now.

You resumed walking, now literally jogging to get home as fast as possible.

You were lying on the couch , wrapped in a fluffy blanket while Queen of tears was playing on the TV.

Gulping down spoonful after spoonful of vanilla ice cream, you were trying to drown out your sorrow but it seemed like this K drama wasn't the right choice for your frayed nerves

Damn it I should've put Squid Game s2 and giggle at Goong Yoo hotness .

Maddie your bestfriend went on date with her boyfriend and won't come back until tomorrow which left you , your broken heart and this ton of ice cream in the otherwise empty house.

You were about to switch the streaming device and play Squid Game as you should've since 2 hours ago when a knock at the Dorado your ears perk up .

Did Maddie's boyfriend ditch her?

You didn't know why a selfish part of you was happy at this prospect but quickly squashed it down and got up from the couch to see who it was

The knocking got more fervent as if the person on the other side was desperate.

“I am coming” you gruffed out , making your way to the front door. Only when you opened it , you quickly closed it off .

Why on earth is your soon to be ex husband is standing in front of your (bestfriend) porch ?

Zayne's eyes widened when you slammed the door shut on his face , every last remnants of hope he had vanishing.

He was soaked through the bones , hair damp from running under the pouring rain , searching everywhere for you . He might've caught a cold at this rate but he didn't give a damn . He had to find you and now that he finally did you shut the door at his face.

“Darling” he rested his forehead against the wooden door.

The familiar nickname had your gut twisting in a very very painful way.

Why is he here? It hadn't been 24 yours since you left your shared house.

“I know you're behind this door” he continued. His voice was rough from exhaustion. He still hadn't has any rest since 24 hours and it was clearly taking a toll on him.

“Please let me in” he pleaded , small tears running down his cheek, heart squeezing painfully in his chest.

Your body slid down against the door , your head resting against the wood ina way that mirrored his own gesture without you knowing.

“I know I've hurt you” he choked out , voice roughened by his sobs “I know I don't deserve your pretty smile and your sweet laugh, I know I dont deserve you..”

Every words, he spoke was like a dagger they thrusted straight through your chest. It was burning, painful , making it hard for you to breathe, to speak.

“..and I understand if you don't want to see me anymore , I'll sign those damn divorces paper and set you free as you wish” he added , wiping his tears with his hands, hazel eyes growing red from crying and fatigue

“But I just want you to know that there won't be any next lover after you , you'll be my last , my love” he bent down to slide something under the door ,

A letter , no your letter.

“I love you Mrs Li” he whispered before turning on his heels intending to leave finally you alone

But you wouldn't let him , not after that, not after he went all this way under the rain , the rain he hated so much just for you.

Zayne's steps were resigned as he made his way out , heart heavy with sorrows.

Just as he stepped under the rain , the door fled open revealing your form clad in sleep short and an oversized shirt.

His breath got caught in his throat, his whole body going still.

It's been only 24 hours and yet it felt like forever since he hasn't seen you.

You approached him slowly, the letter still clutched tightly in your hand , your tears mixing with the pouring water as you stepped under the rain as well.

“You-” you didn't know what to sat what to do . Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions , sadness , anger ,relief, joy all mixing in a concoction that had your head spinning.

“I love you too” you finally spoke , your words nothing short than a shout under the rain that was getting more violent just like the storm inside of you.

“I loved you even when I felt I shouldn't anymore , even when you made me feel like I shouldn't anymore”

Zayne stood there listening to your heartfelt confessions not daring to move an inch or even breathe too loudly. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his work clothes damp , turtleneck sticking to his skin.

“I LOVE YOU ZAYNE LI” you shouted again , voice breaking at the end. Your heartbeat too loud to be drowned out by the sound of tha ragging rain , your feelings too raw to process . The man in front of you too still for someone you just confessed to.

Zayne always knew you loved him , you always said it and showed it in all the way you could but this felt different, raw , heartfelt.

Your eyes widened comically when Zayne closed the distance between you in 2 strides , capturing your lips in an heated kiss.

A kiss where he poured all his unspoken feelings, his longing , guilt , love , the love that made him.wa and fuzzy even under the cold rain . The rain that washed away your pain , sorrows , guilt leaving your blossoming love like spider lilies blooming in autumn.

“I love you too Mrs Li” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again more fervently, tongue licking the small droplets on your bottom lip “so damn much” he added between kisses, his hands cradling your head so gently as though you'd break.

“I love you” you whispered between needy kisses , lips devouring each other's as if you were starving , the weather didn't even matter in this moment, whether it was raining or snowing or even if an earthquake was happening you couldn't give a damn. Just you needed to keep kissing this man.

With your hands wrapping around his neck to bring him closer to you . His own on your waist to press your body closer to his. His wet hair tickled your skin when he started to pepper kisses down your jaw.

Only pulling away when he was sure you were a breathless mess , chest heaving up and down , droopy eyes that were filled with tears earlier looking at him in a way that made his knees weak.

“I love you , my wife” he whispered before leaving a small kiss on your forehead , thumbs stroking your cheeks gently

“I love you even more , my husband” you tiptoed to leave a small kiss on his nose

“I don't think this is a competition, Darling but trust me I can show you just how much I love you” his voice in your hear was low heated whisper that sent shivers down your spine . Shivers that has nothing to do with your damp clothes

“Then show me , husband” your hold on his neck tightened, bringing his face closer to yours.

You saw a look of surprise pass through his eyes but it disappeared as soon as it appeared leaving a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Oh I'll show you wife” the way he said those words, like a secret promise made your stomach twist in knots, the lower region of your belly heating up with the rest of your body.

His strong arms picked you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping automatically around his lean waist , sticky clothes clinging to you like a second skin.

Your lips reattached once again as he carried inside the house , his footsteps leaving a wet trail behind that will have Maddie shrieking out hysterically when she'd return but you'll deal with that later . Now all you could focus on was the man kissing you like this was the last time he'd able to.

By the time you reached the guest room you were staying on which was a miracle with how impatient he seemed to be- you and Zayne already shirt already lost your shirts leaving you only in your bottoms

He laid you gently on the bed before hovering above you , eyes gazing down at you so tenderly , so lovingly it made you look away.

“No ,my love. I want you to look at me” he turned your head back to him to plant a soft kiss on your mouth.

“don't hide this beautiful face from me” he whispered against your skin.

The adoration in his gaze and voice made your skin prickle , your mind growing hazier and more lightheaded.

“Let me admire you” his compliments and words of praise went straight to your heart , head and cunt making it twitch and ache for his touch .

His lips left a trail of torturous kisses on your neck chest and shoulders, his cold hands caressing your body as if he was mapping it out for the first time. His touch tended and reverent like he was worshipping every inch of you.

How could he had been so blind? Zayne thought.

How could hasn't he seen how perfect you were for him?

It didn't matter now he hoped at least he got you back right right ?

Distracting himself from his thoughts he wrapped his lips around the stiff peak of your nipple to suck harshly making you cry out loud

“Zayne” his name left you in a moan , hand reaching out to pet his damp hair. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp in a way that made him nearly purr against you.

See , so perfect to him.

“I don't deserve you” he murmured against your breast shifting to gave the other the same amount of attention

“Yeah” you breathed out in a small gasp “but I want you anyway”

Zayne's lips curved into a smile around your niple before gently biting on it in protest , earning a small yelp from you that was quickly quieted down when you felt his kisses getting lower. Teeth grazing against the soft skin of your stomach until he reached the waistband of your shorts .

He looked up at you waiting for your consent before going any further.

You gave him a small hazy nod and it was all he needed to peel out your shorts of your legs , leaving you only in your underwear , spread out for him like his Goddess, his sacrificial lamb.

He sat up to admire you like this , so beautiful and all his , his wife ( wife he almost lost but anyway)

You must have made a sound because it snapped him out of his trance . His body lowering onto the bed to wrap your legs around his neck.

His soft lips peppered small kisses along your inner thighs, mouth expertly sucking blossoming hickeys on your skin making you writhe beneath him

“Zayne” the words left your lips like a plea and a demand all at once.

“Yes darling?”

His eyes looked up at you twinkling with mischief and need

He knew what he was doing this gorgeous bastard.

“Touch me” you whimpered out , the heat in your belly growing unbearably hotter.

“But I am touching you darling aren't I?” As if to emphasize his words, his hands ran up and down your legs the touch sending shiver down your spine.

“Not here” you shook your head , lips jutting out in a soft pout

“Where then?” He whispered before leaving a small kiss on your lower belly “here?”

“No”

“Here?” another kiss on the right side of your hip

“No” you shook your head again , patience and sanity growing thinner at his teasing

“Here?” he kissed the inside of your thighs, so close to where you needed him the most

“Closer” you whimpered out , hips shifting to bring his mouth to its destination faster but he wasn't having in . His strong arms pinning them firmly on the bed.

“You're so impatient darling” he tsked before leaving a fleeting kiss to the damp center of your underwear

“here?” he whispered against your feverish skin while your head fell bavk.in bliss. You were so fucking sensitive that even the slightest touch sent your mind reeling

“Answer me , my love” he demanded before gently nipping at your clothed clit making you cry out

“Yes here” you moaned out , hips bucking against his touch.

This sight pulled a small smirk at the corner of his mouth before he greedily kissed your heated cunt. Small pecks at first then, sloppy , greedy French kisses that soaked your already damp underwear.

The sensation was way too much and not enough we the same time . His kisses were driving you insane but you needed so much more.

“Zayne please” you begged , hand fisting at his hair to bring him closer, push him away , you couldn't decide

“What is it , darling?” He spat into your clicking heat , thumb circling your already damp opening

“Need you” you raised your head to lock eyes with his .

And Zayne swears ,at this moment, you took his breath away.

With your hair dishelved, your eyes wild with lust and your kiss-bitten lips, you looked nothing short but angelic.

An angel sent by heavens just for him.

An angel he will cherish forever

Finally taking some mercy on you , he took off your flimsy panties , throwing them to God knows where across the room. Large palms spreading your legs apart while his eyes feasted on you

“Beautiful” he whispered before diving in .

His lips leaving a gentle kiss before literally devouring, feasting on you like he hasn't eaten for day.

His lips and tongue greedily licked and slurped everything down with fervor , leaving you a panting and sobbing mess. The only things leaving your parted lips were sinful moans of his name and some occasionally curses.

It felt so good , heavenly even , his mouth worshipping you like some divine being made you feel lightheaded.

When he inserted two fingers inside , your brain short circuited , stars exploded behind your eyes and before you knew it you were coming hard and fast. Your orgasm crashing over you like a sea storm that have you screaming his name so loudly you were sure Maddie would earn nose complaints from her neighbors.

Even so , Zayne didn't stop, tongue still swirling around your clit with fervor while his fingers probed at your walls.

