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jungkoode · 4 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal.

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that.

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie.

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods.

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips.

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight.

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time.

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday.

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life.

And on Sundays?

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care.

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness.

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation.

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat.

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook.

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah.

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady.

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking.

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm."

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours.

Puts his basket down.

Stands too close.

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him.

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar?

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around.

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine.

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent?

That's... kind of pathetic, actually.

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About."

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense.

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely.

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield.

The same way you use sarcasm as one.

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is.

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster, "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything.

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you.

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman.

A widow.

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries.

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine.

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate.

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh.

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine.

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition.

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent.

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking.

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question.

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this.

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why?

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close.

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are.

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone.

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that.

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you.

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades.

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction.

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read.

Neither of you moves.

His eyes dart between both of your pupils.

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling.

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird.

This whole morning has been weird.

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it.

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces.

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets.

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb.

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face.

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned?

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes.

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side.

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker.

You don't ask. Not your business.

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall.

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?"

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what?

Surprise?

Interest?

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number.

Ah. Barnes & Noble.

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care.

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs.

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket.

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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bluecherrypawn · 1 month ago

Text

Devils May be Cats? Ao3Ver.

Special Delivery [MasterList]

Chapter 1 ✧₊‧˚⁀➷ Chapter 2

Working from home sounds like a dream, well it is. But more often than not, it starts to feel isolating, especially when there’s little to do that isn’t related to work. It’s strange how success can leave you so... restless. Maybe it’s time to consider having a small companion. A cat or a dog, maybe. What about a bird? A parrot, so you can have someone to talk to.

Your train of thought is then cut off when you suddenly remember having to pick up a few packages your Father sent you. He said five boxes in total were sent to the post office. He was oddly cryptic about its contents, only being told that it contained a collection he owns that he wanted to hand over to you. When did the old man have a collection you didn’t know about? You were pretty nosy for a little kid, so if your old man ever had any collection, you would’ve definitely snooped through it by now.

You’ve talked to your parents about being so bored whenever they asked how your day was, but the weekly calls always made your day. Father must have thought that whatever he’s sending over may just cure your boredom. Maybe you shouldn’t have moved to another country for this job. You miss hearing Mother complain about some clients with no common sense. The table was always lively with just the three of you.

Sighing, you checked your phone for the details concerning the packages and how much time you had left before the scheduled pickup. After confirming that there was still some time left, you changed into a decent outdoor look. Nodding content, you walked out of the house with a shoulder bag containing all your necessities.

The drive to the post office was refreshing, with the sound of Cluster by Slipknot filling the car. You nodded to the beat while waiting for the stop light to turn green. After parking your Volkswagen Beetle, you noticed that there seemed to be a commotion happening inside. Upon your arrival, you saw a very distressed employee behind the counter. Though you still greeted him with a smile.

“Hello, I’m here to fetch a few packages my father sent me.” You showed the identification needed to receive the packages, and the employee seemed to grow pale when he saw them. “Shit… that was your package—” CRASH.

“GET BACK HERE” “CATCH IT! CATCH IT!!” A series of two fluffy cats ran out from the back. The other cat had a pizza chomped onto its mouth, smiling, while the other had the meanest look a cat could muster. Huh, how cute. Laughing, you asked, “What was that about?” With a tired groan, the employee replied, “Some cats got in through the back door. We don’t know how, but they’ve caused us some trouble.”

Apparently, because of those cats, a few packages were sent to the wrong address; those who came to receive their packages were given the wrong ones, and yours was one of those packages. “I’m sorry, Miss. We’ll just deliver your packages to your doorstep. Could you please just fill out your address here?” The poor guy looks tired, but you still have to ask, “Do I have to pay extra?” “There’s no need, Miss, delivering the package to your doorstep is our way of compensation.”

Guess you still have money for lunch, then. “That’s convenient, thanks a lot.” After writing your address, you walked out of there, texting your Father about what happened so he doesn’t worry excessively. Hmm, what should I have for lunch? That cat with the slice of pizza looked so happy with it. I guess I’ll have pizza then.

SHUFFLE— What was that? Creeping slowly towards the car, you saw two cats in the passenger seat, and they looked to be fighting. Panicked by how violent these cats were, you decided to swoop in because you did not want to see any dead cats. You swooped your hand under their bellies to carry them separately on each arm, and they seemed to have stopped at that. Then, a realization hit you like a brick. “Aren’t you two the same cats that caused trouble at the post office? You must’ve jumped high to get in my car.” They just looked at you bug-eyed.

They looked to be well-groomed for street cats. “Where are your owners? You can’t possibly be street cats.” The one to your right started meowing frantically. It sounded so sad that concern began to bubble in you about such vulnerable creatures on the streets. “I’ll take you guys with me for lunch, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you, okay?” You don’t know why you asked since you’re unsure if they could understand what you said.

Meowing erupted from your left. It seemed delighted about the decision as if the little guy understood you. “I’m gonna go through a drive-through first. I’d rather have lunch at home right now.” Unlocking the car, you put both the cats in the back seat and gave them a stern look, “Behave okay.” After ensuring they were buckled in, you walked around to reach the front seat and started the engine. Meowing can be heard from the backseat. Deciding to glance at them through the rearview mirror, they looked like they were having a serious conversation.

They’re adorable, but you’ll have to give them a bath when you get home.

“She doesn’t understand us,” the cat with slicked-back fur said, his voice low and precise, eyes narrowing as he glared at the driver’s hands gripping the steering wheel. “She thinks we’re just ordinary cats. Ignorant of what we really are.” Dante, lounging in the back seat with a cocky flick of his tail, let out a dismissive meow. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s for the best. No need to scare her off by trying to explain that two demon hunters got downsized into snow white furballs.” Vergil’s sharp gaze didn’t waver.

“This... transformation is no accident. We were transported here. The power we wielded back then is now reduced to this.” Vergil looked down at his paws, glaring at his pink toe-beans. “Lighten up,” said the white-coated cat sprawled lazily beside him, one leg in the air mid-groom. Why is he doing that? It must be the cat instincts kicking in. Dante’s fur was scruffy, his ears tilted in amusement. “You’re alive, we’re not in Hell, and I think she said she’s gonna grab some pizza. This could be worse.” Vergil’s tail lashed. “We’ve been stripped of our weapons, our forms, and our dignity.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dante purred, flicking his whiskers. “I think I wear fur pretty damn well.” The woman cooed again from the front. “You two are so cute together! I bet you’re brothers, huh?” Vergil let out a long, slow meow of discontent. Dante snorted. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Something tells me this is gonna be a long ride.” Dante laughed, but it sounded like a bunch of cute mews to the woman.

“Here’s your order, miss.” The drive-through attendant said with a practiced smile. With outstretched hands, you received your order with a nod and a thanks. The aroma of pizza wafted through the air. It smelt like a mouthwatering scent of melted cheese, savory spices, and freshly baked dough— “Mrrrow...” You blinked, startled by the sudden purring. For a moment, you almost forgot you had cats seated at the back. “hahaha.. I guess you guys are hungry, too, right? Don’t worry. My place isn’t too far now.” Looking back at the drive-through attendant, you politely bid goodbye and drove off.

And it seems home isn’t too far as a familiar house came into view. You parked the car in your driveway, the pizza box balanced precariously in one hand while the other struggled to grab your shoulder bag. Two sets of eyes followed your every move from the backseat, pupils wide with curiosity. The moment the car door swung open, the cats leaped to the ground, landing with the kind of grace that only felines seemed to possess.

Once inside your cozy apartment, you set the pizza box on the kitchen counter and turned to your feline guests. “Make yourselves at home, I guess. Just… don’t break anything expensive.” The cats wandered in as though they owned the place. The sleek immediately jumped onto the windowsill, gazing out as if surveying a battlefield. The scruffy one was already investigating the pizza box. They must be really hungry by now. You turned to your phone and searched “cats eating pizza” – the internet was divided. Probably not a good idea. You rummaged through the fridge and pantry for tuna or some leftover chicken.

By the time you had set out bowls of water and a little plate of tuna, the scruffy cat was already halfway into opening the pizza box with a clawed paw. “Hey! No! Bad cat!” He looked up and meowed innocently. You stared. It was almost sarcastic. After feeding them, you decided it was time to clean them up. Clearly, these weren’t strays, not with how well they handled human food, riding in cars, and walking into apartments like they paid rent. But you didn’t want to return someone’s missing pets in a filthy state.

Bath time was a journey in itself.

Slick-back absolutely hated the water. He hissed and growled the entire time but never once scratched you. Scruffy, oddly enough, didn’t mind. He even splashed around a little, like it was a hot tub. You were soaked by the end of it. The bathroom looked like a war zone, with towels everywhere, water on the ceiling, and soap bubbles clinging to the mirror.

But the two cats looked pristine, their white coats fluffy and shining. They seemed really identical with their hair down. It was funny when you couldn’t tell them apart until one of them licked their paw and slicked back their furr. While the other shook their head violently. They seemed satisfied with that.

You collapsed onto the couch. They followed you in, each hopping up to claim a side of the cushion. “You guys are lucky you’re cute.” Dante curled into a loaf. Vergil sat like a proud statue. You picked up your phone again, half-tempted to make a post about missing pets, but then remembered the post office. You hadn’t heard from them since the fiasco. Just as you were thinking about that, your phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

“One of your five packages has been delivered. Please confirm.”

Your eyebrows rose. Already?

You headed to the door and there it was – a large box, about the size of a microwave oven, sitting innocently on the doormat. You pulled it inside and opened it with a box cutter. The first thing you saw was a layer of bubble wrap, underneath a familiar logo.

Devil May Cry.

You blinked. Inside was a collection of merchandise: an unopened PlayStation copy of the first Devil May Cry game, the Special Edition box set, a miniature replica of a katana sword, and several high-quality merchandise. “What the...” You reached in and picked up the game case. It looked pristine. Vintage. Your Father had never mentioned being into video games. This was unexpected. “Why would he send me this?” Behind you, a tail swished. You turned. The cats were both sitting nearby, staring at the box. The sleek cat, now perched on the table, let out a slow, growling meow. You glanced at him. “You’re not a fan of incomplete deliveries either, huh?” then you remembered, “I still have to call Father about this. I’ll be right back.”

