#and gifts her his umbrella when she leaves | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

venomvalley · 2 years ago

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RIPE FOR THE PICKING (I)

pairing: ID!leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: Faking a marriage is easy—so you thought. But your life-or-death mission leaves the door wide open for feelings to fester. Feelings that you really do not have time for.

words: 7.2k

warnings: strong mentions of domestic violence, shady business practices, predatory Umbrella execs, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, partners to fake spouses to friends to lovers (soon)

notes: this has been a long time in the making, based on a smut week request that got a lot bigger than i ever could’ve imagined. i know nothing about government agencies but this is resident evil so who cares right (pls dont yell at me)!!

>> PART TWO

It feels wrong. Being with him like this.

Your ring finger’s been branded by the weight of cold metal—a gift from your supervisors for a long-term mission abroad. Just you and him, two rabbits trapped within a woodland wolf camp: the inner circle of Umbrella’s most elite. Hundreds of apex predators with their keen noses and hair-trigger reflexes and you cannot fuck this up. One wrong move means an unveiling means swift death.

Leon isn’t your husband. The marriage papers are forged, and the engraving inside of both rings (forever yours) means as much as his hollow affections. Barely even friends before this. Just two people with opposing skill sets and long-term bioterrorism expertise—a match made in USSTRATCOM heaven.

“Trouble in paradise?” asks the woman to your right. Elegant in her older age, bejeweled from hair to feet—she favors emeralds and silk fabrics, supplemented by her husband’s high-paying salary. A family you seek to infiltrate. One of many.

She’s made it very easy. Umbrella’s welcome party, apparently. Kind enough to invite you over for wine while Leon sets plans in motion back at home base.

“What makes you say that, ma’am?”

She scoffs, finishes the last of her drink, closes her book, removes her glasses. Leans over the armrest of a thick-cushioned chair to where you sit beside her. “You’ve fiddled with your ring this entire conversation, which means something’s on your mind. Most likely something husband-shaped.”

Every Umbrella higher-up possesses the same preternatural wit. Sometimes, you fear breathing wrong lest the members discover your ruse, and that perception only sharpens with age—couldn’t last long with the company otherwise.

This time, however, you’re one step ahead.

You breathe out a sigh and regard her with a pinched brow. “Can I ask you something? In confidence?”

She refills her glass halfway with deep red wine and takes a sip, smudging same-colored lipstick along the rim. “Of course, my dear.”

“How do you know if someone’s… cheating on you?”

Her lips purse, gaze casting to the floor. “You just know. But it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“As spouses, we support our husbands in all their endeavors. No matter how much it hurts us.” At your widened eyes, she smiles. A broken thing, thin, resigned. “Think about it for a moment. With the resources at their disposal, what do you think they would do if we tried to leave?”

Not exactly the information you were seeking. Painful all the same. A perspective you hadn’t considered.

“That’s horrible.”

She rests a wrinkled hand over yours, thumbs at the metal of your ring. “You’re still young, which is why I’m telling you this. It’s not worth it. Let him do what he wants, and when the time comes, you swallow your pain.”

You carry her advice back to your false home where Leon awaits, files strewn across the dining room table, mid-conversation with a burner-phone Hunnigan.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps. Says, “We got word from the informant. I’m heading to the facility tomorrow.”

You take a seat at the table as Hunnigan greets you over the speaker, and you return with your own pleasantries. “So they got you a badge?”

He nods. Pulls out the chair to sit beside you. “How’d your visit with Mary go?”

“I still can’t get over how big their fucking house is.”

Hunnigan cuts in, voice rough from the static. “Did you find anything of note?”

“No. I mean, I know she likes to read in her library, she enjoys red wine, she—wait. Actually.” You turn to Leon with a solemn frown. “There’s trouble in paradise.”

His gaze sharpens, and the line of his back straightens. “What do you mean?”

“Well—okay. I might’ve told her that I think you’re cheating on me.” As his mouth opens, you raise a hand to give him pause. “I thought it would be a good way to cover our asses and get some dirt on them.”