It was only when you pushed his head off in over sensitivity he finally relented , sticky strands that connected his lips to your pussy breaking as he parted from you to sit up.

His usual stoic face wore a giddy smile , a pretty pink blush settled on his high cheekbones.

Why does he have to look so pretty? It's literally unfair.

“You're ok there , darling?” he asked after climbing up to hover above you once again He tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear , eyes roving over your face with a mixture of affection and small concern.

After Finally regaining your bearings (and stopped getting distracted by his pretty face) you spoke up

“I am alright..” you replied, wrapping your legs around his waist to bring him closed to you , your bold action making his eyes widen for a fraction of second

“..but I think you haven't showed me how much you love me yet” you leaned in to whisper against his lips , index finger tracing a sensual path against his bare chest.

Of course his insatiable wife wouldn't be satisfied.

“I guess I haven't yes” he hummed thoughtfully , grabbing your hand that was tracing against his chest to leave a small kiss on your ring finger.

“Any suggestion to fix that wife?”

If you knew Zayne calling you wife after you left would have that effect on you you'd have done it sooner.

Because the way your insides were viscerally screaming for him wasn't normal at all.

Clearing your throat to get back a semblance of focus, and sanity , you spoke up again.

“I have a few , mind me if I show you..” you leaned in closer until your noses were now touching “husband”

Zayne must be losing his mind , maybe standing for too long under rain altered his brain chemistry because there's no way just you calling him husband in this sultry tone had him cumming in his pants or maybe it was your taste , your sounds , or just how badly he was infatuated with you.

His head fell in the crook of your neck as ropes of cum soiled his underwear and pants.

Your hand found his hair , petting it as he hid his face in the crook of your neck in embarrassment

“What do you think , husband?” you murmured before kissing his temple , earning a small whine from him

“Show me” he raised his head from your neck to look at you , hazel eyes nearly black from lust “show me what you had in mind”

He didn't need to tell you twice because as soon the words left his lips you were straddling him , legs resting either side of his muscular thighs as his clothed cock was nestled against your slick heat.

Zayne's hands automatically found refuge on your hips gripping them for dear life as his breathing got heavier and heavier

You were going to be the death of him.

You impatiently tugged his pants and boxers down , too impatient to take your time , you needed him right fucking now.

“Impatient are we ?” He let out in a breathy chuckle

“You're any better , Dr” you teased him , hand wrapping around his cock to pump it slowly.

His head fell back in ecstasy, an airy fuck leaving his parted lips. His chest heaved up and down as his pants and groans filled the room replacing your earlier sinful moans.

Zayne ran a hand through his already disheveled hair , body growing hot and bothered under your touch. And the way you were looking down at him didn't help his state at all

“D-darling” he breathed out in a moan , body growing taut with Desire and need

“Mmh” you hummed distantly ,watching fascinated how your hand slid up and down his veiny cock.

“Please” he begged , voice growing higher in pitch , his pleading hazel eyes looking down at you in a way that made you cave in so fast .

“How could I ever deny you when you beg so sweetly?”

It was simple you couldn't.

Straddling him , you lined his cock with your entrance, finally giving what you both wanted .

You both moaned in unison when you sank down all the way onto him , the stretch making your eyes roll back into your skull.

He felt as good and full as you remembered .

You stayed unvoming for a moment, letting yourself adjust to his size. But Zaybe was a patient man until it comes to you.

His impatient hips started moving in small jerky movements to fuck himself deeper into you. Each thrust pulling out a breathy whimpers from your lips

“Fuck Zayne” you moaned head thrown back as you bounced against his lap meeting his thrust halfway in a lewd symphony of skin slapping sounds.

Zayne was in heaven. The sight of you on top of him combined with each slow drawl of your lips had him gasping for air , mind growing mushy each time you ground yourself against him in small gyrations tthathas him gritting his teeth .

He had to recite every single artery he knew to not come inside you already .

That's just how good you felt around him.

“Darling” he whimpered the sound sending a jolt through you .

Fuck you couldn't take this torture anymore , he couldn't.

A small yelp left your lips when you felt your back hit the mattress. Zayne's hips just pounding into you.

“I love you” he whispered against your lips with every deep thrust.

“I love you my wife” he continued to pant into your mouth while his hips just rammed into you.

“I love you too” you struggled to breath, the way he was fucking you so deep inside the mattress made it unable to moan or even scream, now just struggling to breath.

His forehead rested against yours, his hands intertwining with yours as he continued his mean cadence.

“My wife” he breathed out , eyes closing as you both reached your peaks

You didn't even realize at first that you were coming , just your vision blacking out for several seconds by the intensity of your orgasm , Zayne's body collapsing onto yours as he pumped you full of ropes after ropes of his seed.

Zayne stayed there for several seconds, head buried in the crook of your neck , dick still buried deep inside of you.

“Darling” he looked up at you only to find your eyes closed, your body unconscious

“Darling , my love wake up” he shook you but no response came

Shit did you pass out?

He quickly got off you , hand frantically checking your pulse.

Fortunately you were still breathing, just passed out from exhaustion

Maybe he went a bit too rough? (Just a bit??)

He caressed your cheek tenderly before leaving a small kiss on it.

The first thing that hit you when you woke was this familiar scent piney and so so addictive that reminded you of….

You abruptly sat up only to be pulled back in bed by a sleepy Zayne

“Stay there with me” he grumbled out in a sleepy voivce that made your heart melt .

So it wasn't a dream, Zaybe really came all this way under the rain for you.

His arms on your waist pulled you closer until your back was flush against his chest , his hot breath tickling your bare shoulder.

You chewed nervously on your bottom lip , eyes roaming around the room , the sound was about to rise sun. You could see the pale hue of orange , pink ,violet and blue painting the sky outside.

A new dawn , a new beginning you hoped

“I can hear the gears turning in your head” Zayne spoke after a while making your eyes snap back to his face .

“What's on your mind ,wife?” He asked , resting his head against your chest to look up at you.

“I am sorry” you muttered after a while making his eyes widen in surprise

What on earth were you apologizing for?

Seing his puzzled look you clarified yourself

“For leaving you” you added ,looking away from him.

“Darling” he sat up, taking your hand to caress your knuckles

“You don’t need to apologize_”

“But I put you in pain_”

“So did I” he cut you off making you seal your mouth shut

“Darling..” he let out a small sigh before continuing, his fingers still tracing small reassuring patterns on your hand “marriage is about communication, understanding and forgiveness, I haven't beenuch understanding of your feelings lately . I should be the one apologizing not you”

You listened intently to his words not daring to say anything.

“i should have take your feelings in more consideration please forgive me” he finished his eyes looking at you so earnestly it made your heart ache

“I already forgave you but” you sat up as well to wrap your arms around his neck “I don't want us to fight like this anymore”

“Me neither’ he shook his head, wrapping his arms around your waist

“All good?” You tilted your head at him

“All good” he nodded before pecking your lips gently “Just please don't ever scare me like that , my hear can't take it” he pleaded against your lips making you smile

“Can't promise anything Dr” you grinned

“Now it's doctor huh?” He sighed indignantly making you giggle at his pouty expression

Akso's chief surgeon pouting ? What a cute sight to behold .

“Fine, husband” you rolled your eyes playfully at him before pinching his cheek

“Much better” he smiled before capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“I love you Mrs Li” he mumbled out through the kiss

“I love you too Mr Li” you responded before pushing his back against the mattress

Under the dawn's sunlight Mr and Mrs began a new chapter one they hope won't involve a certain Adele song and Goodbye letters

...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...

Taglist : @jinwoosbabyboo @yourlocalcatscammer @m00nchildwrites @sunsethw4 @syluslittlekitten @poisonf0rest

#love and deepspace #lads Zayne #lnds Zayne #loveanddeepspace Zayne #Zayne smut #Zayne fluff

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niallerspayno · 3 days ago

Text

Gotta Be You - Part 1

Masterlist

As Liam’s little sister you’ve always looked up to him—he’s your protector, your biggest supporter, and your closest friend. When Liam joins One Direction and catapults into fame, he invites you to join his world, hoping it’ll help you find your own path. But instead, you find Niall. From the moment you meet him, there’s a spark, a connection you can’t ignore. Yet Liam has one unyielding rule: none of his bandmates can date you. With hearts tangled and loyalties tested, will you and Niall find a way to your happy ending?

Tags: Niall x reader, Liam x sister!reader, slow burn, angst, mutual pining, forbidden love

Part 2 | Part 3 - coming soon

...

You’ve always been proud to be a Payne. Growing up as the youngest sibling in a family of four kids, you found yourself constantly navigating the spaces between your two older sisters and your brother, Liam. While your sisters were off doing their own thing—school, jobs, and their social lives—it was Liam you stuck to like glue.

There was always something special about him. Even when you were kids, you knew he was different—his love for music, his talent, his determination to succeed. You’d sit on the floor of your shared living room, watching him practice for hours, and when he’d finally take a break, he’d playfully mess up your hair and tell you stories about the kind of career he dreamed of having.

You’d admired him for it. Music was something you’d always loved too, but you didn’t have his drive. While Liam chased his dreams relentlessly, you kept your passion tucked away, unsure how to make something of it. So, when he auditioned for The X Factor for a second time and landed a spot in One Direction, you weren’t surprised. You were ecstatic for him, of course, but part of you also felt a quiet pang of envy, a longing for the kind of confidence and purpose he had.

And then he gave you a chance. After the band’s success skyrocketed, Liam noticed how stuck you felt, unsure of your own path. He suggested you come along whenever possible—on tour, to shows, behind the scenes—so you could get exposure to the music world, learn the ropes, and figure out where you might fit.

That’s how you ended up here, on the cusp of One Direction’s first tour, standing in the hallway of a rehearsal room with Liam at your side. Your official “job” is a bit vague—personal assistant, helper, an all-rounder for whatever the band or crew might need—but to you, it’s more than just work. It’s an opportunity to prove yourself, to finally step into a world you’ve always dreamed about.

“Ready?” Liam’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. His hand is steady on your shoulder, his presence as familiar and grounding as ever.

You nod, nerves prickling at the edges of your resolve. “Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, but there’s a warning edge in his tone. “Just—remember what I said. They’re good lads, but—”

“—but they’re lads. Got it,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes.

His smile widens, but his protectiveness is clear. No matter how much older you’ve gotten, Liam still treats you like the same little sister who used to trail after him in the backyard in Wolverhampton. You want to tell him you can handle yourself, but instead, you let him push open the door.

He smirks and gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Alright, let’s go.”

The door creaks open, and the sound of laughter and faint guitar chords spills into the hallway. Inside, the boys are scattered across the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare. It’s surreal seeing them like this—actually seeing them, not just hearing about them through Liam or watching them on TV.