He just stared. “That...” Vergil hissed, ears twitching, “is me.” Dante stopped loafing. “Wait, what?” Vergil leaped onto the table beside the open package, glaring disgustingly at the figurine. “This... trinket. This absurd image. It’s me.” Dante padded closer, peering at his own figurine with a puzzled expression. “Hey, they nailed my jawline. Look at that smirk!” Vergil looked like he was having an existential crisis. “Why does she have these?” Dante batted his own figure off the table. “Well, at least now we know we’re not from here. The lack of demons kinda gave that away already.”

Vergil growled. “We are fictional.” “I mean… in this world, yeah,” Dante said, tail swishing. “Guess we’re pop culture icons or something. That’s kinda badass.” Vergil let out a low, dangerous meow. “I will get to the bottom of this.” Well, existential crisis be damned, they’re still cats, so they should be more worried about whether or not they could revert back to their original state. Dante stretched out on the table, flicking his tail in amusement.

“You know, for a cat with nine lives, you sure are wasting one on a meltdown.” Vergil paced in tight circles, claws clicking faintly on the wood. “You’re not grasping the severity of this. We are fictional constructs in a foreign dimension, reduced to—” he glanced at his paw with thinly veiled horror, “—these bodies.” Dante licked a paw nonchalantly. “Yeah, but at least we’re sexy fictional ‘constructs.’ You saw that jawline, bro.”

From the kitchen, the woman’s voice echoed again. “Yeah, I got a few cats. No tags. They jumped inside my car. One of them keeps hissing at a figurine you sent like it insulted his ancestors.” Dante looked up. “So these aren’t hers? You heard her ‘figurine.’ These likely don’t belong to her since she doesn’t know who this ‘figurine’ is.” “She has a small Yamato replica in the box. That can’t be a coincidence.” “Okay, fair. That is weird.”

Vergil made a leap down the table and began walking towards the hallway. “I need to examine the surroundings. There may be a catalyst. A portal. A summoning circle. Something that explains this madness.” “Orrrr,” Dante drawled out with a yawn, “you could nap on the windowsill like a normal cat and let me handle people stuff.” Vergil merely glanced at him. “Fool, we are not ‘normal cats.’” With a snort, he replied, “Tell that to your twitchy tail.”

The woman’s voice continued. “Yeah, they’re weirdly coordinated. One was super quiet and well-behaved. The other mowed on three pizza slices, survived and looked satisfied. I don’t even know how he snatched one, let alone three, right under my nose. I think I’m keeping them.” Vergil paused mid-stride. “She’s keeping us? Like... pets?” Dante rolled onto his back, belly up. “Better than hell, right?” Vergil looked up as if asking some higher demon for patience. “This is undignified.” Dante grinned.

“Welcome to the litter box, brother.”

A/N: inspired by this DMC cat art. Go support the artist everyone!

#devil may cry #dmc #dmc dante #dante x reader #vergil x reader #dmc vergil #dmc x reader

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barbwritesstuff · 5 months ago

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Thicker Than - Full Moon Update

Demo Link

Happy full moon everyone! I’m still just doing my thing, slowly but surely nudging this game towards the finish line. I know it’s taking forever, but I know I’ll get there in the end. I’m a completionist. It’s a blessing and a curse.

In terms of new stuff, I’ve added some new stuff to chapter 12, finished chapter 13, and added but not finished chapters 14 and 15. The players who get the most new content right now are players who want to talk to or kill the king and/or those who’ve romanced Nathan. However, there is some new connective tissue text that all players will see.

The demo has a few holes in it right now. I’ve been skipping over the romantic scenes so I can get a bigger, clearer picture of how the endgame is going to look and how it’s going to play out. Once that’s locked in, I think it’ll be easier to interweave the auxiliary stuff (which includes most of the kissing). In the meantime, I’m so excited to write these last three endings. I’m so close I can taste 'em.

Oh! And, before I forget, I haven’t had time to made new chapter titles (I made them way back when I started writing this game and only made up to chapter 13) so those headers aren’t going to look pretty yet, but hopefully that’s okay.

Update Details +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As of the 13th of February 2025

Chapter 13 is finished

I've added Chapters 14 and 15 (both incomplete)

Additional Words: 18,929 (excluding commands)

Total Word Count: 497,962 (excluding commands)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

P.S.

If you want, you can become a member on Kofi to see my weekly progress for $5 AUD (which is like $3.13 USD) a month. Full disclose, I'm not writing very fast right now. I've got several projects I need to balance and also real life stuff (like earning a living) to worry about. However, I'm really trying to update every Friday and I'm very grateful for anyone who does contribute. Just that little bit of extra income at the end of the month has made what would've been some very stressful times last year manageable and I cannot thank you all enough.

Also included: random unscheduled blog posts.

P.S (squared)

I have a book coming out!

Spaceship vs Dracula. It's very silly, it's very strange. It's the thing that got me through 2022.

Also, because it's full moon here's a gif. Remember when I used to open all of these update posts with a random moon gif? Yeah. Me neither.

#thicker than if

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epicbuddieficrecs · 7 months ago

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Weekly Recap | December 9th-15th 2024

I cannot wait for the Christmas holidays!! Only one week of work left!!

Complete

All The Lights Are Coming On by Sharpbutsoft (BuckysButt)/ @sharpbutsoft (Post-S8A, Christmas | 1K | General): What good is having a key to your best friend’s house if you can’t use it to spread a little holiday magic?

from here on out by Wildehack (tyleet)/ @wildehacked (Eddie comes back from Texas | 1,5K | General): Eddie’s been back from Texas for three days, and Buck’s not done being giddy about it.

the sweetest possible lie by Wildehack (tyleet)/ @wildehacked (Future Fic, Pre-Buddie | 2K | General): Chris’s fifteenth birthday falls on a Tuesday, and it couldn’t be more different from last year.

i’ll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams) by wafflesofdoom/ @capseycartwright (Christmas, Eddie goes to Texas | 2K | General): It was a silly thing, Buck had started, right when Eddie first got to El Paso – we’re looking at the same sky, he’d quipped, on one of their nightly Facetime calls. Even when they were far apart from each other, they were still able to look up at the same stars, and if they just remembered that, maybe the distance between El Paso, and Los Angeles, wouldn’t feel so cavernous. That’s what Buck had promised him.

You don’t have to outrun the bear (I’ll fall over for you) by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 3K | Teen): “What the hell was that?” Eddie demands, standing up from where Buck just pushed him onto his ass. “It was gonna hit your head!” “So, what? You thought you’d just volunteer yours instead?” Eddie scoffs. “Yeah,” Buck shrugs. “I have a hard head.” Or, 5 + 1 times Buck stood between Eddie and danger, much to Eddie’s befuddlement.

& such by colonoscopys/ @colonoscopys (85K | Teen): prompts and spec fics and codas and all the works jumbled mumbled into one place.

Chapter 21. eddie on plane (Post-S8A, 3K)

Mr. Movember by 42hrb/ @exhuastedpigeon (Hockey AU, Established Buddie | 4K | Explicit): “Why are you staring at me,” Eddie asked with a laugh as they got ready for their game on November 5th. His mustache was already looking thick and sexy, unlike Buck’s which was still a little patchy and definitely too blond to look good right now. “I like the mustache,” Buck said with a shrug, trying (and failing) to sound casual about it. “Oh, you do?” Eddie stopped buttoning his shirt so he could turn around and look at Buck directly instead of in the mirror. “Y-yeah,” Buck couldn’t take his eyes off of it and here in the safety of their bedroom he was allowed to look, so why should he stop. “If you manage to keep out of the box tonight, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me and my mustache.”

slide it in, right to the top by oklahoma/ @queerdiazs (PWP, S8A | 4K | Explicit): “What’s it like?” he asks softly. Buck tips his head to the side and meets Eddie’s eyes, lazy and buzzed and pretty. “What’s what like?” Eddie swallows, face prickling red with heat, and says, “Fucking a man.” The worse taste weird on his tongue, foreign but good. Welcome, like it’s time or something. “What’s it feel like?” - After Buck shows up at Eddie's door with a six pack, Eddie's mind begins to wonder. A bottle of tequila gives him the courage to ask for something he wasn't aware he's been wanting.

‘Cause I Need Touchin’ So Primal by fruitsdoesnotknow/ @tayf-ghost (Post-S8E6: Confessions | 9K | Explicit): “Hey,” Buck says warmly into the phone, tucking it between his shoulder and ear with a smile at his lips. “Fuck,” Eddie muttered harshly into the phone, his voice rough through the receiver. “Eddie?” Buck called out, frowning. He lowered his phone from his ear to check the call, and yeah, still connected, full reception. He raises it back to his ear and catches the tail end of a noise, a choked-out groan. “Are you okay?” “Buck,” Eddie panted, his breath coming out in heavy exhales. “Buck –” Grabbing his keys, Buck makes it to the loft door, jacket half on when he stops dead in his tracks, phone still pressed to the side of his head as he hears Eddie in his ear. “Yes, Buck, yes, yes, please, yes –” *** Or, Eddie accidentally, sort of, maybe has phone sex with Buck for roughly five seconds, and Buck spirals about it until Eddie finally ends up in his lap.

now i don't hate california after all by jaekyu (PWP, Getting Together, Eddie comes back from Texas | 10K | Explicit): Eddie’s been waiting for months. He can wait a little bit longer.

🔥 Somethings Said (to turn you inside out) by taegyungie (Post-S8A, PWP | 12K | Explicit): Eddie tilts his head. “Why are you being so weird, Buck?” It’s funny to Buck that Eddie has to ask; one finds out his ridiculously hot best friend is now also sleeping with men, one begins thinking about sleeping with said ridiculously hot best friend. It just makes sense, right? So it almost offends him, a little bit, that Eddie is the picture of cool right now. Has seeing Buck in such a deliberately sexual context not altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, too? Does Buck need to update his Grindr profile? or, Buck catches Eddie on Grindr and now he can't stop thinking about it.

🔥 bad luck to talk by jaekyu (FWB, Misunderstandings | 14K | Explicit): Just before Eddie tells Buck he loves him, he’s pretty sure they’ve been building up to this for months. Just after Eddie tells Buck he loves him, he realises he’s deeply misunderstood this entire situation. And Buck? Well, Buck didn’t even think they were dating. (Aftermath, and then: the road less travelled, with the benefit of hindsight.)

at this fork in the road (I want the path that leads me to you) by kabnd/ @polkadotk804 (Post-S8A, Eddie goes to Texas | 24K | Teen): It is at that moment that Eddie realizes that he has a choice. There are two roads ahead of him. Two paths. Two potential futures. One with Buck at his back, and one with Buck eight hundred miles away. Eddie knows which one he wants, but he just needs to be brave enough to ask for it. OR: In one series of events, Eddie asks Buck to come with him to Texas, in another he doesn’t…but whatever steps they take, Buck and Eddie always find their way to each other and bring Christopher home.