What better excuse for aloofness than adultery?

“Did you?” Hunnigan asks.

“A lot more than I expected. From what I gather, the elite get up to a lot of… morally questionable shit in regards to the treatment of their spouses.”

“That’s kind of a given, Nightingale.”

He still hasn’t referred to you by your real name. Either by alias or code, despite the latter’s arguable lengthiness. And it shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. A silly thing to find hurt feelings over, but it sours your mood. Leaves you bristling.

“But to hear it from an actual victim. I saw the look in her eyes, Leon.”

He leans in close, drops his voice to a low grumble. “These people aren’t victims. Don’t let them get in your head. We have a mission to focus on.”

Through your nose you exhale a tired sigh and look away to follow the woodgrain of the oak-stained table. He’s wrong. Didn’t hear what you heard, see what you saw. “You seem to forget that my specialty is subterfuge. Reading people, blending in, manipulation. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I remember perfectly fine, actually. You seem to forget what Umbrella’s capable of.” You meet his glare, stubborn and unyielding, then lean back in your chair.

Raccoon City stains deep, leaves him wary and standoffish. You’ve read his file. Little more than two dozen pages of redacted writing, but word of mouth spreads. A man like him doesn’t just fall under the radar, and government officials love to talk. To you, especially.

After a long moment, he brushes the hair from his eyes and turns back to the messy spread of papers. “We just need to be careful, okay?”

“You need to stay focused. Both of you.” Hunnigan, bemused by your arguing. “Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.”

—

Your first real party as newlyweds. The ballroom is brightly lit, spanning half a football field of sparkling chandeliers and velvet settees and champagne glasses filled with diamonds. Neither of you belong here, but you walk through the doors hand-in-hand, and you wave to those who recognize you, and attempting to navigate public affection through the lens of realism proves difficult.

This was a sore idea, in hindsight. Choosing an era commonly characterized by the most intense love and affection and happiness of the entire relationship. You should have spun a different story. A better one. But Umbrella didn’t seem an arranged-marriage type. From your research, most of their scientists got married around this age anyway.

Maybe you try too hard to fit in, and maybe that’s obvious. The wolves love fresh meat, and you and Leon are fresh out the cradle. It puts you at a disadvantage, leaves you as vulnerable as a fresh wound.

“I’ve noticed that you and your husband aren’t quite as… in love as newlyweds usually are.”

Carina Voerman: an absolute snake of a woman. The wife of an exec. Nosy to an impressive degree. An unconventional beauty, a stand-out. Every facet of her personality perfectly engineered for subterfuge.

What you wouldn’t give to pick her brain.

“The move has been… stressful, to say the least.”

“Let me guess.” She joins you against the wall, glossy lips pursing, and gazes off to where Leon mingles with his new work friends. “He’s staying out late, won’t tell you where he’s been. He keeps his phone a little too close.” When you say nothing, she turns to give you a wincing smile. Soothes a palm down your arm. “I thought my last husband was cheating? Come to find out, he was looking to use me in his experiments.”

You swallow down your surprise alongside the bitter taste of white wine, and your tongue almost sours in response. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She brushes a dark curl away from her forehead and it falls immediately back into place. “I’ve heard much worse stories than my own. You’ll get used to it.”

A few weeks ago, you would have doubted that, but you’ve heard stories as well. Each more horrific than the last.

“But I digress,” she continues, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Do you smoke?”

Rarely, but when in Rome…. “Of course I do. Cigarettes are my very own brand of Vicodin.”

She laughs into the back of her hand, and the bejeweled bracelets on her wrist jingle. “I’ve never heard such a thing, but I think I’ll steal that.”

“They said it a lot where we used to live.”

She lights up her cigarette and exhales from the corner of her mouth. “You moved from the States, right?”

From your peripheral, Leon approaches. Gives you a stilted smile and pauses a moment before you outstretch a hand. Embrace me, dumbass.

The exchange is painfully awkward, slow-moving, and Carina clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re supposed to pretend at these events, my dears.”