Harry’s the first one you notice, all curls and dimples, lounging sideways on the worn sofa with one leg draped over the armrest. His signature mop of brown curls is slightly disheveled, falling over his forehead, and his green eyes sparkle with mischief as he jokes with Louis. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and skinny jeans that make him look even younger than his 17 years, but there’s something about his easy confidence that’s magnetic.

Next to him, Louis is perched on the armrest, animated and full of energy. His brown hair is swept to the side in its trademark messy-but-styled way, and his smile is wide, almost boyish, as he throws out some sarcastic remark that has Harry in stitches. He’s in a striped t-shirt and red chinos, looking every bit the cheeky troublemaker Liam warned you about.

Zayn sits further back, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, his dark eyes focused on the screen. His black hair is perfectly coiffed, the short sides blending into the longer strands on top, and he’s dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans that give him an effortlessly cool edge. Even sitting quietly, there’s a certain intensity about him, like he’s taking in everything without saying a word.

Then there’s Niall.

He’s cross-legged on the floor with a guitar balanced against his knee, his blond hair a little shaggy, sticking out at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it. He wears a polo shirt and jeans, and there’s a boyishness to him that instantly softens his sharp blue eyes. He’s the only one not talking, his focus on the guitar as his fingers strum a few chords absently.

“Alright, lads,” Liam announces, his voice cutting through the room as he guides you inside. Instantly, all their eyes turn to you, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks under the sudden attention.

“This is my little sister,” Liam continues, his tone making it clear he’s laying down the law before anyone can even speak.

“Little sister?” Louis echoes, his grin widening as he hops off the armrest. “How little are we talking here?”

“She’s sixteen,” Liam answers quickly, his voice firm.

Louis raises his eyebrows, glancing at you like you’re some sort of rare specimen. “Sixteen! Someone alert the crew—we’ll need to order more juice boxes!”

Harry snorts, standing up and crossing the room to you. “Don’t mind him,” he says, his hand outstretched. “He’s just bitter because you’re already taller than him.”

You laugh nervously and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to the chaos,” Harry says warmly, his grin making you feel just a little less nervous.

Louis steps up next, bowing dramatically. “Louis Tomlinson, at your service,” he says, though his teasing grin undermines any actual sincerity.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, trying to keep up with his energy.

“You’ll regret saying that,” Zayn quips from his spot against the wall, his voice low and dry. He sets his phone down and walks over, offering you a quiet smile. “Zayn. Good to meet you.”

You nod, a little taken aback by how calm he seems compared to the others. “You too.”

Finally, it’s Niall’s turn. He stands up, brushing his hands on his jeans before offering you one. Up close, you notice the freckles dusted across his cheeks and nose, a stark contrast to the pale blue of his eyes.

“I’m Niall,” he says simply, his voice tinged with an Irish lilt that makes your chest flutter unexpectedly.

You shake his hand, his grip warm and firm but not overwhelming. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“She’s just a kid, Niall,” Liam interjects, his voice sharp.

Your cheeks burn as you pull your hand back, and Niall glances at Liam with a raised eyebrow before stepping away.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies lightly, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—something that makes your stomach twist.

Louis claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Alright, Baby Payne, welcome to the circus. Don’t let Liam boss you around too much. He’s no fun.”

You manage a laugh, grateful for the distraction, but as the boys settle back into their easy camaraderie, you can’t help but notice the way Niall’s gaze lingers on you for just a moment longer before he picks up his guitar again.

It’s subtle, fleeting, but it’s enough to leave a strange, unfamiliar weight in your chest.

You follow Liam to the corner of the room as he starts explaining your first tasks, but you find it hard to focus. Your attention keeps drifting back to Niall, to the softness in his eyes and the quiet energy that seems to surround him.

You’ve just met him, and yet, something about him pulls at you, tugging at the edges of your thoughts. And judging by the sharp edge in Liam’s voice whenever Niall so much as looks your way, you get the feeling this tour is going to be a lot more complicated than you expected.

...

The weeks on tour pass in a blur, and you’ve found yourself slipping into a comfortable rhythm. You’ve gotten to know the crew, figured out how to keep Liam from getting too stressed, and discovered that there’s never a dull moment when you’re surrounded by the boys.

Harry’s teasing keeps you on your toes, Louis’s antics always bring a laugh, Zayn’s quiet humor sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and Niall—well, you try not to think about him too much. Except you do, all the time.

There’s something about him—the way he’s always humming a tune, the way his laugh lights up a room, the quiet moments when he seems lost in his own world with a guitar in hand. You tell yourself it’s just admiration, just a harmless crush. But then he’ll smile at you, soft and warm, and it feels like the air gets heavier.

One evening, after a long day of travel and sound checks, you find yourself alone in the backstage lounge. The hum of distant voices echoes down the hallway, but the room itself is still and quiet. Someone left an acoustic guitar leaning against the couch, and you pick it up, letting your fingers trail over the strings.

You’ve always wanted to learn, but it’s one of those things you’ve never had the time—or the courage—to pursue. You strum a few random notes, cringing at the sound but smiling anyway.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

The familiar Irish lilt startles you, and you look up to see Niall standing in the doorway, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets and a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“I’m just messing around,” you say, your cheeks heating up.

“You’ve been saying you want to learn,” he points out, stepping inside. “How about I teach you?”

Your heart skips. “Really? You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says simply, his eyes meeting yours. “C’mon, scoot over.”

You shift to one side of the couch, and he sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes against yours. His presence feels larger than life, even in the quiet of the room, and you swallow hard as he reaches for the guitar.

“Here,” he says, adjusting it in your hands. His fingers are rough but careful as they guide yours into place on the fretboard. “Press here—no, a little higher—yeah, just like that. Now strum.”

The chord rings out, clearer than before, and you can’t help but grin. “Hey, that’s not terrible.”

He laughs softly, the sound low and warm. “See? Told you it’s not so hard. Just gotta practice.”

For the next few minutes, he walks you through the basics, his voice steady and patient as he shows you how to hold the strings and transition between chords. His hands brush against yours more than once, and every time, it feels like your heart might just give out.

At one point, he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “Try pressing a bit harder—there, like that.”

You glance at him, your faces inches apart, and suddenly the air feels charged. His gaze flickers to yours, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world disappears.

“You’re a good teacher,” you manage to say, your voice quieter than you intended.

His lips twitch into a smile, but there’s something softer, almost hesitant, in his expression. “You’re a good student.”

The sound of muffled laughter breaks the moment. Niall straightens up just as the door bursts open, and Louis, Harry, and Liam spill inside, clearly mid-joke.

“What’s going on here?” Louis asks, his grin widening as he takes in the scene. “Private guitar lessons, huh?”

“Very private,” Harry adds, raising an eyebrow.

Your face burns as you fumble to set the guitar down. “We were just—”

Liam steps forward, his protective big-brother mode kicking in immediately. His eyes narrow as they dart between you and Niall. “What’s going on here?” he repeats, his tone less teasing than Louis’s.

“She’s learning guitar,” Niall says, his voice easy but a little quieter than usual. He scratches the back of his neck, clearly picking up on Liam’s mood.

Liam crosses his arms, his stance firm. “Since when do you give private lessons, Niall?”

“Liam,” you interject, your voice tinged with exasperation, “it’s not a big deal. He was just helping me.”

“Helping, huh?” Liam’s tone softens slightly as he glances at you, but the protective edge doesn’t leave his expression.

“She’s a natural,” Niall offers with a small smile, trying to ease the tension.

“Right,” Liam says, his tone flat. “Well, I think we’ve all had enough downtime. Don’t you, Niall?”

The unspoken message hangs heavy in the air. Niall nods, his gaze flicking to yours for a brief moment before he steps away. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, catch you later.”

He disappears into the hallway with Harry and Louis trailing behind, both of them snickering. Liam lingers, his arms still crossed.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softening as he looks at you.

“Yes, Liam,” you say, unable to keep the irritation out of your tone.

He frowns, his protective instincts clearly at odds with the trust he has in you. “I just don’t want you getting caught up in anything that could distract you from why you’re here.”

You sigh. “I’m fine. Really.”

Liam hesitates, then nods. “Alright. Just… don’t forget I’m looking out for you.”

As he leaves, you sink back onto the couch, your heart still racing. The moment with Niall felt fragile, like it could have been something more if not for the interruption. And now, you can’t help but wonder if he felt it too—or if Liam’s protective streak just made it harder for anything to happen at all.

...

A few months into the tour, life has settled into a rhythm. The long bus rides, chaotic backstage moments, and energy of packed arenas have become second nature to you. You turned 17 just a few weeks ago, and the boys threw you a small, chaotic birthday celebration on the bus.

Liam, of course, went all out—insisting on decorations, a cake, and a heartfelt speech about how proud he is of you. You love your brother fiercely, but his protectiveness hasn’t wavered even as you’ve gotten older. He’s constantly watching, making sure you’re okay, and keeping a particularly close eye whenever you’re around Niall.

Because if there’s one thing that’s changed since the start of the tour, it’s your crush on him. What started as a flicker of admiration has grown into something you can’t ignore. You notice everything about him now—the way his laughter fills a room, the way he loses himself in his guitar, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

Those quiet moments you share have become the highlight of your days. But they’re always careful, always just under the radar. You know Liam wouldn’t approve, and Niall… well, you can’t quite tell how he feels.

Tonight, the hotel is quiet. Everyone has gone to their rooms in the shared suite after another long day, and you’ve slipped out onto the balcony, needing a moment to yourself. The cool night air brushes against your skin, and you let out a slow breath, staring at the twinkling city lights below.

The door behind you creaks open, and you turn to see Niall stepping out. He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair a little messy, and his blue eyes light up when he sees you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, leaning casually against the railing beside you.

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. “Too much on my mind.”

“Like what?”

You hesitate, your fingers picking at the hem of your sweatshirt. “I don’t know. Just… this whole tour. Everything. Sometimes it feels like I don’t know what I’m doing or where I fit in.”

Niall’s gaze softens, and he tilts his head toward you. “You’re doing great. Everyone sees it, especially Liam. He doesn’t stop talking about how proud he is of you.”

“That’s Liam, though,” you say with a small laugh. “He’d say that no matter what.”

“Maybe,” Niall says, a grin tugging at his lips. “But I wouldn’t. And I think you’re brilliant.”

The warmth in his voice makes your breath hitch, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. The air between you feels heavier now, filled with an unspoken tension that’s been building for weeks.

“You’ve been different lately,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “More confident. It’s… nice to see.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I think it’s because of you,” you admit softly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “Me?”

You nod, your cheeks burning. “You make me feel like I can actually do this. Like I’m not just… Liam’s little sister.”

Niall’s expression shifts, something tender and almost vulnerable crossing his features. “You’re not just Liam’s little sister. You’re… you.”