WIP

Finding Mr Christmas by JJK/@trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Canon Divergent, Reality TV, Christmas | 4/? | 24K | Teen): "Welcome to Finding Mr Christmas! You’re all here chasing the same dream, to star in a Hallmark Christmas movie, and over the next few weeks we’re going to be putting you through your paces to see which of you has the most star quality and that ‘it’ factor that makes you shine above the rest." 🎄🎄🎄 An AU where Buck and Eddie meet as contestants on Hallmark's Finding Mr Christmas competition (and fall for each other).

can’t fight the moonlight by coldbam/ @coldbam (Werewolf Buck, Canon Divergent | 1/2 | 10K | Explicit): “Apparently I stole his very special mug,” Eddie says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “I know you guys keep saying he’s all bark, Buck’s a real sweetheart, but I'm starting to worry you all just have terrible judge of character,” Eddie half-jokes. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “What the hell is his problem?” “Full moon tonight,” Chimney says with a smirk, chewing his gum like he’s proud of himself for that joke. * Or, everyone works at a wolf sanctuary and Buck is a werewolf.

Snickerdoodles of Longing by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Post-S8A, Demi Eddie | 1/2 | 14K | Mature): Eddie piles up all his baking supplies and tells him, “All yours. Whatever you want to make. I’ll get more of anything if you need it. We should have plenty of flour though. I got you five bags.” Buck’s head snaps toward him. “Five bags? You got me five bags of flour? The little two pound ones, right? Or the five pounders?” “No, the tens. Like that one.” “You bought me fifty pounds of flour?” “You’re the one who decided his coping mechanism for loneliness was snickerdoodles and sourdough. I’m just being supportive. Since you’re my wingman and I’m yours or whatever you said when you stole my tablet and my realtor call.” Buck smirks. “More like saved your call.” More like saved Eddie’s everything but who’s counting? ~ Eddie decides he needs to move to Texas and slowly unravels as he comes to terms with how he really feels and what he's losing.

there is no road by littleghost/ @ghostlandtoo (Post-S8A, Eddie moves to Texas | 2/6 | 24K | Explicit): Years ago, almost a full decade, Shannon had asked him to move and Eddie refused because he was trying to build a life for himself again. Eddie knows if he asks Buck, he’ll get that same refusal. Worse, Buck could say yes and Eddie would be uprooting Buck from the very life he built for himself. He doesn’t ask, and Buck doesn’t offer, and they pack up Eddie Diaz’s life in Los Angeles into cardboard boxes. Or: Eddie moves to Texas. Buck buys his house. There’s a love story somewhere in here.

Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 9/? | 55K | Explicit): In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.

#epic buddie fic rec #buddie #buddie fic #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfic #buddie fanfiction

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daphwritesworld · 8 months ago

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Chapter 1— For The First Time.

a/n: welcome to the Be My Baby series! i’m super excited to get started and work on this story! I’m thinking of publishing 2/3 chapters weekly if I can, but at least 1 will always come out. If additional ones are on the way i’ll make sure to update that on my upcoming post. thank you for your support and happy reading < 3

(p.s. sorry I didn't proof read this lol. I will later and edit any details that need touching up. This is already a few hours late tho, so I want to go ahead and get it out.)

content: Top!Leah, Bottom!Reader, bed humping, fingering (r receiving), teasing, talks of shoe humping, spit play, talks of previous sexual encounters, brewing sexual tension, and masturbation (both)

warnings: allusions to heavy dom/sub relationship, talks of injury, Leah busting her ass at practice, Leah making a fool of herself when she’s in shock, flirty!Leah deserves a warning on its own so here you go, calling reader a bitch & slutty once in a dominating way, semi-public sex, almost getting caught by Alessia, Leah accidentally knocking you on your ass lol

synopsis: You've arrived to your first day at Arsenal; your new club for the foreseeable future as head Athletic Trainer. A new country with promises of a new start awaits for you...until a familiar face disrupts your plans and throws you head first into a whirlwind of emotions and actions.

word count: 3.4k

Series Masterlist: here.

!! 18+ MINORS DNI !!

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The crisp air of Shenley lites a whispered chill to cover you as you step out of the taxi. You pay the driver, wishing him a good day as you collect your bags from the cab. A deep breath makes its way from your chest and out your lips, gathering your bearings as you finally start to make your way inside. This is going to be a fresh start in a place no one knows you– exactly what you need. No expectations to meet or lingering gazes on and off the pitch. No drama or gossip floating around or eating lunch by yourself. Things are going to be different here.

You take in the scenery as you approach the Sobha Realty Training Centre, your new place of employment. The building feels like it’s going to swallow you, the tall white walls reminding you of the hospital as a familiar churn starts to turn in your stomach.

Breathe. Everything is going to be fine.

Your hand comes up to open the door, but it’s pulled from your grasp. You look up, eyes meeting a warm smile and kind eyes. You relax at her appearance, and even more at her friendly approach, “Hi, I’m Alessia! You must be Y/N, I assume?”

You find yourself mirroring her smile, a hand coming out to shake hers. “Yes, it’s lovely to meet you, Alessia! Sorry I’m late– I got lost and then I just ended up taking a taxi….London is a lot bigger than I expected…” you trail off as you realize you're rambling. Embarrassment sinking in as you look down to the floor.

“You’re totally fine! I think we all got lost on our first day, haha. That’s why I’m here to show you around, this place is huge when you don’t know it. Now follow me, new girl!” and just like that, she’s showing you everywhere possible. She shows you the cafeteria, weight rooms, bathrooms, locker rooms, and just about every tiny place to hide if you need a moment to yourself.

“I don’t mean to sound rude– but shouldn’t you be out on the field training with the others? Showing me around can’t possibly be more important with the Euro Finals coming up,” you say as you arrange your med bag for practice. The rest of your things are now stored in your brand new Arsenal locker you were shown, your name enraged into the gold plate marking your future. She laughs at that, pointing down towards her ankle that you now see is wrapped up. “Sprained it a week ago, so i’m benched. Swelling is still up so Coach won’t let me play on it yet, not even at practice.”

A laugh now comes out of you at her frustrated tone near the end. “Well, I have to agree. Until the swelling and all pain is gone you need to let it properly heal. We don’t need you hurting it worse!”

You feel a shove to your shoulder at that, zipping up your pack as you turn towards her now.

“Spoken like the true new head AT! See you're falling into place here already,” You give a shove back to her shoulder. Careful to do it lightly and not push her off balance with her injury. “Ready to meet the girls?”

You let out a sigh before nodding your head, “If they're all as nice as you I think I’ll be just fine.” And then you two are off, Alessia leading the way to your new team. You can feel your hands sweating as you get closer to the field in sight. All the girls training, the coaches, the other medical trainers under your watch…it’s all facing you at once as the past leaves your mind step by step. Like the shedding of skin on a snake, you're letting your anxieties fall from you as your passion for the job kicks back in. Like a flicker of flame– just waiting to ignite higher.

Your confidence is gaining with every blade of grass that passes beneath your feet. You know you're good at this. Hell you’re fucking amazing at this. Not many trainers could switch clubs– let alone countries for said club, in the middle of a season and still be Head AT…but you are that good. No matter what might’ve happened in Barcelona, you’re going to make sure you thrive here in London.

Well that is until your eyes meet hers. It’s like the wind gets knocked out of your chest– hers quite literally. The blonde’s eyes stay on yours, a furrowed brow taking over her face as she keeps running blind. Until she smacks face first into the goal post at full force, bright hair tumbling to the ground in a loud, harsh collapse. Your feet work faster than your brain, running over and immediately separating her from the net. You’re assessing her body, eyes frantically searching for any blood, bruises, cuts, or abnormalities. Your hands come to her ankles, pressing down as you look up at her face. “Does anything hurt? Stay lying down right now, your adrenaline might be blocking it out!”

“I'm Leah!” It’s rushed out, loud and with a voice crack. Her wide eyes staring up at you as she snaps a hand over her mouth afterwards.

If her teammates weren’t laughing before– they definitely are now.

A blush overtakes your cheeks as you put an arm around her waist, hoisting her to stand up with you. She throws one of hers around your shoulders as she regains her balance. “I’m taking her to the Med Room! Want to be sure she doesn’t have a concussion!”

You’re practically dragging her at this point, racing to get somewhere private because what in the actual fuck. "I'm Leah," She repeats her words from the field. "Yeah, I fucking know that!" you snap lightly on her. Mind still racing as you drag her down the building for a more private place to fully speak without worry. There is no way this is happening! Not to you– NOT NOW!! You push the Med Room door open with your back, and sit Leah up on the bed as you finally create some distance between you two. An accusing finger launching itself towards her as you move back to the middle of the room, “SINCE WHEN DO YOU PLAY FOOTBALL?”

“Nice to see you again, too, darling,” She’s smiling at you. That same one that got you hooked in Ibiza and agreeing to spend three weeks with a stranger. You almost get lost in it again– but you start shaking your head. “Oh no! No, no, no– don’t you darling me right now! How could you not tell me your-” your hand comes to pull at the band around her arm, “CAPTAIN! Of one of the best teams in all of Europe? And after spending all that time alone together, really?”

“First of all, we are not one of, we are the best in the world– thank you. Second of all, I don’t remember us talking much when we were together, if I can be honest. My mind tends to remember the more important details,” she licks her lips as she says it, eyes racking over your body as she recalls the memories to her mind. “And third of all, I don’t exactly remember you telling me you’re the highest paid AT in the sports field, so I guess we both kept some secrets. Huh, darling?”

“You are insufferable," you say as you take out your tiny flashlight, checking the reflexes of her pupils with it.

“Oh but that’s not what you were saying during those few weeks we spent together.”

“Leah!” Your face scrunches up as your fists ball up at your sides. Giving her the best glare you can muster up.

“Y/N! Don’t do your face like that– it’ll get stuck,” a laugh breaks out of her mouth as she says it. Poking at your face to relax your muscles there.

“Can you be serious for like two seconds, this is bad!” You rub your hands down your face. Trying to relieve the headache starting to form between your eyes.

"Oh calm down, would you! No one knows, okay? I didn't tell anyone about our time together. I swear!" She sticks her pinky out towards you, and you somehow find yourself laughing back this time as you extend your own to interlock with hers. It's then you know you've messed up. Her skin lights yours up the same way it did a year ago— you two hidden away on the tropical Spanish paradise. Days were spent exploring the island and endless nights spent exploring each other's bodies.