Leon’s fingers tighten about your waist, and your heart soars up into your throat, each beat pulsing and painful. Her eyes narrow to a piercing scrutiny, and Leon turns to kiss you soft on the cheek. She could mean two different things, and only one of them would bring you relief.

She hums. “Aren’t you just the cutest couple?” Stamps out the lingering burn of her cigarette’s filter in the ashtray sat on the high table. “I suggest you keep each other close. The wolves around here tend to prowl.”

You aren’t sure if it’s a threat or a warning—maybe both. But you know not to underestimate her. Anybody, for that matter.

She leaves with a wave of manicured fingers, and Leon slumps against the wall at your back. Says, “Well. We might be fucked.”

“To be fair, you could’ve at least acted like you enjoy my presence.”

“I didn’t wanna overstep.”

You turn to glare at him. “We are married. I implore you to remember that.”

“Then as your husband,” he takes the half-smoked cigarette from between your fingers and smothers it inside the ashtray, “it breaks my heart to see you smoking.”

“It’s social.”

“It also kills people.”

With a starry smile, you lean your head on his shoulder. “Wow. So you do care.”

“I kinda have to.”

With a roll of your eyes, you push him away. “Oh, fuck you.”

—

It seems like a great idea. Fantastic, really. Your intimacy appears staged. Your safety, along with your chance of success, is up in the air. Not to mention, he’s a pretty man and you’re undeniably caged by touch-starvation.

Be honest with yourself: it’s the only idea.

You work on kisses first. Practice loving pecks. His lips pillow soft against your own, over and over and over again until you relax into the motion and instinct takes over—the caress of an arm here, the cradle of a neck there. It isn’t weird. It should be, but you tell yourselves that the mission takes priority. Nothing matters above this: swearing fealty to your roles.

You practice daily. When you leave for book clubs and gossip circles and brunch. (Yes, you’re eating brunch now.) When he leaves for the facility and late night bar-hopping and some top-secret locations he can’t even divulge to you.

It becomes easy. Second-thought.

Mary hosts a wine-tasting and invites most of the spouses from the facility. It’s extravagant as always, the furniture cleaned to the point of glittering, the dining room stocked with a feast of military-sized portions. Everyone gathers inside one of two seating rooms, chatting and laughing and sharing gossip with razor-sharp glances.

But you miss Leon. He always accompanies you to the large events, and you’ve found a certain comfort in his presence. Umbrella’s social dynamics ensure that he holds power in conversation, that you’re little more than set dressing. Being here, nothing but a little lamb on stumbling legs utterly ripe for the picking, leaves you appreciating the buffer of his standing a lot more.

“Oh, you look so pitiful standing in the corner like this.” Mary embraces you with a comforting smile, then hands you a tall glass of pale pink wine. “My husband just received this new shipment from Italy and it’s absolutely wonderful. I think you’ll like it.”

She’s become somewhat of a friend over the last few months. Treats you kindly, offers advice, shares with you her books and recipes and jewelry.

Missions like this require a certain amount of vulnerability to keep masks authentic, but trust is a slippery slope and you’re sure to break a few bones lest you fortify a few on-guard spikes.

Regardless, you think you’ll miss her when this is over.

You’ll surely miss the wine that you sip from your glass. A note of sweet strawberry that lingers bitter on the back of your tongue. Whether from the nerves or your actual enjoyment, you could drink the whole bottle.

“This is amazing. Sweet wines are very under-appreciated.”

A look of pride gleams on her face, and she nods to your glass. “I can send you home with a bottle, if you’d like.”

“That would be lovely.”

She nods her head over to the center of the room, where the other spouses mingle. “Why don’t you join us?”

Everyone greets you with their usual pleasantries. A woman a few years your junior compliments your outfit. Another offers you a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“So,” begins the woman to your right, “I’ve noticed a change between you and your husband at our last few parties.” Spoken hushed, like the truest form of gossip. “I could almost call you love birds.”

The smile that graces your face is genuine this time. Easy. “Yes. We had a bit of a rough patch, but we’ve worked things out.”