The way he says it makes your chest ache, and suddenly, you can’t look away from him. His gaze dips to your lips for the briefest moment, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re filled with something you can’t quite name.

He steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice trembling with anticipation.

The world seems to stop as he leans in, his hand brushing yours as his lips meet yours. It’s soft and warm, careful in a way that feels achingly sweet. It’s your first kiss, and it’s everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.

Your heart races, your hands gripping the railing for support as he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach flutter. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool night air.

“Was that okay?” he asks, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

You nod, your cheeks flushed. “It was… perfect.”

He lets out a soft laugh, his hand brushing yours again, lingering this time. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

The door behind you creaks open again, and both of you freeze.

“Y/N?” Liam’s voice cuts through the quiet, and you both pull away instantly, your heart lurching in your chest.

Liam steps onto the balcony, his eyes narrowing as he looks between the two of you. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, your voice a little too high.

“Just talking,” Niall adds, his tone calm but cautious.

Liam’s jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms, clearly not buying it. “It’s late. You should be in your room, Y/N.”

You hesitate, glancing at Niall, whose expression is carefully neutral. “Okay,” you say softly, stepping away from the railing.

As you head inside, Liam stays on the balcony, his protective gaze fixed on Niall. You can feel the tension behind you as you close the door, your fingers brushing against your lips as the memory of the kiss lingers.

As the door shuts behind you, you pause just inside your room, heart pounding as you press your ear to the wall. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but you can’t help yourself. The muffled sound of Liam’s voice reaches you, low and tense.

“What the hell was that, Niall?” Liam’s tone is sharp, leaving no room for interpretation.

There’s a beat of silence before Niall responds, his voice quieter but steady. “I kissed her.”

The air seems to still, and your stomach twists at the raw honesty in his admission.

“You what?” Liam’s voice rises, and you flinch. “You kissed my sister? Are you out of your mind, mate?”

“I know how it looks, Liam,” Niall says, his tone calm but firm. “But it wasn’t… it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t just some stupid thing.”

Liam lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh, really? Then what was it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re crossing a line that shouldn’t even exist.”

“I care about her,” Niall says, the words quiet but unwavering.

The room feels too small, too hot, as you strain to hear every word.

“She’s seventeen, Niall,” Liam snaps, his voice full of barely controlled anger. “She’s my little sister. She doesn’t need some… some guy messing with her head, especially not someone in the band.”

“I’m not messing with her head,” Niall says, his voice tightening. “I’d never do that to her. Or to you.”

“Then what are you doing?” Liam demands.

There’s a pause, and you can almost picture Niall standing there, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, struggling to find the right words.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally, his voice soft but honest. “I just… I like her, Liam. I can’t help it.”

Liam exhales sharply, the sound of his frustration carrying through the door. “You can’t ‘just like her,’ Niall. She’s not some girl you can flirt with on tour and forget about when it’s over. She’s my sister. My responsibility. And she’s too young for this. For you.”

Niall’s response is quieter this time, but you catch the edge of hurt in his tone. “I’d never hurt her.”

“That’s not the point,” Liam snaps. “The point is, I don’t want this. I don’t want you dating her, I don’t want you sneaking around with her, I don’t want any of it. Do you understand me?”

Silence stretches between them, and your heart sinks as the weight of Liam’s words settles in.

Finally, Niall speaks, his voice subdued. “I understand.”

“Good,” Liam says firmly. “Because if this happens again, it’s not just you I’ll have a problem with. It’s her too. And I don’t want that. She’s too important to me.”

The sound of footsteps signals the end of their conversation, and you quickly retreat to your bed, your heart racing. Moments later, the door to Liam’s room opens and shuts with a heavy thud, leaving you alone with the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest.

You bury your face in your hands, unsure whether to feel guilty, heartbroken, or furious. Liam’s words echo in your mind, his protectiveness clear—but so is the way Niall stood his ground.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just some fleeting moment. And that’s what scares you most of all.

...

The days after that night feel different.

Niall, who had always been a constant presence—whether it was with his playful jokes, quiet encouragement, or shared moments in the corner of a busy room—seems to pull away. It starts subtly: he avoids meeting your eyes during group conversations, sits farther from you on the bus, and finds reasons to busy himself when you’re nearby.

At first, you try to ignore it. Maybe you’re imagining things, reading too much into his behavior. But as the days stretch into weeks, the distance grows undeniable. He’s still kind, still polite, but the warmth that once filled every interaction is gone.

It hurts.

The worst part is that you understand why. You know Liam must’ve said something to him that night. Your brother’s protectiveness runs deep, and you don’t doubt he made it clear that anything more than friendship between you and Niall is off-limits.

But understanding doesn’t make it easier.

You tell yourself to let it go, to focus on your job and the tour and the amazing opportunity in front of you. Yet every time you see Niall, every time his laugh carries across the room or his voice fills the stage, the ache in your chest grows.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

One evening, after another sold-out show, you catch him alone in the hallway outside the dressing rooms. He’s leaning against the wall, strumming absently on his guitar, his expression distant.

“Niall,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He looks up, startled, and you see something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—before he schools his features into a careful smile. “Hey, Y/N. What’s up?”

You hesitate, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you summon the courage to speak. “Can we talk? I mean, really talk.”

He shifts uncomfortably, glancing down the hall like he’s looking for an escape. “Uh… sure.”

The casualness in his tone makes your chest tighten, but you press on, stepping closer. “Did I… do something wrong?”

His brows knit together. “What? No, of course not.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you can’t help it. “You’ve been distant, and I don’t understand why. Did I mess something up?”

Niall sighs, setting his guitar aside and running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t mess anything up, Y/N. It’s just…” He trails off, his jaw tightening.

“Just what?” you press, your voice quieter now.

“It’s better this way,” he says finally, his eyes meeting yours. “I don’t want to make things harder for you. Or for Liam.”

His mention of Liam stings, but it doesn’t surprise you. “This is because of him, isn’t it?”

“Y/N…”

“No,” you interrupt, your voice trembling. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like I can’t handle the truth. If this is about Liam, just say it.”

He exhales heavily, his shoulders sagging. “It’s not just Liam. It’s… everything. You’re amazing, you really are. But this… us… it’s not a good idea.”

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. “So that’s it? You’re just… giving up? Pushing me away because it’s easier?”

“It’s not about giving up,” he says, his voice firm but laced with something you can’t quite name. “It’s about doing what’s right.”

“For who?” you ask, your voice cracking.

“For you,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Niall. Please. Just tell me how you really feel.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he looks up, and the guarded expression on his face is like a knife to your heart. “I only see you as a friend, Y/N. That’s all it’s ever been.”

The words crush you, stealing the breath from your lungs. You stare at him, searching for any sign that he’s lying, that he doesn’t mean it. But his face is unreadable, and the wall between you feels insurmountable.

“Oh,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Y/N—”

“No, it’s fine,” you say quickly, stepping back. “I get it. Thanks for being honest.”

You turn before he can say anything else, the tears spilling over as you walk away.

It’s not until you’re alone in your room, curled up on the bed with your face buried in your hands, that the full weight of his words crashes down on you.

Your first kiss. Your first heartbreak. And all of it with the same person.

Deep down, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to what Niall said—that he’s not telling you the whole truth. But that doesn’t make the pain any less real.

And as much as you want to believe that this isn’t the end, that maybe one day things will be different, you can’t ignore the hollow ache in your chest.

For now, it feels like goodbye.

You’re still curled up on your bed, the muffled sounds of the bustling hotel outside your window doing nothing to distract you from the ache in your chest. You’ve stopped crying, but the tears have left tracks on your cheeks, your eyes sore and your head heavy.

A soft knock at the door breaks through the silence, but you don’t move. You know who it is.

“Y/N?” Liam’s voice is hesitant, almost cautious.

“Go away,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He doesn’t listen. The door creaks open, and a moment later, the bed dips under his weight as he sits down beside you.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, reaching out to brush your hair back from your face.

You turn away, your throat tightening. “What do you think?”

Liam sighs, his hand falling to his lap. “I heard you and Niall. Well… I heard enough.”

“Good for you,” you snap, sitting up abruptly. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his face. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” you say, your voice rising. “You told him not to get close to me. You made it impossible for him to… to even try.”

Liam stiffens, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find a response.

“I’m not stupid, Liam,” you continue, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you said something to him that night. You couldn’t stand the idea of him liking me, could you? So you made sure it wouldn’t happen.”

“Y/N, it’s not like that,” Liam says, his voice tight.

“Then what is it like?” you demand, the tears threatening to spill over again. “Why do you always have to control everything? I’m not a little kid anymore, Liam. I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect.”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, his frustration breaking through. “It’s my job to protect you. Especially from something that could hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “You don’t even trust me to make my own choices. Do you even care how I feel? How much it hurts that you pushed him away?”

“Of course I care,” Liam says, his voice softening. “That’s why I did it. Niall’s my mate, and I know him. He’s a great guy, but this… it would’ve been complicated. And you don’t deserve complicated. You deserve better.”

“I deserve the chance to decide that for myself,” you say quietly, your voice trembling.

Liam looks at you, his expression torn, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension in the room is heavy, your words lingering in the air like a storm cloud.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his shoulders slumping. “I just… I don’t know how to turn it off, Y/N. I’ve always been the one looking out for you, and sometimes I forget you don’t need me to do that anymore.”

Your anger softens at the sincerity in his voice, and the fight drains out of you. “I do need you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just wish you’d trust me more. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Liam nods slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I’ll try. I promise.”

The quiet stretches between you, the weight of the argument lingering but no longer sharp. You shift closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry too,” you murmur.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you into a hug. “You don’t have to be.”

For a while, you sit there in silence, the steady rhythm of Liam’s breathing grounding you. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels a little easier to bear with him beside you.

“You’re gonna be okay, you know,” Liam says softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I don’t feel okay,” you admit, your voice small.

“You will,” he says firmly. “And no matter what happens, I’m always here. You’ve got me, yeah?”

You nod against his shoulder, the lump in your throat easing slightly.

Liam stays with you that night, sitting beside you until you eventually fall asleep, his presence a quiet reminder that even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, you’re not alone.

...

You’ve been working with the boys for nearly two years now, and life on tour has become second nature to you. What started as Liam bringing you along to “help out” has blossomed into an actual job. You’re officially assistant tour manager alongside Paul, though you still help out with other tasks whenever needed. You’re no longer just Liam’s little sister tagging along—you’re part of the team, a vital piece of the well-oiled machine that keeps everything running.

The boys are on their second tour now, and at 19, you’ve come into your own. It’s exhilarating being part of the chaos, and you love the work: the organization, the problem-solving, the adrenaline of a live show. It’s the perfect way to be part of the music industry without the overwhelming spotlight.

Your relationship with the boys has only grown stronger. They’re like your family now—a group of brothers who alternately tease you mercilessly and protect you fiercely. Even Niall.