You don't even notice how close you two have drifted until her thighs are closing in around your middle, trapping you against the medical bed and her upper body. Your face flushes as you freeze in place, brain already too fuzzy for you to register that you should pull away. You can’t stop thinking back now– flashes of memories whizzing by in your head as you zone out, eyes lingering on her lips subconsciously. She must think that’s an invitation, because after a few seconds one of her hands comes to the back of your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. You kiss her back at first, chasing the spark that ignites from her lips.

But then you remember where you are, and more importantly why you are even here. You got to pull away, hands coming up to her chest to push and create some space. She doesn’t budge though, a tiny moan slipping from your lips as you remember the depths of her strength. She smiles into the kiss at that, and you take the opportunity to breathe the words out against her lips. “Le-Leah we shouldn’t be d-doing this. We c-can’t…”

Her other hand tickles the waistband of your shorts, a light chuckle vibrating her chest as she pulls away to look you in the eyes. “I’ll stop if you really want me to, but I think we both know you want this more than me. Don’t you, darling? Otherwise you wouldn’t be humping the edge of the bed like a bitch in heat.”

You look down, not even realizing how you'd started rubbing your covered cunt against the medical bed. Your hips stutter to a stop as you try to back away from the cot, embarrassment filling your body at her catching you red handed. A finger lifts your chin up as her eyes lock to yours, a chill running down your spine as you cling to her every move. She runs her hand still sitting at your waist down to your hip, slipping under your shorts as goosebumps break out across your skin from her touch. “Don’t get shy on me, now. Not after I’ve seen you cum from grinding on a shoe.”

“Okay! Don’t act like you didn’t tell me to do it– no DEMAND it!” you move closer, pointing your finger into her chest now as you argue the claim.

“Mhm you’re right, Y/N…but you’re the one that did it. Got down on your knees,” she grips the hair at the back of your neck as she yanks your head back. “And rubbed your slutty pussy all over my Louboutins until you ruined them with your cum.” She brings her face down closer to yours, “Now open your fucking mouth.”

You do as she says, and you're met with a glob of her spit landing on your tongue. You swallow it before she even has to tell you, groaning out as you thank her for giving it to you. Her hand on your hip starts slipping around to your front after she feels you grinding forward again, giving you her fingers instead of the small spring mattress. You moan out as soon as they glide across your clit, an electric feeling breaking out across your body. You know this is wrong, and you’ll definitely chastise yourself later…but until then you’re gonna beg her to fuck you.

“Please give me your f-fingers! W-wanna cum for you, Le!” The distantly familiar nickname falls from your lips effortlessly and it fuels a fire inside Leah’s chest. She slides her hand farther into your shorts, instantly slipping two fingers inside of you at the start. Her palm is fitting your clit perfectly, and after a few minutes you can hear the squelching of your pussy from underneath your shorts. You can feel her curling, scissoring, and twisting the fingers inside of your cunt. Your legs are about to shake as you feel your orgasm start to build, moans increasing as your chest rises and falls faster. You can’t focus on anything other than Leah. That’s all your mind can think of: Leah, Leah, Leah…

Thank god she’s paying attention though. Because next thing you know she’s pulling her hand out of your shorts and pushing you back away from her so hard you fall on your ass. You let out a yell of shock as you go tumbling backwards, landing with a pretty loud thud onto the cold tile floor.

Before you can scream at her to explain what the fuck her problem is– the door is swinging open. Alessia barging in as she runs over to Leah. Stopping in her tracks as she almost topples over you. She comes to stop in a screeching halt, sticking a hand out to help you up. “What the hell are you doing on the floor?” She says as she drops your hand once you're back standing. “Well if you must know, Leah’s being stubborn and wouldn’t let me sit on the med bed with her because I’m benching her for practice until she gets her head checked by a CT scan.”

“YOU'RE BLOODY WHAT?” She screeches out at the realization.

“See she can’t even remember I already told her that! Definitely needs a ct,” you know you’re lying through your teeth…but fucking with Leah is too fun. No way you were telling her she’s benched when she had you on the verge of the first orgasm you’ve had…well, since the last time you saw her.

“What the hell even happened out there, Leah?” Alessia asks, a laugh busting out of her chest as she recalls the captain’s wipe out.

“I was lost in my head and just..oh god I’m never living this one down am I?”

“Oh god no! You should’ve heard the noise you made when you hit the pole– I've never heard that come out of a human being before, or any living thing for that matter!” She has tears welling up in her eyes now as she recalls the events.

You sneak out as the two blonde’s get lost in their laughs and conversation. The locker room is empty as you collect your things, humming a song under your breath as you make quick work of packing up. You’re walking out to the parking lot when you finally let yourself think of what just happened, fingers coming up to brush against your lips. You find yourself smiling, wiping it off your face when you notice. No, Y/N. Stay professional. This. cannot. happen again. Push it down.

You pull out your phone to order a new cab before a familiar voice grabs your attention. “I’m afraid there aren’t many cabs on this side of town at this time of night. I can give you a ride though. Only if you want, of course…But such a gorgeous girl as yourself? You really shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

You turn, forgetting the words you told yourself not even 5 minutes ago. Nodding your head before you fully process the request. You’re going to be alone in a confined space with her? FUCK. You folded quicker than a lawn chair for the blonde footballer not even 10 full minutes ago….Lord give you strength for this 20 minute drive.

She opens the door for you, holding an intense eye contact as she closes it as well. Her car smells like the leather seats and the piney notes of her perfume. A perfect mix that has you rubbing your thighs together, trying to dull the ache she never got to quell. She climbs into the drivers seat, setting up her aux before she's handing you her phone open onto her maps app.

You quickly type in your new address before the navigation is breaking through the speakers and leading you to your destination. The ride isn't awkward, filled with easily flowing conversation. You're so lost in it you don't even notice you've made it to your flat. Not until the gps is yelling out "Arrived at Destination."

You try to hide your disappointment as you grab your bags, saying a thank you as soon many questions hang in the air between you two. "Can I walk you up? Promise I won't make a move, just want to make sure you get inside okay." She throws her hands up in a defensive mode.

"Yeah, I'd like that," you push down the large part of your brain that is telling you to stop this dynamic. To kill it before it can manifest…but you don't listen to it. You let her take your hand as she walks you into your buildings elevator, and you let her kiss you soft and slow as the floors ding past you both. It's different from any kiss you've shared before, and that kind of scares you.

It scares you even more at your door, where she tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and kisses you like that again. She's kissing you like she has something to prove…you're not quite sure what that is just yet…but you sure as hell want to find out. The first time Leah blew into your life, it was at a time of transformation. It was brief but truly wonderful, and now the universe is sitting her right in fucking front of you for a second time.

She's the first one to pull away from your lips this time. A smile pulling at her lips as she ducks back in to steal one more peck, and then she's backing away slowly. Her hands pulling yours with hers as she tries to leave you as slowly as possible. "Goodnight, Y/N."

You can't help the smile you break out into at the gesture, looking down as you blush slightly from the innocent statement. She's playing with your fingers now, and you're trying to memorize hers for the foreseeable future. "Goodnight, Le. And thank you for today. Always the gentleman…when you want to be."

She pushes your shoulder at that, "Oi! I'm always a gent!"

You blush as you think more about the Ibiza trip, "I would beg to differ."

She genuinely laughs at that, picking your hand up to her mouth to leave a kiss on your knuckles. You say goodnight to each other one last time before she leaves down the hall, watching her disappear into the elevator before you go inside your apartment. You both don't know it yet, but you end up finding the same resolution to your problems tonight.

As you both lay awake drowning in endless thoughts of each other, you can't help but slip a hand into your shorts. You're rubbing at your over sensitive clit, imagining it's Leah as you work yourself up. You haven't had time to buy any toys since you moved here, but you don't need them right now. Not when she's got you so wound up from barely any touch.

Meanwhile the blonde captain is slipping her trusty vibrator between her legs to stimulate her clit, the pretty pictures she has of you from Ibiza currently being viewed in her hand. From the one of you being blind folded in her hotel bed to the one of you bent over the railing of her private yacht— she can't stop the new filthy images of you from popping into her head. She's got to have you again, and not just for sex this time.

Leah hasn't stopped thinking of you since the trip, mind clouded with day dreams of you two creating a life together. She's been laughing it off, thinking she's delusional because she'll never see you again…but that disappears when you come waltzing back into her life. She knows now she can't waste this second chance. No matter how long or what all it takes: Leah Williamson is going to make you her girl.

#l.williamson 6 #woso fanfics #woso smut #woso x reader #woso writers #leah williamson x y/n #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson smut #leah williamson fanfic #woso x y/n #wlw smut #wlw x reader #BMB.daph

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smashing-teacups · 3 months ago

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Posting schedule opinion time:

I’ll likely have 52/55 (ope yes I did update that total count 🙃) chapters of Atonement completed by the time I would like to start posting again on May 1st — a little over a week, aah! Here are the options I’m floating around right now:

1. Posting every 2 weeks consistently until it’s finished

2. Posting every week and a half — so not always the same day of the week, it’d alternate

3. Posting weekly x 4 then spacing out to every 2 weeks

This is just meant to ensure that I have adequate time to finish those last 3 chapters on time so they’re posted without interruption into the schedule.

What’s your preference, readers? 🤔

P.S. This is officially serving as your heads up: if you want to do a full reread of Atonement before the next chapter goes up, you’ve got ten days 😘

#atonement #jamie x claire #outlander fanfic #smashingteacups

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7-deadly-cats-updates · 8 days ago

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// IMPORTANT (KMS) ANNOUNCEMENT

for a shortened version, just read the bold paragraphs

hey guys <3

i’ve been thinking a lot about this lately and i think i’ve made the decision to stop using a scheduled upload day for KMS.

don’t worry, this isn’t a break or anything like that. chapters will still come, but just when they’re ready. maybe still every week, maybe every two weeks, maybe a little sooner, maybe a bit later – depending on how i feel.

i’ll still kinda aim for sundays, just because i like having that soft goal in mind, but if it ends up being earlier or later, so be it. i just wanna give myself that freedom.

and just fyi, i DON'T feel pressured by anyone. i actually love sharing this story weekly with you. it’s just that i’ve noticed how much time i spend during the week making sure a new chapter is done by sunday, and I end up putting a lot of pressure on myself.

i know i’ve said before that i kind of need that pressure to properly sit down and write but right now, i just really wanna give myself a bit more room.

and the main reason for this decision is also that i have other wips i’d love to work on too, and it’s been bothering me that i’ve been neglecting them because i’ve been so focused on KMS.

so yeah. this is just me letting you know that i'm changing my posting rhythm, NOT ending KMS or stuff like that.

i totally understand if some of you might feel a little disappointed about this. i do know that many of you have been looking forward to new chapters every sunday, and honestly that means the world to me. maybe it’ll still end up being weekly updates, who knows. but as some of you have probably noticed, the last few chapters have already been delayed by a couple days here and there.

so thank you. for sticking around, for being kind, for supporting me and this series. it really means everything and i hope you guys can understand <3

with that being said, i kindly ask everyone to be patient and please avoid asking when new updates will be dropping. i completely get the curiosity and excitement but stuff like that just stresses me out a little <3 i’ll try to give a heads-up whenever i have a post planned, though i can’t always promise it.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

#killing me softly announcement #announcement

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 1 month ago

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Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Six

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Words: ~4,100

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 <3

Auror Division Headquarters, Operations Wing – London

Sebastian stepped into the administrative wing just past nine, the air still sharp from the morning chill. He carried the satchel containing the secured artifacts and a concise mission report tucked neatly into the fold of his arm. He hadn’t slept well. Not because the mission had gone poorly—it hadn’t. If anything, it had gone too smoothly.