A few people coo in response, others gush amongst themselves. How sad, in a way, to find a smile so enviable. But the shift in attitude was easy. Just a few kisses and suspicions are destroyed. You aren’t sure whether it speaks to your experience or their own romantic yearning.

Then comes the hard part. Sharing a bed. Leon proves horrible as a bed partner. He steals the covers, rolls onto you, possesses a mean snore. But the most egregious sin is one he can’t control at all, that chills you down to your marrow, that breaks your heart into each individual atom: nightmares. They plague him frequently, and you wake to him calling unfamiliar names, to rogue elbows sore-ing up your face, to his childlike clinging.

Most everybody working in this field has nightmares, but his. His are different. Personal.

On very rare occasions, he whispers about them inside the pitch-black limbo of your shared bedroom. The split-second blink of his mother’s hair, the tick of his father’s watch. He can’t remember what they look like, not anymore, but slivers of memory cut through the empty longing.

It’s the first time you truly see him. Leon. Less star-striking agent and more man, wet clay shaped around a shell of suffering.

His transparency gives you permission to sink between the fresh gaps in his guard and dare to know him. It isn’t about the mission anymore. You come from a place of sincerity.

Maybe it’s the loneliness. He’s the only ally you’ll have for the foreseeable future. Why not learn about him? Become friends?But everything is… weird. Friends do not kiss each other. They don’t cuddle before bed. They aren’t faking a relationship.

The first time you both say I love you on instinct, you’re settled in for the night. The lights shut off, sheets cozy, his body warm against yours.

It just comes out. Good night, Leon. Love you.

He laughs, a puff of breath against your nape, and you wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. Your eyes squint shut. Your face buzzes to numbness. Until,

Night, Birdie. Love you, too.

You have the best sleep in weeks, and you wonder what the fuck that means.

—

Leon calls you early on a Tuesday morning. Says he forgot his lunch, that you need to bring it by the facility.

You aren’t sure how Hunnigan pulled the strings, but he works alongside the businessmen in charge of hiding Umbrella’s dealings. Access to secret files, special projects, names upon names names upon names of suspects.

Your target is here, somewhere in this building. Selling off Umbrella’s most dangerous viruses to the highest bidder, and catching him means busting the whole operation wide open. Linking who knows how many corporations and billionaires to shady dealings. Finding him amongst the sea of guilty faces will be difficult.

The facility is stark-white walls and fluorescent lights and open-plan rooms but you’ve never felt more claustrophobic. People mill about on their lunch break, bright red and green and blue badges hung about their necks. A headache starts behind your eyes just as you check in at the front desk.

Once your identity has been confirmed, the pretty receptionist hands you a bright yellow badge with heavy black font that spells out VISITOR, then leads you through a maze of hallways, past office doors and lounges and holy shit how big is this place?

Finally, she pauses before an inconspicuous door with a plastered-on smile. “Remember that guests are only allotted ten minutes in employee-only spaces as per our safety policy.”

“I won’t need more than five.”

With a narrow-eyed smile, she knocks thrice then opens the door. Steps aside to allow you entry.

Leon looks up from his computer before standing to embrace you with a relieved groan. Gives you a lengthy kiss before relieving you of his lunch bag. “You are amazing. I’ve been starving all day.”

“These walls are thin, if that’s of any concern to you,” says the receptionist, before she turns to leave with raised brows and a click of the door.

You blink. “Wait, is she—do people fuck inside their offices or something?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

The room falls silent in her wake as Leon sits down at his desk, and you can’t help but think of how natural he looks like this: surrounded by monetary excess in the form of mahogany furniture, dressed in a silk button down and spit-shined shoes and the finest watch available. But it’s also odd. This isn’t him, and you know it. He looks more like himself when he’s a little disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from fighting, dressed in a tactical vest and belts and guns galore.

“Did you get my favorite?” he asks, unzipping the bag.

“Plus dessert,” you say, moving to hover over his shoulder.

Beneath the actual food, slid beneath a cut-out slice of fabric, he pulls out a set of items. A USB drive, an SD card, and a slip of paper with the email of Hunnigan’s contact written upon it.