Especially Niall.

Your feelings for him never left, though you’ve done everything you can to bury them. You’re friends now, like you are with the others, and you’ve convinced yourself it’s enough. But there’s still a pang in your chest when you see him smile, still a flutter in your stomach when his arm brushes yours.

You’ve tried to move on. You’ve dated a little, had a few hookups here and there, but none of them have meant anything. They’re distractions, attempts to prove to yourself that you can let go of Niall. But deep down, you know the truth—you’re still in love with him.

And Liam? Liam notices everything.

He’s still protective, though he’s eased up a little since the early days. He trusts you to take care of yourself, but that doesn’t stop him from keeping a watchful eye on anyone who shows too much interest. You know he means well, but sometimes it feels like he’s waiting for you to slip up.

Now, with 5 Seconds of Summer joining the tour as the opening act, his watchfulness has only increased.

Tonight, the afterparty is in full swing. The boys just finished another sold-out show, and the room hums with energy. You’re mingling with the crew and the 5SOS boys, enjoying the electric atmosphere, when Ashton sidles up beside you.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” he says, holding out a glass.

You take it with a smile. “Thanks, Ashton.”

He grins, his dimples on full display, and leans casually against the bar. The conversation flows easily, his charm disarming, and before long, you’re laughing at his jokes and leaning into the distraction he provides.

Out of habit, you glance around the room and catch Liam’s eye. He’s sitting with Harry and Louis, but his gaze is sharp, fixed on you and Ashton. You feel a pang of guilt but push it aside.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

Your gaze shifts again, landing on Niall across the room. He’s chatting with a few crew members, a drink in hand, but his eyes flicker to you and Ashton. For a moment, your breath catches. There’s something in his expression—something unreadable but heavy.

But then he looks away, and the moment is gone.

Ashton steps closer, his hand brushing yours. “You know, you’re kind of amazing,” he says, his tone light but sincere. “Everyone talks about how much you do for the band. It’s impressive.”

Your cheeks warm, and you glance down at your drink. “Thanks. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he insists, his voice softening. “You’re the kind of person who makes everything run smoothly, and no one even notices. That’s a big deal.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You’ve heard similar things before, but coming from Ashton, it feels different. It feels like he means it.

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the air.

“Hey, Y/N,” Niall says, his tone too casual to be natural. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Ashton frowns, his hand lingering on your arm. “We were just—”

“She’ll be right back,” Niall interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind.

Your heart stutters as you meet Niall’s gaze. There’s something intense in his eyes, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

Reluctantly, you follow him out into the hallway, leaving Ashton behind.

“What’s your problem?” you demand, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall.

“My problem?” Niall repeats, his voice tight. “What are you doing with him?”

“What does it matter to you?” you snap, your frustration bubbling over. “You don’t care who I’m with.”

Niall flinches, but he doesn’t back down. “I care because I know you don’t like him.”

“And how would you know that?” you challenge, your voice shaking.

“Because I know you,” he says, his voice soft but sure.

The words cut through you, leaving you raw and exposed. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is heavy, filled with everything you’re too afraid to say.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve made it clear you don’t feel that way about me.”

Niall looks away, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t answer, and that’s answer enough.

“Exactly,” you say bitterly, stepping past him. “Stay out of it, Niall.”

You walk away before he can stop you, your heart shattering all over again.

When you glance back into the room, you catch Liam watching you, his expression unreadable. You know he’ll have questions later, but for now, you don’t have the energy to care.

All you want is to be anywhere but here.

...

The tour has been a whirlwind of cities, venues, and endless hours on the road. Over the months, you’ve fallen into an easy rhythm with the chaos, finding joy in the work and the moments of camaraderie.

The boys—Harry, Louis, Zayn, and Niall—have all become like family to you, with the exception of Niall, who occupies a more complicated space in your heart. The others treat you like their little sister, protective and sometimes overbearing, but always with good intentions. Niall… well, Niall is different.

And then there’s Ashton.

What started as a casual flirtation has turned into something… undefined. Harmless fun, the two of you had agreed, a way to blow off steam without complications. A few dates here and there, a few hookups in the quiet anonymity of hotel rooms—it’s nothing serious, just a distraction.

A distraction from Niall.

It works, most of the time. Ashton’s easygoing nature and charm make it hard to dwell on the ache in your chest, the lingering feelings you can’t quite shake. And yet, you’ve caught Niall’s eyes on you more than once when you’re with Ashton.

The way his jaw tightens when Ashton slings an arm around your shoulders. The way his laughter falters when Ashton leans in to whisper something in your ear. You see it, but you don’t know what it means—or maybe you don’t want to let yourself believe it means anything at all.

Now, with the tour winding down, the tension has reached its breaking point.

You’re backstage after another sold-out show, sorting through a pile of schedules when Harry appears in front of you, his arms crossed.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, his tone unusually serious. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach sinks. “What’s going on?”

“Just come with me,” he says, gesturing for you to follow.

Confused, you trail behind him, rounding a corner to find Liam, Louis, Zayn, and Niall waiting in one of the empty dressing rooms. Their expressions range from serious to downright grim, and your heart starts to race.

“What’s this about?” you ask, your voice wary.

“It’s about you and Ashton,” Liam says, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

You freeze, your stomach twisting into knots. “What about it?”

“You really think we’re going to ignore what’s been going on?” Louis asks, leaning against the wall with a sharp look.

“There’s nothing to ignore,” you say defensively, crossing your arms. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Liam snaps, his voice rising. “You’ve been hooking up with him, Y/N.”

“So what if I have?” you fire back, your frustration bubbling over. “I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”

“Can you?” Liam shoots back. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like you’re thinking this through.”

“Why is it any of your business?” you demand. “Ashton and I have an understanding. It’s harmless.”

“It’s not harmless,” Niall cuts in, his voice tight. “He’s not good enough for you.”

You whirl on him, your eyes blazing. “Oh, and who is? Because it sure as hell isn’t you, right?”

The room goes dead silent, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air.

“Y/N,” Liam starts, but you cut him off, turning back to him.

“No, Liam, seriously,” you say, your voice shaking with anger and hurt. “I couldn’t date Niall because you told him not to. And now I can’t even have a casual thing with Ashton? Who am I allowed to be with, Liam? Or am I just supposed to stay single forever so you can keep playing the overprotective big brother?”

“That’s not what this is about,” Liam says, his tone softer now, but you’re too far gone to listen.

“I’m 19,” you say, your voice rising. “I can fuck whoever I want, Liam. You don’t get to control me.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Liam snaps, his own temper flaring. “I’m trying to look out for you.”

“I don’t need you to look out for me,” you shoot back. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Niall steps forward, his expression unreadable. “We’re just trying to protect you, Y/N.”

“Protect me from what?” you demand, turning to him. “From living my life? From making my own decisions? I don’t need your protection, Niall. Not yours, not Liam’s, not anyone’s.”

The room is thick with tension, and for a moment, no one speaks. Finally, Liam sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he says, his voice tight with frustration. “Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when it blows up in your face.”

His words cut deep, but you refuse to let them show. Without another word, you push past them and storm out of the room, your heart pounding and your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

You don’t stop until you’re in the privacy of your own room, the door shut firmly behind you. Only then do you let yourself crumble, sinking onto the bed as the weight of their words crashes over you.

You thought you’d built up walls strong enough to protect yourself, but tonight, they’ve come crashing down. And as much as you want to blame Liam, or Niall, or anyone else, the truth is painfully clear.

You’re not just running from them. You’re running from yourself.

…

Later that night, you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, folding the last of your clothes into your suitcase. The hotel room is quiet, the muffled hum of the hallway barely audible. There’s a soft knock at the door, and you glance up.

“Come in,” you call, setting aside a stack of T-shirts.

The door creaks open, and Liam steps inside, his expression hesitant. He hovers near the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking a little unsure of himself.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply, turning back to your packing.

“Can I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the edge of the bed.

You nod, and he makes his way over, lowering himself onto the mattress beside you. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you fold and organize your things. Finally, he clears his throat.

“I, uh… I wanted to check in on you,” he starts. “I know things got a little heated earlier.”

You sigh, sitting back on your heels. “Yeah, they did.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, his voice soft but steady. “Especially for that comment I made—‘Do whatever you want, but don’t come crying to me.’ That was out of line, and I didn’t mean it. I’ll always be here for you, Y/N. No matter what.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance over at him, your chest tightening. “Liam…”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “I just get scared sometimes, you know? I see the way people look at you, the way they talk to you, and I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you. You’re my little sister, and I just want to protect you.”

“I know,” you say quietly, looking down at your hands. “And I’m sorry too. For the way I acted. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. I know you’re just trying to look out for me.”

Liam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to control your life, Y/N. I know you’re an adult now, and I trust you to make your own decisions. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You offer him a small smile. “I get that. And for what it’s worth, I ended things with Ashton tonight. Not because of what you or anyone else said, but because it just… made sense. The tour’s ending, and he’s going back to Australia. We both agreed it was the right thing to do.”

Liam nods, relief softening his features. “Good. I liked Ashton, but I’m glad you’re doing what feels right for you.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Liam reaches out, pulling you into a hug. His arms wrap tightly around you, and you sink into the familiar comfort of his embrace.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he murmurs. “You’ve grown up so much, and you’re doing amazing things. I know I don’t say it enough, but I mean it.”

“Thanks, Liam,” you whisper, your throat tightening. “That means a lot.”

He pulls back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “And for the record, I’m really looking forward to going home. It’ll be nice to see Mum and Dad, and to just hang out with you. No tour, no distractions.”

You smile, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Same here. It’ll be nice to have some time to just… breathe.”

Liam grins, ruffling your hair like he used to when you were younger. “Exactly. Now finish packing—we’ve got an early flight tomorrow, and I’m not carrying your suitcase.”

You laugh, swatting his hand away, and for the first time in what feels like ages, things feel okay between you.

But as Liam leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him, your thoughts drift back to Niall. No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, a part of you knows you’re still hoping for something more.