He blamed you. Or, more specifically, the version of you who had slid so seamlessly into the role of his wife.

Don’t think about that.

He rapped once on Hale’s office door, and when her voice called out, he stepped inside.

“Report,” he said simply, handing the folder across, along with the artifacts.

Hale didn’t look up right away, just took them with a nod. “Anything notable?”

“Contact was guarded but cooperative. Sale was clean. Warden held character.”

That earned him a glance. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

Hale’s office was messy as usual, documents scattered across the desk, memos stacked haphazardly, and a single mug of coffee half-drunk sitting precariously on the corner. But just beside her elbow, Sebastian spotted a folder. A thick one.

He didn’t mean to look, not really. But his eyes landed on the open page anyway. The heading was clear: Service Record – Canadian Magical Enforcement Division.

Sebastian blinked. “That her file?”

“Part of it. There’s more locked up. Why?”

Sebastian hesitated. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked, “Can I see it?”

Hale leaned back in her chair, eyeing him. She seemed to weigh the request against some internal scale, then, with a sigh, she lifted the folder from the stack.

“I suppose it only makes sense since she’s on your squad. But keep your mouth shut and don’t remove anything. Technically this is above your clearance level, Sallow.”

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll have it back after lunch.”

“See that you do,” Hale said, already returning to her paperwork.

He stepped out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him, and made his way toward the shared office space at the end of the west wing.

Inside, Sebastian dropped into his chair and set the folder on his desk. For a moment, he just stared at it. Then, slowly, he opened the file.

Canadian Ministry of Magic – Division of Magical Enforcement Operative File: Major Warden [REDACTED] Security Clearance: Tier 6, Active

A photo of you on the page stared back at him, unsmiling, your short black hair even more severe than usual, and below it, the sheet was marked with numerous stamps and official seals from magical law enforcement divisions far outside Canada.

France. Germany. Argentina. Japan. South Africa. Australia. Each bore an embossed date and clearance notation, the most recent ones only months old.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. You were rotated constantly, and from the looks of it, you hadn’t had a proper home base in over three years.

He turned the page.

Health and Wellness Protocol Blood Type: [REDACTED] Wand Hand: Ambidextrous Baseline Vitals: On file (see Medical Subfolder B) Allergies: Dragon Dander, Billywig Stings Prescriptions: Contraceptive Regimen, Iron Stabilization Potion Psych Evaluation Status: Required bi-weekly during active rotation Post-Op Debrief Compliance: Mandatory questionnaire submitted immediately after each mission

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He flipped through several of the attached forms which included countless physiological checkboxes, each page signed with your initials. He scanned a few at random.

Tactile Disassociation: No Auditory Hallucinations: No Hypothermia: No Head Laceration: Yes, Minor Menstrual Cramping: Yes

He paused at that one and blinked like he’d misread it. But no, there it was. A single checkmark inside the box. Matter-of-fact. Clinical.

Something about it made his throat go tight.

Some post-mission reports indicated mild bruising. Others flagged exhaustion or spells of dizziness. One from last winter even had “Localized Frostbite, Fingers” checked off.

He flipped further.

Pages and pages of mission reports followed, including redacted summaries, field evaluations, and threat assessments. Yes, there was brutality, death, and blood. Some of the operations listed over 30 hostile casualties, all by your hand. And yet... that wasn’t the pattern that emerged as he read.

Again and again, the same phrases appeared:

“Civilians prioritized.” “Engaged hostiles only after extraction secured.” “Refused to evacuate until final hostage accounted for.”

It wasn’t violence for the sake of violence. It was violence in service of something else—containment, extraction, survival.

There was one entry from a mission in Quebec where you’d been dispatched to track a colony of wendigos that abducted six children. The first time around, only four were recovered alive. But in your notes, the handwriting tight and slanted at the bottom of the page, you’d written: “Two still unaccounted for. Will revisit location post-recovery.”

On the very next page was the mission report of that return trip.

Op#403-C: Recon & Retrieval – Wendigo Colony, Quebec Status: Complete Deaths: 0 Injured: 1 (operative: moderate) Extracted Targets: 2 juvenile civilians (previously presumed deceased) Threat Level: Class IV Operative notes: Major Warden returned alone against recommendation and located secondary nest. Engaged three entities without backup. Operative sustained puncture wounds and hypothermia. Prioritized civilian retrieval over neutralization. Both children returned in stable condition.

There was a scrawl in the margin, likely from a commanding officer: “Above and beyond operational mandate. Exceptional.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, the folder spread open in front of him, the reports blurring slightly at the edges. You went back. No one had ordered you to. The mission was already marked complete, but you saved those kids. And all this time, he’d thought—

He shook his head. Sebastian had seen what you could do firsthand in Whitechapel: the devastation you could unleash when pressed, the way your expression didn’t change even when bodies hit the ground, and the cold, clinical detachment you seemed to wear like armor.

He’d bitched about it to Ominis. To Garreth. Hell, even to civilian friends over drinks, calling you a Ministry-controlled weapon. But your file showed a career of endurance, not apathy. A record of someone who didn’t pull back, not when it mattered. Someone who dove headfirst into fire, into frost, into hell again and again because someone needed saving and no one else would do it.

Then Sebastian glanced up at the clock.

Shit. Twelve o'clock.

Sebastian swore under his breath as he snapped the file shut. He already late for lunch at the pub.

He hesitated at the door. He was supposed to return the file. Hale had been explicit. But the idea of leaving it behind, of parting from it without finishing the last few pages…

He’d bring it back after lunch. It’s not like anyone would notice.

The Hex & Hops Tavern, Diagon Alley – London

The pub was warm compared to the wind-swept street outside. Sebastian shook off his coat just inside the door and glanced around, spotting them immediately.

Ominis and Garreth were already seated near the back, tucked into a corner booth beneath one of the frosted windows. Ominis nursed a pint while Garreth was already halfway through a basket of chips, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

As Sebastian approached, Garreth glanced up and grinned. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all,” Sebastian muttered, sliding into the seat across from them.

Ominis tilted his head slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian said, running a hand through his hair. “Got caught up at the office, that’s all.”

“Caught up?” Garreth echoed.

Sebastian reached for the menu even though he wasn’t planning on reading it. “Got my hands on an… interesting file.”

Garreth leaned forward with immediate interest, abandoning his chip mid-air. “Don’t tease. What kind of interesting? Scandalous? Embarrassing? Please tell me it’s Hale’s.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, more out of exhaustion than amusement. “Not Hale’s.”

Ominis set down his pint. “The Warden.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sebastian gave a tight nod and folded the menu shut, pushing it aside.

Garreth whistled. “You stole her personnel file?”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Sebastian said. “It was just… open. Hale let me look.”

Ominis’s voice was quiet. “And?”

Sebastian’s fingers drummed on the table. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to be telling you I read it.”

Garreth grinned. “Which means, obviously, you’re absolutely going to tell us everything.”

“I’m serious,” Sebastian warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Classified.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Garreth pointed out, waving a chip at him. “Don’t dangle a classified carrot and expect us not to bite.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “You brought it to the pub, didn’t you?”

Sebastian winced.

Garreth cackled. “Of course you did.”

“I just… wasn’t done reading it.” Sebastian muttered.

Ominis rolled his eyes. “You’ve already broken about 50 rules bringing it here, so are you going to show us or not, Sallow?”

Sebastian huffed a quiet breath through his nose and glanced around the pub, scanning for anyone who might be watching. Just locals, a few Ministry types he vaguely recognized—no one close enough to eavesdrop. Still, he lowered his voice.

“Fine,” he said, reaching into his satchel and drawing out the folder. He set it on the table and, with a subtle flick of his wand beneath the table’s edge, cast a charm to obscure the contents from any onlookers.

“There,” he slid it into the middle of the table. “Skim. Quickly.”

Garreth practically pounced, tugging the folder toward him like it might vanish if he hesitated. Ominis, for his part, simply leaned in, lifting his wand to read the contents.

“Sweet Merlin,” Garreth breathed as he flipped to the first page. “She’s been everywhere. Look at these stamps—Australia, Japan, France… how many departments has she worked under?”

Sebastian hummed. “She hasn’t had a home posting in years.”

Garreth turned another page, his eyes scanning a mission summary. “Says here she neutralized thirty-two hostiles in a single op. What the hell do they feed the Warden Corps?”

Sebastian pulled the folder back toward him. “That’s not the part that matters.”

“Oh?”

Sebastian tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “That same op? She refused to leave until every civilian was safe. Put herself between a detonation curse and a hostage. Nearly lost her arm. And that’s not a one-off. It’s a pattern.”

Garreth went quiet after that. He pulled the folder even closer and began flipping through the pages in earnest now, brow furrowed, mouth slightly parted as he skimmed report after report. Every so often he’d murmur something low—“damn” or “bloody hell”—without looking up.

Ominis, meanwhile, sat with his usual quiet poise. He didn’t react much to what he read. No dramatic exclamations or slack-jawed disbelief. Just a slow unfolding quiet, like he was putting together the final pieces of a puzzle he’d already mostly solved.

Sebastian watched them both, arms crossed.

Eventually, Garreth leaned back, closing the file slowly. He blew out a breath and scratched at the back of his head. “I mean... I knew she was intense, but this is something else.”

Sebastian nodded.

Garreth looked down again, expression uneasy. “She’s still kind of terrifying, don’t get me wrong, but—” He winced. “I feel bad now for calling her a cyborg behind her back.”