“That’s what you wanted, right?”

“It’s perfect. Looks good, too.”

The code speak may be a bit too much, but you put nothing past Umbrella. Eyes and ears could be anywhere. These walls are thin.

“I’ll see you at home, then? Wouldn’t want the receptionist to come looking for me.”

He exhales a laugh before glancing up at you. “I may be a little late tonight, but I’ll text you.”

“Don’t forget like the last three times. You know I worry.” That they’ve figured out our secret and you lay dead in a gutter somewhere.

“I won’t. Promise.”

As you step out of his office, an odd mourning hits you much like an ice-cold wave. Always that fear—the last meeting, the last goodbye, the last fake I love you. You don’t think it’s too outlandish to say that you care about what happens to him. You wring your hands every time you imagine his potential fate.

“Excuse me.”

You blink to attention at the voice, and a man you recognize from your files approaches you, suit perfectly ironed, hands stuffed into his pockets. Leon’s boss, for all intents and purposes.

“Hello,” you say, glancing over his shoulder to where the double doors open up to reception. So close to freedom. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to properly introduce myself. Carl Voerman.” You accept the hand that he offers to shake. “You and your husband have been here, what, three months?”

“Four this Saturday.”

His smile makes your skin crawl. All teeth, plastic in its falsity. Sharpened canines. Every bit the wolf Carina—his wife—warned you of. “You’ve been the talk of this facility.”

“Oh, I’m sure. My husband does fantastic work.”

“That he does.” He takes a step forward, and your thighs tense to keep you in place. Much like a skittish deer. “But I’m more interested in you. Maybe we can discuss your contributions to this company over dinner.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. The last thing you wish is to be alone with this man. But he’s in your files. Could have information you need.

‘Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.’

Goddamn it, Hunnigan.

“I’d have to ask my husband, but—“

“Why? It’s just dinner.” When you give him little more than a blink, he lowers his head with a deep sigh then meets your gaze again. “The culture here is different than what you’re used to. I forget that sometimes. But my wife will be there as well, if that eases your worries.”

Soon, you’ll walk straight into the wolf’s den, and you can do nothing. The worst part? He truly thinks you believe a word he says. But you know types like him—he won’t take no for an answer, and you need no more suspicion on your behalf.

“In that case, I accept.”

“Fantastic. Friday then. I’ll have a car fetch you around seven.”

Leon doesn’t come home until eight. A fact that Carl must know. Not that it matters. You’ve already sealed your fate.

After arriving home, you beeline to the office where your files sit inside a false bottom of the desk drawer. Carl Voerman. One of many suspects. A seedy individual with a very undocumented past—a possible identity change somewhere during early adulthood. The earliest information you can find of him is when he started working for Umbrella around twenty years ago as a temp, then quickly worked his way up the corporate ladder. And now, he leads an entire department.

A few HR complaints that led nowhere, business dealings with unnamed companies. He sounds like your guy, but most every higher-up shares a similar story.

So you need a plan to get him talking. Need him vulnerable.

You research late into the night, long after Leon comes home. Hunnigan helps from her place on speaker phone, finding connections with other members of the company, helping you fill in the blanks of Carl’s timeline.

Neither of them know what you’re planning, that you even spoke to him earlier, and you hope to keep it that way.

Leon does his part in all this. He needs no more danger breathing down his neck, weighing on his shoulders. It’s time you do yours.

—

Friday evening rolls around, and Carl shows up not a minute late. He greets you at the front door with his usual smile, says you look lovely, then escorts you to the car where the driver awaits. Carina sits on the opposite row of seats, legs crossed at the knee, a half-smoked cigarette in hand. The burning tobacco bursts an ominous blister in the dark as her husband’s warmth seeps into the line of your side.

Carl turns to you, expression marble-esque. “We’ll be having dinner at my home tonight. I hope you like salmon.”

You won’t be eating anything if you can help it. No telling what he’ll do to your plate. “I love it.”

“Fantastic. My chef is one-of-a-kind. The best of the best.” He turns to his wife, and from the bleary street lights, you see her force a thin smile. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Of course.”