…

Part 2

Author’s note: I PROMISE there are more Niall moments coming - it is an angsty slow burn after all

#one direction fanfiction #niall horan x y/n #niall horan x you #niall horan fanfiction #niall horan x reader #Niall x you #Liam payn x sister reader

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otrtbs · 10 hours ago

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writer interview game ✨

thank you for tagging me linds!! <3 @inevitablestars

how many works do you have on ao3? 5 on my otrtbs account (+1 unpublished one) and 6 on my otrtbs_shorts account (where all my one shots and short stories went!!)

what's your total ao3 word count? 580,654

your top 5 stories by kudos? Art Heist, Baby! Tender Curiosities, Baby! Winterlude Angel of Death You and Me

do you respond to comments? i try!!!! i really try!!! ahb! gets unmanageable i fear but if you get there early enough on new chapters that i post on new stories, i really try to get to them!!

what's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? uhm. i guess art heist, baby! but tbh i feel like i could go angstier... maybe that'll be a writing goal for the new year...

do you write crossovers? no! haven't yet. but i was just talking to some friends today about something so cursed ....that could be my magnum opus if i wasn't a coward

have you ever received hate on a fic? no, never!!! everyone is really nice and respectful and can keep it peaceful and fun :))) !1!1!1!1! (<- girl who is manifesting for the future <- my fic has been eviscerated on goodreads and reddit and tiktok and twitter and in my tumblr asks and on ao3 i wouldn't be surprised if people are adding it to their linkedin atp)

do you write smut? very poorly and briefly and not really el oh el

have you ever had a fic stolen? not plagiarized, no!!! thank god!! but stolen and sold....well, yes i fear.

have you ever had a fic translated? yes! so many wonderful sexy versions of art heist, baby! out there for people to enjoy !! angel of death has been translated too!!

have you ever co-written a fic before? no, because collabing scares me. in the sense that i would be worried that i wasn't writing to my co-authors expectations and also ... if they don't directly align to My Vision i will also throw up. so. i don't think co-writing is in the cards for me

what's your all-time favorite ship? JEGULUS <3 jegulus. my forever girls <3

what's a wip that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? when i say i have...a master timeline full of every event that happened to bellatrix, andromeda, narcissa, sirius, and regulus.... detailing their time at school, what classes they take, key life events...just for me to use to write a massive canon-compliant fic of their lives.... i have put in HOURS and HOURS of work into that wip but i don't think it'll ever be done and/or see the light of day

what are your writing strengths? i really love writing detailed, descriptive interior scenes. it's one of my favorite things to do! i see every interior scene in my fic like a little still-life painting and i want the reader to be able to visualize the same still-life im seeing in my head in their head!!

what are your writing weaknesses? commas </3 grammar in general... like sorry 2 ur honor. but who fucking cares? do you get the vibes? are the vibes there? that's all i care about.

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i love it!! i've learned a lot of fun phrases from it !!

what's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to? im gonna write moonchaser (jamus, wolfbucks? idfk) !!!!!! when my james/remus thesis drops i swear !!!!!!!!

what's your favorite fic you've ever written? Winterlude!!! Winterlude is my favorite child, she's beautiful, she's gorgeous, she's fun, minimal angst, happy endings, regulus is hot as fuck in it, i want to go to there so bad. winterlude !!!!!

okay, i'm no pressure tagging @rabidlittlestrawberry @whorerific @pretentiouswreckingball @twisted-tales-told @residentrookie 💕

#tag game!

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sandeewithtwoe · 3 days ago

Note

Now i actually want a post about why you like inkxbroomie so much lol

Well, of course I’m not gonna say it’s the perfect ship. I don’t take shipping seriously, mostly because I know that a very VERY few of them in this fandom is gonna be canon anyways, so I just try my best to have fun with it.

Anyways I think Ink x Broomie is the perfect ship and everyone is sleeping on it.

We need to look further than just tropes and angst to conclude if a ship is good or not. “Oh, Broomie is just a brush how would that even work?” It can work if we really want it to work.

We can assume that Broomie is somewhat sentient in canon. We have seen it moved by itself and has expressed emotions in Comyet’s art. While we don’t really know its personality, it gives us a lot of room to make up for one! That leaves us, the creators, to be creative about this!

And a point I wanna mention, is the concept behind it. And I’m not talking about fucking a brush. I’m talking about Ink, the character that represents creativity in the fandom, being with the very thing that helps him create and design, taking “married to their work” very literal. In fact, Broomie has been by their side since… well maybe forever! Everyone else, as far as I’ve seen, is always disappointed or upset at Ink for his morals and/or behaviour, but Broomie has always loved them. It has always helped them make their dreams and ideas come true, despite what everyone thinks of them. And I think that’s beautiful. It makes sense for them to be together!

Also, if you like aroace Ink, you can see this as Ink finding a way for people to stop asking him out. He doesn’t want to be in a relationship with anyone, so he dates his brush to have an excuse to say he’s already “taken”. Their (platonic) relationship can be a declaration of Ink not giving a shit about anyone romantically. Plus, he’ll find everyone’s reaction to this information very funny.

Anyways, this ship makes me very happy and is also fun to experiment. I keep imagining what their marriage would look like, how everyone would react, their problems in their relationship (i see this as an artist having art block), and more. I feel like I’m the only artist in this fandom who doesn’t see this as just one big joke, so i guess I’ll just make more art of them being together, I guess. In my eyes, Broomie is like a personification of creating, so why wouldn’t Ink fall in love with it?

Thank you for the ask, anon.

#me answers #I mean I can talk about how this ship is incredibly hilarious #but I also just wanna talk about how this ship could work instead of making it one big joke #do you have any idea how it feels like? saying you ship a thing and people thinking you’re joking?#nah dude I’m not kidding when I say I love this ship #ink X Broomie is awesome #I just need to find a ship name for it

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nightlyrequiem · 2 days ago

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How would Valeria be finding out her girlfriend has been transfem all along. (Like no surgeries done but still pretty feminine looking.) After being together for a while it comes up when Valeria asks why they'd never wanted to go further in bed.(sorry if this is bad I've never done a request before😓)

I've never written something like this before so I hope it's okay! Had to do a little research because I wasn't sure what the difference between transfem and transgender was so I hope it's accurate.

Also, obligatory But I'm a Cheerleader reference.

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Minor Angst, Happy Ending, Transfem!Reader

Night Blooming Flowers

You're going over to your girlfriend's tonight. You layer on the mascara and bat your eyes, loving the length. You give yourself one last once over, looking at yourself from all angles. One last application of lip gloss and you're ready to go. You turn away and grab your purse.

Valeria is waiting for you in her car when you step outside, bathed by the warm sun. The door to your next-door neighbor's house starts to open and you hurry up to her car. Getting in before he can come out and see you. Today is a good day and you really don't feel like being bothered by some old man who can't mind his business. He's already made himself a problem as is. You never invite Valeria over because of him.

Valeria smiles at you when you sit down, planting a warm hand firmly on your thigh. No words are spoken as she puts the car into drive. The radio hums quietly while she drives. Life goes on outside, people running errands, children playing in the streets. Your smile fades a little at the sight of an armed man giving away a balloon to a child. Barely five feet away is a sheet-covered body. You look away. Out of sight, out of mind. The cartel is doing good things for this city, you tell yourself. Valeria is doing good things. You shove those thoughts away. No need to spoil your mood by thinking too hard.

Valeria's home is lovely. Pillard architecture and symmetrical gardens. The driveway is made of fine cobblestone. She gets out first and opens your door for you.

"Thank you." You say, kissing her cheek. She has guards posted up outside. You've come to learn that Valeria has some issues with paranoia. Though with her occupation it may not be so unwarranted. You ignore the weird look one of them gives you and hope Valeria didn't see.

Valeria insists that you relax while she cooks but soon enough, you're in the kitchen with her. Helping to cut up carrots and peppers.

"That's not how you do it." You scold. Gently grabbing the paring knife from her hands.

"Not how you do it?" She scoffs. "My mother taught me how to cook. That's how you're supposed to do it."

You hold the pepper down and slice down with an arch. "My mother taught me the correct way." You say. Shooting her a playful smile.

She comes up behind you and grabs your hips.

"Didn't realise I was dating such a meticulous chef." She murmurs into your ear. You giggle but stiffen when her hands start to dip lower down your thighs. Before she feels anything you don't want her feeling yet, you pull away with the excuse that the peppers are done being cut and can be put into their bowl.

Valeria adds all the ingredients together once the two of you finish preparing them. She grabs your hand and leads you to the living room, setting a timer on her phone.

"Let's get a movie picked out while we wait." She says. She plops down on her couch and you join her. Moving under her arm to rest halfway on her chest, your feet curled up under you comfortably. "What were you thinking?" She asks, moving through the options on screen.

"Uh... I'm not sure." You reply. "Have you ever seen But I'm a Cheerleader?"

Valeria's fingers absently run over your side.

"I haven't, what's that one about?" She murmurs.

"A cheerleader gets sent to conversion camp but it's incredibly exaggerated and all the people there are basically sleeping together." You tell her.

"Sounds incredibly sophisticated." She remarks dryly. You roll your eyes,

"It's a romcom it's not supposed to be sophisticated." You reply. Valeria smiles but doesn't reply. Adhering to your suggestion, she puts on the movie. 'Chick Habit' by April March plays out while the movie cuts from credits to shots of cheerleaders in slow motion.

All is well for fifteen minutes. Valeria is warm and soft and you're happy to be laid up against her. Once again, her hand starts to wander. You aren't sure how to get out of this without making it obvious. You grab her wrist when her hand gets too close to your groin. The atmosphere between you now becoming tense. she slowly retracts her hand and lays it in her lap. You're left feeling guilty for always turning her down.

"... I'm sorry." You murmur, craning your head to look at her.

"It's fine." She says. Not looking at you. "If you aren't ready that's okay."

You bite your lip. It's not like you aren't ready. There's nothing you'd like to do more than to be intimate with your girlfriend. You just don't know how she'll feel when she finds out you're different to what she thought.

You let the silence linger. Working up the courage to speak. You love Valeria and you don't want to lose her.

"I'm transfem." You say quietly. "I haven't had any surgeries." Valeria goes still, making your heart thump painfully. she turns her head to look at you and you avoid her gaze. Worried over what you might see.

"What is that?" She asks carefully. "Like transgender?"

"... Similar, I guess." You murmur. There's no going back now. "I was born with male parts but I don't feel like a male."

"Oh." She says. "But you're not a guy?"

"No, I've always felt more feminine, I'm still your girlfriend." You reply. Hoping that last part is true. Valeria has been one of the best things to come into your life.

"...Okay." She nods.

You frown. "Okay as in... you don't care or okay as in 'I acknowledge what you're telling me.'" You ask nervously, anxiously fidgeting with the rings on your finger.

"That's why you never want to sleep with me?" She asks quietly.

"... Yeah." You nod.

Valeria sighs and pulls you closer. Resting her head on yours.

"I don't care about what's in your pants, mi vida." She says. "You're my girlfriend, my person."

You melt into her with relief. You grab one of her hands and squeeze, feeling her squeeze back. "This won't change anything though." You say. "Don't treat me differently now that you know. Please."

"Never." Valeria promises. She breathes you in. Then pauses. You look at her when she sits up. "Do you smell that?" She asks, frowning. You furrow your brows and sniff the air.

Something's burning. A few seconds after the thought registers the smoke alarm goes off.

"Shit!" Valeria curses. Jumping off the couch. You follow her into the kitchen, seeing smoke billow from the oven.