Ominis snorted softly. “Good. You should.”

Garreth gave him a flat look. “Not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Ominis said mildly, folding his hands. “I’m pointing out that maybe your instincts are worth questioning from time to time.”

Sebastian tilted his head. “You’re not surprised.”

“I’m not,” Ominis said simply. “She’s methodical, not cruel. Disciplined, not indifferent. People confuse the two all the time. Especially when they’re threatened.” He added pointedly.

Sebastian leaned back in the booth. “Look, I’m not saying she’s not capable. Obviously she is. That file makes that clear.” He paused, jaw tight. “But her detachment still bothers me. I mean I get that she’s been through hell, but it’s like there’s no—” He waved a hand vaguely. “No normal human baseline. And the Ministry dropping her into my squad without so much as a heads-up? That’s insulting.”

Garreth nodded, mouth twitching downward. “They're treating the Auror division like we’re kids who can’t handle our own assignments.”

Ominis looked between them with the kind of cool disdain that usually preceded a verbal scalpel. “That’s your ego talking, both of you.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re insulted that someone more qualified got sent in to help with the smuggler cases.”

Garreth shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly interested in the condensation on his pint glass.

“And as for her detachment?” Ominis went on. “Frankly, you should be grateful she’s not more emotional. Considering all the shit the officers put her through, I’d say she’s showing remarkable restraint.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Garreth flinched. Ominis blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “You don’t know?”

Sebastian’s expression darkened. “Know what?”

Garreth cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Sebastian. “Mate, uh… there’s been some stuff. Around the barracks. You know, stupid shit. Missing gear, cold water jinxes in the showers. I didn’t think it was serious, just some friendly… hazing.”

Sebastian turned slowly to stare at him. “Hazing?”

“It was just the usual stuff we all went through. Nobody thought it was—”

Ominis shook his head. “She’s not a recruit, Weasley. She’s a decorated operative. And you think it’s funny that the officers treat her like shit just because wasn’t born in Britain?”

“…Don’t get me wrong, alright?” Garreth said hastily. “I didn’t hex her robes or mess with her kit. I just… knew it was happening.”

Sebastian stared at him. “And you didn’t do anything about it?”

Garreth grimaced. “I thought it would blow over! She didn’t say anything, didn’t report it—hell, half the time it didn’t even seem like she noticed!”

“She noticed,” Ominis scoffed, gaze fixed on his half-finished drink.

Sebastian turned on him. “And you? You knew too?”

Ominis raised his brows like the answer should have been obvious. “Of course I did.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I considered it,” Ominis said evenly. “But if I’d so much as suggested the officers back off, you’d have taken it as a personal attack. And more than likely you wouldn’t have given a damn what they did to her, anyway.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“You already hated that she was here,” Ominis continued, calm but pointed. “You questioned her instincts, consistently undermined her in front of the others. If I’d stood up for her you’d have assumed I was taking sides, and not yours.”

Sebastian looked away. Ominis was right, and he wasn’t proud of it—how territorial he’d been, how quickly he’d judged you, how easy it had been to pretend you were nothing more than an outsider sent to babysit his team.

“I didn’t know,” Sebastian said finally, voice low. “If I had—”

“You didn’t want to know,” Ominis said. "You only care now that you've read her file and realized she’s not someone you can write off.”

The silence that followed was long. Uncomfortable. Then Sebastian stood.

“I’ve got work.”

Garreth blinked. “What? Now? You didn’t even eat!”

“Yeah,” Sebastian muttered. “Someone’s gotta fix this shit.”

Auror Division Headquarters, Training Wing – London

The dueling ring echoed faintly with the sounds of boots on concrete, scattered laughter, and the thrum of spellfire as Sebastian stepped inside. Multiple squads of officers were already assembled, stretching or chatting while they waited for training to start.

Conversations quieted the moment he stepped into view. Sebastian was never loud when he was angry. He didn’t need to be.

He stood at the center of the room, hands behind his back, gaze sweeping across the gathered faces. “Form up.”

They did.

Sebastian let the silence drag just long enough to make their skin itch, walking between the rows, circling them like a predator sizing up its prey. His boots echoed with every step. No one dared speak.

He finally stopped near the front, hands still clasped behind him.

“So nobody was going to tell me, hm?”

The officers exchanged weary glances.

“Cold water charms. Hexed boots. Sabotaged gear. I don’t know who started it, but I know damn well none of you stopped it. And before anyone tries to give me some speech about tradition or ‘toughening up the new recruit’—she’s not new. She’s not yours to break in. She’s a decorated Warden from the Canadian Ministry with more frontline time than the lot of you combined. And you treat her like shit.”

Sebastian took a step forward, voice razor-sharp. “You lot are lucky she hasn’t filed a single report. Not one complaint. Not one request for disciplinary review. Because if she had, over half this room would already be on probation.”

He took another step. “When you humiliate your own teammate, you don’t just make yourself look incompetent, you make this entire base look incompetent. And if even one more incident happens under my watch, I swear on every curse I’ve ever broken, I will personally escort your ass out of this division. Is that fucking clear?”

The silence thickened. A few officers glanced at each other. Most looked at the floor.

“Good. Now here’s what’s going to happen,” Sebastian said coolly. “You’re going to run. Full perimeter of the base, east wall to north gate and back. And you’re going to keep running until I say stop. If you collapse, you keep crawling. If you so much as whine, I’ll have you reassigned to waste disposal duty with no field clearance for six months.” He gestured sharply. “Move.”

There was a beat of hesitation, then the squad scattered, boots thudding across stone as they poured out into the yard. You moved, too, automatically. One foot forward, then the other, your posture already shifting toward a sprint.

“Not you,” Sebastian said quietly.

You stopped, mid-step, turning slowly to face him. “Sir?”

“You’re not going with them.”

“...I can run,” you said.

“I know you can,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

The silence between you stretched.

You didn’t argue again, but you didn’t agree either. You just stood there, shoulders drawn taut like a bowstring, bracing for another judgment. Another order. Another quiet humiliation masked as discipline.

Sebasrian sighed. “Look… I didn’t know what the other officers were doing, but I should’ve seen it sooner. That’s on me.”

You didn’t respond. But your eyes flicked away, and that said enough.

“I can’t undo what’s already happened,” he added. “But I can make damn sure it doesn’t keep happening.”

Still nothing, but you were looking at him again. And for the first time, Sebastian met your eyes—not in passing, not through the cold filter of suspicion or rivalry—but directly. He’d expected them to be cold, reflective of the way you moved through the world, but they weren’t.

Not even close.

There was a depth there he hadn’t prepared for. Not warm, exactly, but… honest. And striking. Beautiful, even.

Sebastian exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And… look, I’m sorry about how I acted.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing. “...Which time?”

Sebastian winced.

He’d yelled at you in front of the whole squad after Whitechapel, blamed you for disobeying him even though it saved his life. He’d grilled you harder than anyone else during drills, nitpicked your tactics, doubled your sparring rounds. And the rest of the time, he ignored you entirely.

His throat tightened. “All of them.”

Your expression didn’t change but he saw the way your jaw tightened and the way your fingers flexed slightly where they hung at your sides, like you were resisting the urge to cross your arms again. Or punch him. Which he probably deserved.

“Are you apologizing because you mean it,” you said slowly, “or is there an angle I’m missing? Some Ministry directive I haven’t been briefed on? Maybe a note that says ‘build rapport with the unstable Canadian before she snaps’?”

The bitterness in your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean like it had been sitting there for weeks, just waiting for an opening.

Sebastian knew he deserved it.

“There’s no directive,” he said quietly. “I’m not playing politics. I just... realized I was wrong about you. I… yeah, I was pissed when they assigned you to my unit,” he admitted. “Didn’t want the interference. Didn’t want someone watching my team. I thought you were there to babysit us, or spy on us. Or me. But..." Sebastian cleared his throat. “Hale let me read your file.”

“...So you read a bunch of sanitized mission summaries and decided I was worth basic human decency?"

He flinched. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?” You finally looked at him again. And god, there was steel behind your eyes. Not anger, just a sharp, measured resolve. “Then what did happen, Sallow? You needed a dossier to tell you I wasn’t the enemy?”

He didn’t have a defense. Not one that wouldn’t make him sound worse.

You shook your head, a short exhale passing through your nose. “You know, you could've just, I don't know, asked me about myself when I got here if you were so damn curious.”

Sebastian swallowed. “I—”

“You didn’t need my file to know I was qualified,” you cut in. “You just needed to pay attention.”

He winced. “I know.”

“This happens everywhere I go,” you said flatly. “A foreign name on the roster, some fancy clearance from a different Ministry, and suddenly everyone’s territorial. Suspicious. Insecure.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter, but it wasn’t forgiving, either.

“And now that you’ve read my file,” you continued, “you know this isn’t my first rodeo. You’re not the first superior who didn’t want me on their team. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. At least this time no one hexed my mattress or tried to steal my wand.”

That landed harder than you probably intended, if the twist in Sebastian’s gut was anything to go by.

“I’ve done this song and dance before,” you said. “And I’ll do it again somewhere else when they reassign me.”

Sebastian didn’t know what to say. All he could hear was Ominis’s voice echoing in his head.

For weeks, he’d tried to tell Sebastian in that patient, exasperated way of his, that you weren’t cold, you were trained. That everything Sebastian took as detachment was just discipline, and that you didn’t have a choice in any of this either.

And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You’d just been doing your job. It was him who’d made it personal.

Because ever since he was a teenager—since Solomon—Sebastian had clawed his way toward competence like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He’d fought to be better. Sharper. In control. He’d built himself up as someone who knew how to run a unit, someone whose instincts could be trusted, someone who mattered.

But then you walked in.

A decorated Warden, your rank above his own yet ordered to work under him. But in his gut, it had felt like a correction. Like someone upstairs had decided he wasn’t good enough. That the squad he built wasn’t good enough.

And maybe they weren’t.

But that wasn’t your fault.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You're completely right. And again, for what it’s worth, I’m… I’m sorry. I really am.”

You studied him for a beat longer, unreadable. Then your arms slowly uncrossed.

“Noted,” you said.

Not forgiven. Not forgotten. Just… noted.

Sebastian shifted his weight, glancing toward the window where the squad was still running in the yard, sweat-soaked, winded, regret etched into every heavy stride.

You followed his line of sight. “…How long you going to make them run for?”

Sebastian glanced at you, a huff of air escaping his nose—half a laugh, half sigh.

“Until I stop being angry.”

You tilted your head. “So… another hour?”

“At least.”

You nodded like that seemed fair.

“Also,” you continued, sounding somewhat hesitant. “I read your file too. On the plane here.”

Sebastian blinked. “You what?”

“It’s standard protocol when assigned to a new unit,” you explained. “Fields record. Mission logs. Including the one with the photo where your hair looks like you lost a fight with a wind charm.”

Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Look, that mission was in Wales. The wind practically had a vendetta.”

You didn’t smile exactly, but the corner of your mouth twitched, and he couldn’t help it—his mouth curled at the edge, too.

“Alright then,” he said, crossing his arms. “What’d you think of it then?”

Your eyes cut sideways, voice dry as bone. “Your’re clever but reckless, have poor impulse control, you’re allergic to authority, and your handwriting’s shit.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. “So you think I’m smart?”

You gave him a flat look. “I think you’re a headache.”

Sebastian grinned. He didn’t know what this was—this strange, careful warmth threading between the sarcasm—but he knew better than to push it.

“Alright,” he said, tipping his head toward the ring. “Well… you’re off the hook for the run, but don’t think I’m going easy on you during drills.”

You arched a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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yamumsyadadd · 6 months ago

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the forgotten girl (12)

originally posted on my old account, re uploading twice weekly :) I accidentally just deleted this, so here’s a re post. The next chapter will be tomorrow!

The days resumed as normal. Leah stayed for a few days, making sure I was okay. Keira was there everyday, Claudia and Patri would come for a few hours too, but the one person that I wanted to have there, stopped talking to me. After a week, I was fed up.

It was on a Tuesday, after coffee with Alba, that I truly lost it. Almost 10 days had passed and no matter how many times I rang or texted, Alexia wouldn’t answer.

“Why is your sister such a pain in my ass?” I huffed as I sat down.

“Well good morning to you gorgeous. Here’s your coffee.” She slid over a steaming cup, “what did she do this time?”

“More like what she didn’t do.”

“Okay I’ll bite. Continue.”

“I told her I loved her too, she stayed the night and then we had a moment at the beach. I thought something was going to happen, and now she won’t even talk to me. At training, in the locker room, hell even at the game she barely spoke to me or came near me. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Hold on! You love her?” Alba was shocked.

“Yes Alba. Catch up please.”

“Jesus Christ. Okay, I’m supposed to go over for dinner tonight. You will go instead.”

“That’s a horrible plan.”

“What’s the worse she’s going to do? Close the door in your face? She’s not that rude.”

Begrudgingly I agreed. The only other plan I had was to corner her in the locker room, or hide in her car. Both seemed a little excessive. All I had to do is get through the next 5 hours of training with her.

It was painful and seemed to drag on and on. My usual options for partners already partnered up with someone else. Claudia with Patri, Keira with Aitana, Lucy with Ona. I even asked the young girls who all gave me sympathetic smiles. There was one person left, the one person who has been working hard to ignore me.

Alexia and I didn’t talk. Just did the drills as told. The tension was palpable, I just wanted to scream at her, to make her talk to me. Is this how she has felt for all those years?

“What’s up with you and capi?” Claudia pulled me aside right as training finished.

“Nothing Clau.” She gave me a look to say ‘I know you’re lying’, “okay I don’t know? I told her I loved her back and things have been weird since.”

“You should talk to her.”

“Wow thanks Claudia! I never thought of that.” It came out a lot harsher than I anticipated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”

“It’s fine. Whatever you need, I got your back. Always.” With a quick hug she was gone.

By the time I was home, showered and quickly tidied up it was time to go. I had a stop to make before going to Alexias, as I hated turning up empty handed. Alba was waiting outside when I arrived.

“Stand over there so she can’t see you on the intercom. Once she buzzes in, go into the elevator, to the 16th floor. It’s apartment 1604, just knock on the door and force your way in.”

“Sounds like a horrible idea. Why did I agree to this.”

“Just do what I said and it’ll all work out.” Alba sighed. Her plan worked. Alexia buzzed her up straight away.

Alba left, leaving me to do this alone. The elevator seemed to take forever, trying to remember Albas directions but also trying not to freak out and be angry at Alexia. The elevator stopping at the 16th floor ripped me out of my thoughts.

1604.

All I had to do was knock. Not that hard. First I needed to calm myself down, slowly walking up and down the hallway taking deep breathes. Before i realised what I was doing, I had knocked.

“Amelia? What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” I pushed my way in. “Here I got you this.”

“You got me a bottle of water?” She was confused

“Yes. I couldn’t come here empty handed and you don’t drink during the season, and you don’t drink soft drink or juice or anything so water was the best option.”

She made herself comfortable on her couch, looking up at me expectantly. I was Pacing around her living room, lost in my own head.

“You’re going to put a hole in my floor Amelia.”

“Why have you been ignoring me?”

“I haven’t. I’ve been giving you the space you need.”

“No Alexia! You told me to stop running from you, you begged me to stop and I did. Is this you paying me back for running from you? For breaking your heart? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!”

“Then what! Because I told you I loved you for fuck sake. I want to try even though I don’t know how! So tell me Alexia!” Angry tears fell from my eyes, hastily wiping them away.

“Keira and Leah said I need to give you time and space. To wait for you to come to me. I was just trying to help.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me? I thought that day on the beach meant something? I tried to come to you but you wouldn’t let me! For fuck sake.” I turned away from her, deciding it was time to leave but before I could get grabbed my arm, pulling me into her.

“It did mean something - it does mean something. You’re not leaving. I made dinner for me and Alba but you’re going to sit, we are going to eat, talk, whatever. Then I will drive you home but you’re not leaving Amelia. I will not let you leave.”

Our bodies were so close, I could feel her heart beat, the warm of her skin, I could see every little freckle on her face, every single thing she would say was imperfect. Her tongue poked out of her mouth, slightly wetting her lips. Her very perfect, kissable lips.

Without overthinking it, I moved forward, my hands cupping her face, her hands holding my waist. We both leaned in it at the same time. Our lips meeting and fitting like a puzzle piece. It was messy, hot and desperate. She pulled me in closer, trying to get more. We both pulled away from a lack of oxygen.

“Not the talk I had in mind.” Her forehead resting on mine, a light chuckle came out of my lips. We stayed like that for a moment, afraid of what would happen when we pulled away. It was disrupted by the sound of my stomach.

“Come. Sit. I made paella.” Alexia ushered me to the dining table. The paella was good, not as good as Eli’s but still good. One of Alexias secret talents was that she could cook, and she’s was good at it. Not many people got to see that side of her, or really any side of her. After we had finished, I took the plates and started to clean, it was the least I could do.

“Mil, stop. Please. I can deal with them later.”

“It’s fine ale. Just let me do this for you, please.” She didn’t argue after that, just grabbed a tea towel and started drying then packing away the clean dishes. It only took 10 minutes with the both us of until the kitchen was spotless, which would easy some of Alexia’s stress.

She led me to the lounge room, making me sit on the couch, while she sat on the coffee table, her large hands wrapped around mine.

“Let’s talk, yes?” She was anxious, but firm. Wanting to get this over and done with.

“I love you. Really really love you Ale. And I have for as long as I have known you, but it never worked out. When-when I met Emily, she was different to you. She didn’t care what people thought about her, she was free. It felt like a breath of fresh air, and I’m not saying that you need to change or anything because I don’t want that. I just want you to understand.”

“Sí, continúa.” I could practically hear her brain working in over drive.

“When you and Jenni broke up, Jenni texted me. Telling me that she should’ve ended things with you a long time ago because it was clear you were in love with me and not her. Then you told me you loved me in a romantic way. I freaked out. I drove to fucking Manchester, I basically broke into Keira and Lucy’s house, walking in on them having sex. That was horrific.” I took a deep breath.

“I thought that I could love Emily as much as I loved you, I had already started falling in love with her, and I knew she loved me. When she proposed I said yes. I wish I didn’t but I did. Then we got married and I didn’t want to invite you. Had you told me not to marry her, I wouldn’t have. I would’ve left with you. Emily realised this. She wrote a letter, the day before she died. She was leaving me because I love you. I had been feeling so shitty about marrying her, making her love me with her whole heart when I couldn’t love her with my whole heart.” Tears started rolling down my face, Ale giving my hand a squeeze.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“When I got home, she was already hurt. Tied to the chair in front of the TV. I remember the feeling of them grabbing me, the blood running down my face. I remember the screams she let out when they cut my clothes off me or when they, they entered me. She wouldn’t stop screaming and trying to get someone to help so they killed her. But someone heard because I remember hearing sirens after they sliced my back. Then they were gone and she was just sitting there, blood all over her and I couldn’t move. I remember everything, everything that was said at the house, the way some of the police officers vomited outside, the way the ambulance smelt and how fast it went. I remember Keira and Leah screaming outside the hospital room, or Jill holding my hand and talking to me.

I thought that I would be okay. I was focused on my rehab, the thought of returning to the pitch, to be better, play better for her. Then the funeral happened and the trial. Your mums softness is what broke me. The way she would constantly call me every morning when she was having her coffee, knowing I’d just woken up and was getting ready to go to rehab, or the way she’d find a way to send me paella every Sunday. I don’t know if she told you but I visited her a lot. She made me feel like I was getting better, that things would get better. Then when I saw you at the champions league game, I remembered how much I loved you. How soft but tough your hands were, how fiercely protective you were, everything. And I thought I could try with you.”

I needed to stop. To compose myself and let it sink in. I could tell Alexia needed a moment too. Her thumb never stopped rubbing over the back of my hand, it was comforting, she was comforting.

“When we had sex, I wanted to be in control of it and you let me. I didn’t know it would cause me to break but it did. I wasn’t ready for it. Watching you lay there, asleep, cuddled up into me broke my heart because I realised I couldn’t give you more. You deserved more. So I left. The plan was to just go for a few weeks and then come back and talk to you. But those few weeks turned into months, then into years. I would search you on instagram and it seemed like you were doing great without me, so I didn’t come back. I watched your games. All of them. I watched you lose the champions league, watched you win it, watched Spain lose the euros, then win the World Cup. I wanted to reach out when you did your ACL but I couldn’t. You deserved peace during that time. Then I saw you and the girls, and you were dating Olga, who is lovely by the way. She was very sweet. I wasn’t planning on coming back. I was content with the way I was living. Then I saw the open training and decided to come for a bit, not really sure why, but I did. After that I craved to be back on the pitch. To play. Not necessarily for Barcelona or Chelsea. I would’ve been happy to play in a friendly league honestly, but Eloise rang me and told me Jona wanted me to come, even just to train so I did. Everything was suddenly feeling better, but I wanted more. I wanted you. I couldn’t have you though so I was going to settle to just be an outsider, atleast then I could see you, and see what was happening in your life without invading it. But then-“

“Olga and I broke up and I told you I loved you?” She was staring straight at me. Pure admiration all over her face, no pity or anger, just love.