"I thought you set a timer?" You exclaim in distress. Valeria hurriedly takes out the charred remains of your supper. The both of you peer down at it.

"I did." She says. "I think I set the oven too high."

"Did your mom teach you that too?" You quip.

Valeria gently shoves your shoulder.

You grab her arm and pull her away.

"It's okay." You say. "We'll order takeout, next time we do this I'll do the cooking."

Valeria rolls her eyes and leans into you. "Okay little Ms. Perfect. We're missing the movie." You sit back on the couch. Cuddled up under a soft blanket just in time to witness Megan and Graham's first kiss.

#valeria garza cod #modern warefare ii #cod mwii #valeria garza x fem!reader #valeria garza x reader #cod x reader #valeria garza #cod mw2 #valeria garza x you #cod

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toto-the-cactus · 1 day ago

Note

Like the similar scenario of Roboute reuniting with his daughter after awakening that thornsorcery proposed, but with Lion returning and see his daughter again. How it would be?

(Considering that she wasn't in Caliban when it was destroyed and stayed in the Rock. Sometimes visiting her father, waiting for him to wake up and seeing him age. Also having to live though the Imperium's decay)

Now, you see... I don't try to be nice when I write my stuff. I just love angst and now you will be subjected to my derangement.

Lion is the kind of man that would think coddling will end up weakening his daughter to the point of uselessness. When I meant 'Tough Love' I mean 'REAL TOUGH'. Tbf, I think @jaghatai-khock is the one that nailed it best when portraying Lion being a shit papa (go read his shit. He write so damn cool and the story I'm refering to is titled Ghost Of You). By the time the mf wants to do anything that was supposed to be NORMAL between his child and him its like "Bitch, you broke that kid, what else did you expect?". It's as usual where the most dutiful and less humane Primarchs suffer from the consequences of their actions.

Now, considering that the daughter of Lion wasn't sent that far and managed to stay close to The Rock, I like to hope that the Dark Angels didn't turned out as badly as they originally did. Yeah, they still are ridiculously paranoiac but their admiration and respect to their Primarch helps the now young woman to reel them back to their destructive destructive behavior. Sadly, the natural distrust that the Dark Angels seemed to develop post-heresy also ends up being rubbed into Lion's Daughter too, so there's no winning here.

This is mostly me being a mean bitch by throwing more angst, so I like to pretend that the sudden change of Lion trying to act like a REAL father after waking up from the stasis it's because he sometimes had dreams of what he thought was his happy memories with his beloved and his daughter and not the trauma he dumped on his child so she could become a soldier of the Imperium. Ya know like... when some parents imagine that they gave you a very happy childhood each time they tell stories and you're just like "when the fuck? Between the moments of silent judgement or loud disapproving comments?", that kind of vibe.

Then Lion wakes up from his long dreams and nightmares (ones where he not only loses his daughter in the battlefield but she also hates his guts too) only to discover that not only the Imperium is going to shits but the little girl he was expecting to try and show how much he loves her in a better form is not only a very jagged soldier that has been helping her mother to lead the Dark Angels, but apparently she and Guilliman seem to have a better parent/child relationship than he ever had with her.

You snooze you lose, Lion.

Have a wonderful day, anon

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #primarchs as girl dads #toto rant #ask reply #primarch dads #lion el'jonson #fic rec #itty bitty implied primarch x reader

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shnoob · 2 days ago

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Kurapika Kurta HC’s:

A/N: FINALLY ONTO HXH!! I have been wanting to do this for a LONG time but life got in the way, which it will again this week but I'm very excited to get this out there!

C/W: Has both fluff and angst!

Leave any suggestions if you want to see something specific!

Fluff:

Is one of THE best people to ask about making bracelets or anything crafty related. Due to his exterior, he seems like somebody who wouldn't care about it (in for his goals he doesn’t do them often) but back at the village, he would teach all the little kids how.

Speaking of the village he also is probably really good about braiding hair or doing other people's hair. I can see him back then being an older figure to all the kids in the village so being that figure comes with responsibilities!!

If you need to know any definition or any historical facts, he is your man. You’ve seen him read those books, he’s educated!! Not only does he do it for fun (and probably used those skills for the Spiders-), but for the exam to go out into the real world he found some research on the history of the outside world to get him at least some sort of idea what he was stepping into.

Would 100% correct you if you spelled/or pronounced something wrong. If that ends up being verbal or just in his head? Depends on his mood. 9/10 it's in his head but catch him in a bad mood and he won't hesitate to mummer it under his breath.

Yes, he is very stand-offish due to his life/profession BUT I like to believe that deep down he is a really good listener and will pay attention. I mean we can see it first season!! Sure he may not say anything once it gets to the point where he’s in York New but he does retain the information said to him and just leaves it on the back burner.

Back on the crafty gig, he knows how to crochet and knit. Instead of buying bookmarkers to not lose his place in his book, he makes his own (when he has the time anyway).

One of the neatest people known to mankind. Although he doesn't get the time to do it, having a clean environment makes him happy and makes him focus better. If not in a clean environment such as his room, I feel like it stresses him out to where he needs to get up and put some stuff away before he can lay down and then stress about the Spiders.

Tea drinker!! Drinks coffee but doesn't like the taste of it. LOVESS a tea that tastes more fruity <3.

LOVES nicknames. Giving or receiving them deep down means something to him. Especially after you give one to him, if you don't use it he’ll wonder why and get a bit disheartened :(.

The biggest gentlemen around! Holds doors for people, always says thank you and excuse me when moving around, biggest tipper etc. An “angel from above” is the words you’d hear people using for him from strangers. It has come to the point where if he enters a coffee shop he often goes to they already know and get in such a good mood.

Loves birds!! As a side hobby he has a collection of pictures of birds he’s taken over the years. With that, he has definitely learned some bird calls and will not hesitate to show somebody the difference between them.

(is in love with Leorio I swear!!)

Angst:

When he was younger, the color red was something that was noted as a good thing, and due to his clan he was so confident in his eyes. Now he cant bare to look into the mirror somedays just because of his eyes.

With the color red, he cant stand the thought of it being his favorite color. He probably doesn't even have one after everything due to how attached he was to red and now that attachment is unhealthy.

Seriously doesn't take care of himself. Like at all. As much as I love the fluff he wouldn't know what a healthy life looks like anymore.

Has so much survivor's guilt (which this one is obvious but to the point where it hurts).

A lot of people say that he doesnt care about his friends bu he definitely does. In fact I say that he lives in a detachment type style. Due to his deep rage and focus it makes him feel that being away from everybody he cares about is the right thing to do because he cant let anybody else get hurt and theres no time to be doing things he enjoys most. By this though, he feels those surges of guilt by not keeping in touch; but now its been so long without talking to them the guilt of going back is so deep he cant bare to face them.

When he cries most of the time he doesnt even realize. His brain just shuts down to where it doesnt register that he is upset and needs to take a minute. It doesnt help that half of the time tears dont even fall, so its just a emotional block.

Will never be able to commit to a romantic situation but still dreams of it :(.

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cardansriddle · 11 hours ago

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Dance of Shadow and Desire - Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

gif not mine

Summary: Once, they were friends—until his ambition turned him into the Dark Lord. Years later, he appears on her doorstep, bleeding and unrepentant, his obsession with her as fierce as his thirst for power. Caught between her lingering feelings and the monster he has become, she must decide between her feelings and letting him go.

warnings: angst with a happy(ish?) ending, dark tom but he's bbg. also older tom but he's not a snake yet dw. 3rd person POV,

A/N: I've always wanted to write something with older tom and this one has been sitting in my drafts for ages. i decided to post it bc why not! lmk what you guys think and if i should write more for older tom! (and before you ask, I'm sorry but not writing a part 2 for this)

༻♛༺

The rain drummed lightly against the windows as she sat in her worn armchair, a steaming cup of tea forgotten on the table beside her. The Daily Prophet lay open on her lap, the bold headline screaming of another attack.

The Dark Lord Strikes Again: Ministry Scrambles to Counter Riddle’s Forces.

Her chest tightened as she read the words, the familiar name sending a chill through her veins.

Riddle. Tom Riddle. And to think he had been her friend once.

She closed her eyes, and despite fighting it, memories reluctantly started to flood back. Late-night study sessions in the Hogwarts library, debates over spells and theories, and the way his sharp mind always seemed a step ahead of everyone else's. He had been ambitious, yes, she knew that, but there had been a charm to him, a warmth she had once believed was genuine.

They had been close, or at least as close as anyone could be to Tom. But as the years passed, she had watched him change. His ambition darkened, his charm became manipulation, and his thirst for power grew insatiable.

She started heard whispers of his experiments, his fascination with immortality, and the growing fear he inspired in his peers he called friends. She had tried countless times to steer him away from his path, but he had brushed her off with a cold finality she would never forget. She had been helpless as she watched the boy she loved so dearly descend into madness. And thus, by the time they left Hogwarts, the distance between them had become a chasm.

And now, years later, here he was again, not in the flesh but in the headlines of a paper detailing his reign of terror. She folded the Prophet with a trembling hand, her heart heavy with a mix of anger, sadness, and a faint, unwelcome pang of longing for the friend she had lost.

She sighed, tossing the paper aside and wrapping her robe over her nightgown tighter, trying to get rid of the goosebumps on her skin. Though they had little to do with cold, and more to do with what she had just read.

She was startled out of her stupor by knocking on her door. It was urgent, sharp, and completely unexpected. Her eyes glanced at the clock above the fireplace, and her brows furrowed as she wondered who would dare show up unannounced past midnight at her door.

Her fingers immediately clutched the wand she had set at her table, and she stood, beginning to approach the door warily. She debated whether if she should even open the door, considering the hour, yet worried that one of her friends might have gotten in trouble, she twisted the doorknob.

When she opened it, the sight before her made her wonder if she was having a nightmare.

A figure in black stood on her doorstep, his robes soaked and clinging to his tall frame The crimson stains seeped through his clothes, smearing the pale skin of his hands and dripping from a gash across his temple. For a moment, the hood of his cloak obscured his face, but then he raised his head.

Those familiar features, now sharper and more menacing, stared back at her. His face had matured, losing the boyish charm she once knew, replaced by a cold, calculated intensity. But his eyes—those piercing, dark eyes—had not changed. They bore into her with a mix of exhaustion and something darker she dared not name.

She froze as if someone poured a bucket of ice over her head. It was him. She had been reading about him mere minutes ago, the feared Dark Lord whose name terrified the wizarding world, and now he stood at her doorstep as if summoned by her very thoughts.

The storm raged behind him and despite the obvious pain coursing through him due to his wounds, something in his gaze sharpened, his complete focus narrowing to her as though the rain, the blood, and his injuries were inconsequential.

“You…” Her voice faltered, and she tightened her grip on the doorframe. "How...what are you doing here?"