“Yeah. And here we are. I, uh, I haven’t told anyone all that. The finer details. It would’ve destroyed Keira and Leah. Lucy would’ve lost her shit.”

“Thank you for telling me Mil.” She stood up, pulling me into a hug. The tightest hug she could, as if she was trying to put all the pieces back together.

“If you want to try this, us, we can. We will go as slow as you want, there is no pressure. It’ll be on your timeline, and I will understand if you need to stop but you need to tell me okay.”

She cupped my face with her hands, “no more running away from me. Or anyone.”

“I promise Ale.” I smiled at her, she was willing to take her time, she was in it for the long haul.

“Let me take you home?”

“No it’s okay, I drove here. I’ll see you at training?”

“Wait! Do you want to get coffee before? No pressure?” The shy Alexia was coming out, not wanting to push her luck.

“Alexia Putellas, are you asking me on a date?”

“No? Yes? Whatever you want it to be.”

“If it’s a date, then yes. I would love to get coffee with you tomorrow.”

She released a breath, “it’s a date then.”

After a final hug goodbye, a promise to text her when I got home, I was out the door. A weird feeling settled inside of me. Grateful to be able to share what I did, but also anxious. Anxious about starting this with her, about her knowing what happened, even if it’s not in the greatest detail. The next step was to tell Leah, then keira. Keira had to be last because it would break her, maybe Lucy could be there too.

#woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #fcb femení #alexia x reader #woso community #mapi león #barca femeni #keira walsh x lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #keira walsh x reader #alexia putellas x jenni hermoso #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine

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joelalorian · 6 months ago

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Under False Pretenses - Chapter 1

Stepdad!Dave York x f!reader | wc: 1700 | masterlist

Summary: A challenging mission, whirlwind marriage, and unexpected yet captivating stepdaughter push Dave York to the brink as secrets, feelings, and loyalties collide.

Warnings: Overall rating will be Explicit, 18+ mdni. Stepdad trope. Unspecified age gap but I imagine a lil' baby one of about 5 to 8 years. This chapter is a wee lil mellow one and sets the scene, but future ones will include soft, yet sexy and intense Dave; several twists - basically, it will have it all: action, angst, deception, fluff, humor, a puppy(!), and SMUT! No use of y/n. Dave will give reader a nickname based on his perception of her.

AN: I got too excited and decided to post the first chapter. Posting schedule will be somewhere are weekly, give or take a few days. Hope you enjoy and let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

Chapter 1:

“Sure, honey. You can come stay for a while,” your mom assured you. She sounded excited even though it wasn’t a call you wanted to make, not at this point in your life, but what other options did you have? “You can see the house and meet your new stepdad!”

Dead air.

The soft glow of you bedside lamp cast long shadows on the room, making the clutter of half-packed boxes look like ominous towers. Your knuckles whitened as you gripped the phone tighter, trying to process her words.

“My new WHAT?” your voice rose toward the end in utter confusion. You didn’t even know your mom was dating anyone, let alone someone serious enough to fucking marry!

“Oh, honey, his name is Dave and you’re just gonna love him,” she replied with a lovesick simper.

You’d never heard her voice do that. She must be really into the guy.

Enough to marry him without even inviting you to the god damn wedding?

She’s still chatting away, explaining how they met – at work – and how it was such a whirlwind romance that they got carried away on a work trip to Vegas and decided to just tie the knot without telling anyone.

Okay. That, actually, didn’t surprise you. Your mom was super smart but could be a total a flake sometimes, leaving you to wonder who the adult was on more than one occasion while growing up. She had you really young and never quite matured.

“That’s great, Mom. I can’t wait to meet him,” you finally replied after twenty minutes of listening to her gush over this Dave guy. “But I’m not calling him Dad.”

She laughed. “Of course not, honey. He’s too young to really be your dad anyway.”

That piqued your interest.

“Oh, oh, oh, you robbin’ the cradle, mama?” you teased. “You’re really living your cougar era, huh?”

“Stop it, you,” she giggled in return. “So, when do you think you’ll get here?”

Conversation went back and forth a little longer as your mom gave you the new address – for fuck’s sake, they moved clear across the state from where you grew up, to a very swanky area at the shore, you noted – and you made a rough itinerary. In reality, you would have loved to just drop everything and get the fuck out of dodge right that minute, but logistics and all that.

“Ok, honey. Be careful and I’ll see you next week. Call if you need anything.” Before she ended the call, your mom added, “I’ll text you Dave’s number as well, so you have it in case of emergencies.

“Sounds good, mama. Love you.”

“Love you more, honey.”

You went back to packing up the remnants of your life, readying yourself for the cross-country journey ahead.

You did not have ‘moving back home at almost 30’ on your bingo card this year, but there you were, pulling into the half-moon driveway of a large colonial home in an upscale neighborhood, one much nicer than where your mom used to live. The house loomed under the late morning sun, its pristine white siding and black shutters stark against the cloudless blue sky. Perfectly trimmed hedges flanked the curved driveway, and somewhere nearby, the faint crash of waves carried on the salty breeze. This Dave guy had a lot of money, it appeared. Parking your little sedan to the far side in front of the 3-car garage, you turned the car off and lingered in the driver’s seat, fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

Normally, you didn’t mind change, but… man, the past month threw some whammies at you. You lost a boyfriend, job, and your loyal goldfish in quick succession. Each loss hit worse than the last. And now, your safe space, the place you needed to return to so you could lick your wounds… also changed. Big time.

The soft tap of a manicured nail on the window startled you, head snapping to the side to see your mom standing in the driveway beaming at you. She bounced on her feet, anxiously waiting for you to get out of the car.

“Honey! It’s so good to see you!” You barely had time to fully stand up before she pulled you into a bone crushing hug. That was another thing about your mom – she was strong. She had lithe muscles packed into her small figure from being a total gym addict.

Too bad that addiction wasn’t hereditary. You hated the gym.

“Hi mama! Marriage looks good on you!” you praised her once you stepped back and took in her glowing, sun-kissed skin, vibrant blonde locks, and the large rock on her hand.

“You look good, too, honey. You losing weight?”

And of course, she honed right in on that. You weren’t even in front of her for five minutes, and she brought up your weight. Story of your life. Your body shape the exact opposite of your, mother’s, she hadn’t let up on nagging you about your weight since you were twelve years old. You were always a bit… thick in places.

“Uh, maybe, I dunno. Come on, show me your new digs.” You quickly changed the subject.

Your mom gives you the grand tour, proudly showing off all the lovely features of the house, focusing heavily on the ones the home you grew up in didn’t have like the huge kitchen, fireplace, pool, and enormous master suite, though she led you away before you could fully explore all that the suite offered. The two other bedrooms were already decorated for little girls, and you quirked a curious eyebrow at your mom.

“Didn’t I mention that Dave has two young daughters?”

No. No, she definitely did not mention that. You rolled your eyes, understanding now why your mom was so eager for you to come home. She wanted a built-in caretaker. You mentally counted down, knowing exactly what she was about to say in three, two, one…

“Actually, now that you’ll be living here, it would be great if you could look after the girls when we have to travel for work or want to go out, help with the school runs during the week.”

It wasn’t a question, you noted. Not that you expected her to ask first or even mention that being a nanny would be part of the deal. Nothing with your mom ever came without a cost. You learned that lesson long ago.

You loved your mom, you really did. Sometimes, she just didn’t make it easy to do so.

“Right. About that… where am I supposed to be staying if all the bedrooms are taken?”

She led you down the stairs to a door off the family room, where another stairway awaited you. “You’re locking me away in the basement?” you joked. “Please tell me it’s at least finished.”

“Just wait until you see it, honey,” your mom promised, and you reluctantly followed her down the steps.

When the lights flicked on, the sight took your breath away. It was like an entire apartment down there. It even had its own private entrance leading to the garage allowing you to come and go as you pleased. “Wow,” you breathed.

“Told ya.” She flashed you a twitchy wink. “You’ll have this whole space to yourself… well, except for that room over there.” She pointed to a closed door equipped with a sturdy lock.

“What’s in there?” you questioned, already curious about the reasoning for such a lock on the door.

“That’s Dave’s office. It’s off limits to everyone but him, so don’t go snooping. Got it?” She pointed a finger at you like you were an errant child, and you raised your hands in surrender.

“Heard you loud and clear, mama. I have no interest in whatever creepy ass skeletons Dave is keeping in his locked office.” Total lie, of course, but your mom didn’t need to know that.

“Good. Get settled in and help yourself to whatever you need. I must head to the office for a bit. Dave should be home at some point, he just had a meeting in town. I’ll pick up the girls from school on my way home if you want to take care of dinner.”

And there it was. You knew there’d be a bigger price to pay for this arrangement, more than occasionally taking care of your new stepsisters. Without a job or any other responsibilities, your mom was going to treat you like free labor. You saw that coming.

You followed your mom upstairs and through the front door as she headed to her car in the garage, and you went for yours. Might as well get unpacked, not like you brought much anyway. It was early still, and you could make a trip to the store for anything you needed before having to worry about dinner.

A few hours later, you stepped back to admire your new living space with a sense of pride. You did everything you could to make it your own, within reason.

With the basement suite basically being a blank slate, you chose a variety of decorative pillows, wall hangings, and chotchkes to give it your own stylistic flair. The furnishings unused and rather plain, you wanted to spice them up with splashes of color. You did everything short of paint the damn walls – and you would have done that too if given the option.

Grateful for a firm mattress with a plush pillowtop, you sprang for the softest satiny sheets you could find in a pale green hue and paired it with a patterned comforter with clean lines. A couple of coastal-themed lamps on the nightstands rounded out the small bedroom.

The bathroom was already decorated with a shower curtain and accessories in soft gray hues, and you wondered if that was Dave’s touch or your mother’s. Probably Dave. Your mom never veered toward subtle furnishings, much preferring patterns and styles that you found garish.

Glancing around at the neat space one last time, you headed upstairs to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations. You wanted to make something special for the first time meeting your stepdad and his daughters.

tbc

Chapter Two

tag list: @imdrinkingpedro @lillaydee @ppascalrain @yorksgirl @missladym1981 @baronessvonglitter @slimybeth69

#stepdad!dave york x f!reader #dave york equalizer 2 #soft yet intense dave #dave york fluff #dave york angst #dave york smut #pedrostories

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