Tom leaned heavily against the doorframe, his hand gripping the edge for support. "Do you plan to let me bleed out on your doorstep?” he asked, his voice even deeper and colder than she remembered.

Swallowing her shock, she blinked a few times to confirm she was not hallucinating. Her gaze roved over his dark hair, plastered against his forehead and disheveled in a way that was so unlike the controlled and immaculate boy she recalled.

"Did you expect me to welcome you with open arms after...everything?" She breathed out incredulously, looking at him with wide eyes, trying, desperately yet vainly to ignore the strings being pulled taut at her heart just at the sight of him before her. “You have no right to be here,” she added, her voice trembling with anger.

His gaze sharpened, the intensity of his focus making her feel as though she was the only person in the world. Despite his injuries, his voice remained calm, unyielding. “I expected you to act with the practicality I know you possess.”

“Reason? You are unbelievable.” She scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. “The reasonable thing would be to turn you away and report you to the Aurors.”

“And yet,” he said, taking a deliberate step closer, though his movements were clearly labored, “you haven’t done that." As soon as the words left his mouth, a cough roughly racked through his chest and he swayed on his feet.

She faltered, her grip tightening on the doorframe. His words stung because they were true. She hated the way he always seemed to know exactly which string to pull. Every instinct screamed at her to shut the door. He was dangerous. He had become something monstrous, far removed from the ambitious boy she once knew at Hogwarts. But the sight of his blood and the faint tremor in his hand stirred something in her.

The rain continued to pour around them, each drop a reminder of how absurd this situation was. His drooping eyelids were the only warning she got as he almost collapsed, and she flung her arms around his middle to catch him. Despite everything, she found that she could not let him bleed out in front of her eyes. Worse, she still cared about him.

"Do not think for a second this means I’ve forgiven you.” Her voice was tight with resignation as she helped him into her home. He didn’t fully collapse, though he looked like he might. Instead, he moved with deliberate slowness with her help until they reached her large couch by the fireplace.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, even as he winced with pain. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She made sure he was fully situated before she busied herself fetching a potion and bandages, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze following her every move. She knew whatever had caused him this much harm would not be so simple to fix with mere Wiggenweld potion or basic healing charms.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she murmured quietly, setting the supplies on the table beside him. “Especially not like this.”

Tom gave a faint, humorless smile. “Life has a way of surprising us.”

She bit back a retort at that, deciding to focus on the task at hand instead. "Show me."

Tom did not need to be instructed twice, as he moved to peel away his robes in order to expose his wounded back. He kept trying to hold in the winces every time he moved, and against her better judgement, she reached to bat his hands away and instead do the job herself. She removed his robes first, putting it away carefully so his blood would not stain her furniture. Then, she began slowly peeling away his shirt that had stuck to his skin after being soaked in his blood for so long. He suppressed a shiver at the feel of her cold fingertips grazing his skin, and she inn turn suppressed her urge to let her eyes wonder over his shirtless form. She had far more important matters in her hand.

The gash across his back was long and bloody. She could immediately tell it was not a wound caused by any weapon, but by dark magic. The edges of it were jagged, charred black which was the first giveaway of its cause. It was deep, angry, and refusing to heal fully even as she muttered counter-curses under her breath.

“This will take time,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile calm between them.

He didn’t reply, merely tilting his head to allow her better access. She could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye, even as she tried to focus. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed a cooling salve into the wound, but she forced herself to steady them.

Once the magic had been neutralized as much as she could manage, she began to wrap a bandage around his torso. His skin was pale, marred by other scars she hadn’t expected to see, each one a testament to the battles he had fought—and most likely won.

Her hands brushed against his sides as she secured the bandage, and she felt his muscles tense beneath her touch. She glanced up instinctively, though she could not see his face fully.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice low and almost… gentle.

“I’m not,” she lied, looking away quickly as heat crept into her cheeks.

He let out a faint hum of disbelief but said nothing further.

When she finished wrapping his torso, she moved to settle in front of him so she could focus on the gash on his temple. The blood had dried, crusting around the edges of the wound, and she carefully wiped it clean with a damp cloth. Her fingers brushed his hair back from his face, wet and unruly from the rain, and she noted absently how much longer it had grown since their school days.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, but he was watching her again—always watching. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she worked, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked finally, her voice tight.

“Because you’re still the same,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of the usual bite she had come to expect from him.

She paused, her hand hovering above the wound. “And you’re not,” she replied, her words laced with both sadness and bitterness.

He smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint patter of rain against the window. When she resumed cleaning the wound, his gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it intensified, as though he were trying to memorize every detail of her face.

“You could have not let me in,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“Yes, I could have." She replied simply, and wondered if perhaps she should have.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, though it was filled with something that felt dangerously close to regret. “You always did see more in me than anyone else,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Her hands stilled briefly, but she quickly resumed her work, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Maybe I was wrong.”

For the first time since he had arrived, he looked away.

Suddenly she was overcome with a burst of courage. "You can still stop this, you can—"

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.” He snapped.

“Then why did you come here?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his words sent a chill down her spine. “Because you’re the only one I trust.”

Her hands stilled, the bandage halfway wrapped around his arm. “You trust me?” she repeated, disbelief coloring her tone. “After all these years?”

His gaze locked onto hers, intense and unyielding. “You’ve always been different,” he said, as though that explained everything. “You see the flaws, but you don’t flinch. You never did.”

She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was, a part of her still saw the boy she once called a friend. And that part of her was why she hadn’t turned him away.

Her hands fell at her sides, and she tried to search his face but she could decipher what he was feeling. "Tom..."

It was as if the utter of his name was his last straw before he was undone. “Stop.” His voice was quiet but firm, and not for the first time, it carried something she couldn’t name. A plea, maybe, hidden beneath the layers of steel. “Nothing is going to deter me from my path.”

“Even if it means losing everything? Losing everyone?”

He tilted his head, studying her as though the answer should have been obvious. “I have never really had anyone or anything. Except you.”

Her throat tightened at his words, but she managed to croak out a reply. "And you lost me."

His eyes flashed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back in the couch, rested his head and closed his eyes. “Perhaps not,” he said finally. “But you’re here now.”

The weight of his words hung between them like a storm about to break. Before she could respond, he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’ve watched you,” he admitted, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “For years, I’ve watched you. Wondering if one day you’d join me." He paused, "Hoping.”

She crossed her arms, holding his gaze. "You mean standing beside you while the world burns?"

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "If that’s how you choose to see it."

"That's a lonely prospect." She retorted.

The flickering firelight cast shadows over his sharp features, making him seem both human and monstrous. "Lonely," he repeated, almost mockingly. "You think I don’t know what loneliness is?"

"I think you chose it," she said quietly.

Tom's eyes flashed, a dangerous spark of anger igniting in them. "I didn’t choose it," he hissed. "I embraced it. Because weakness is what binds people to one another. And I refused to be weak."

"Strength doesn’t mean shutting everyone out," she shot back. "It doesn’t mean destroying everything good in your life. You used to know that. At least I thought you did."

For a moment, she thought she saw something crack in his carefully composed mask. His voice lowered, almost a whisper and he chose to disregard her comment. "I told myself that you just needed time," he admitted. "But then I started hearing things. Rumors that you’d settled down, moved on. That you were happy." His gaze met hers, unflinching and intense. "Do you know what that did to me? The thought of someone else taking what I’d decided was mine? I was ready to kill, but then I found out the rumours were false."

She laughed, but it was hollow, her disbelief bleeding through. “Do you even hear yourself? That is not love."

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. ��Call it what you want. It’s all I’ve ever had to offer.”

She shook her head. "But it's—"

“Me,” Tom interrupted. “It’s who I am. And you’ve always known that.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as she tried to find her footing amidst the storm of his words. He wasn’t just offering her a place beside him—he was offering her the only version of himself he knew how to be. And for a shameful moment, she wondered if that was enough.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she said finally, her voice breaking under the weight of her own plea. “You could still—”

“Still what?” he asked, his voice colder now. “Change? Turn back? Forget everything I’ve fought for?” His tone softened then, laced with something dangerously close to vulnerability, though his expression remained steely. “No matter what you say, I won’t stop. I can’t. Don’t you see?” His jaw tightened as though the words were difficult to force out. “You’re the only person I’ve ever had even the faintest semblance of care for—of love for.”

The word hung in the air between them, so foreign coming from his lips that she almost didn’t believe he’d said it. Her throat tightened, her body frozen under his piercing gaze.

“And if anyone,” he continued, his voice darkening, “anyone so much as thinks of taking you from me, I’ll kill them. You know I will.”

A shiver ran down her spine at the conviction in his words, the raw ferocity in his voice. She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “You don’t love me— you just want to keep me caged.”

His nostrils flared, his expression twisting in frustration. “Why don’t you understand?” His voice cracked, sharp and raw, and before she could react, his hands shot forward, grasping her face.

She gasped, the suddenness of the gesture sending her heart racing. His hands were cold against her skin, but his grip was firm, unyielding, as though he feared she might slip away. His dark eyes bore into hers, and for the first time, she saw something she couldn’t quite name in them—a mix of fury, desperation, and something heartbreakingly human.

“I would burn the whole world just to keep you warm,” he said, his voice a low growl that reverberated through her chest.

Her breath hitched, the words crashing into her like a tidal wave. She could no longer hold her tears, and was helpless as they trailed a wait trail down her cheeks.

She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, trapped by the sheer force of his presence.

And then, with a gentleness that was almost cruel, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the tears streaking down her face. He wiped them away with his mouth, his touch at once tender and consuming, sending a shudder through her entire body.

“Tom…” she whispered, her voice breaking as his lips trailed down the curve of her cheek. She didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning, but the moment the word left her lips, he silenced her with his own.

The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative—it was desperate, fervent, as though he were trying to etch himself into her soul, to claim her in a way that words never could. His fingers tightened slightly on her face, pulling her closer, his breath hot and unrelenting against her skin.

She tried to resist, her mind screaming at her to pull away, to end this before it consumed her entirely. But her body betrayed her, melting into his as though it had been waiting for this moment, despite everything. Despite the pain. Despite the danger.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His hands didn’t leave her face, his thumbs brushing over her skin in a way that made her heart ache.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “When you’re healed, I’ll tell you to go.”

His hands stiffened slightly, his grip faltering for a brief second before it steadied again. "And I will come back again. And again."

She ignored his words. “For now,” she continued, her voice breaking under the weight of the moment, “I’ll let myself have this.”

She leaned into him, closing her eyes against the storm raging both outside and within her. For now, she allowed herself to relish the fleeting comfort of his touch, even as she knew it was a mistake. Because when the storm passed, when he was gone, she’d be left with nothing but the ashes of what once was—until he would come back to reignite it until she gives in.

༻♛༺

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