You arrive to a home of extravagance. Mansion-like in size, pearly stone on the exterior, a curved set of concrete steps leading up to the towering double doors. You’ve never felt so bottom-feeder in all your life, living in a one-bedroom apartment back home.

And you thought Mary’s home was large. How ignorant of you.

Once inside, Carina leads you to the sitting room. Her red-bottom heels snap against the marble flooring, and the black dress she wears accents the curve of her hips. Her jewelry reflects the golden accents scattered about the place, like the glorious chandelier and the statues and the photo frames.

Carina Voerman looks way too good for a man like him.

You take a seat on one end of the couch, and she occupies the one across from you. When Carl returns with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, he chooses the cushion beside yours.

“You don’t have to sit so far away. I won’t bite,” he says.

If you scoot any closer, you’ll be pressed up against him.

From the corner of your eye, Carina downs her drink. Still, she never looks at you. Instead, she reaches for the champagne again, eyeing her husband’s empty glass.

This was a goddamn mistake. Your chest fights pangs of anxiety, and your heart threatens to break open your ribcage. You knew where this could lead, and the knife holstered at your hip provides comfort, familiarity.

But you’ve been here, done this before. Threatened your own safety for the sake of a mission. Still, it never gets easier.

“I’m not sure my husband would appreciate me cuddling up to his boss.”

He laughs, a loud, bassy sound that sends your skin crawling. “I can see why he likes you. Everyone else is quite boring, wouldn’t you say?”

“I quite like boring.”

“And I don’t believe that.”

He moves in closer, spreads out a knee so it collides with yours then takes a long drink from his glass. Across the clawfoot coffee table, Carina exhales a cough.

What a horrible man, to do such a thing before his very own wife. To flirt so extensively with another man’s spouse. But you aren’t surprised. If anything, awed by his brazenness. As if you would ever entertain the thought.

“I do have a question, however.” Carl throws an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress shirt. “How would you like it if I gave your husband a well-deserved promotion?”

Carina then stands and leaves to the other room, almost on some unspoken cue. You remember the dinner he supposedly arranged. Hasn’t mentioned it since. This—bringing you here, the isolation, the attempted seduction—was his plan all along.

Your mouth stretches wide into a boxy smile. “I would be ecstatic.”

“Unfortunately, these things come at a cost, you see. I have to put in a mighty good word to my peers, which I’m not sure he’s earned yet.”

He moves in closer, until you’re hip-to-hip, then leans forward with a wide grin. Every bit a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“I thought you said he did good work.”

His grin falters, glaciers forming in the blue of his eyes. “No, you said that.”

“And you agreed. Did you not?”

Tension swells in the room, and you soothe the sudden stiffen of his body with a hand upon his knee. Squeeze just enough that the line of his shoulders calm.

“That I did. But I require a bit more persuasion.”

“I’m not sure I can give you that.”

Amidst the lengthened silence, your phone rings inside your pocket. A perfect out. A gift from the universe itself. Leon guised under a different name—a heady balm for the pain in your chest.

“I’m sorry. I need to take this.”

You measure out your steps to keep from rushing into the hallway, but your hands tremor as they answer the call. You press your back to the wall, Carl just out of sight on the couch.

Stay calm. It’s fine.

“Hey, honey.” You lower your voice, barely above a whisper.

“Hey. Everything okay? You didn’t answer the house phone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m with some friends right now, so…”

He stays silent for a moment before the sound of fabric muffles against the speaker. “I thought we agreed to let each other know when we went out.”

“No, we did. I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. Later.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I can’t—“ Carina rounds the corner barefoot, tight curls freed from her updo. Takes guard against the opposite wall and stares your way. “I’m sorry you’re sick. Do you need me to come home?”

“What?”

“I know you always feel better when I make my special soup.”

You lock eyes with her, pinned in place by her raised brows, and all you can do is keep talking.

She knows. You know she knows. She knows and Carl is in the next room and you need a plan to get the fuck out. You’ve been in situations much worse than this, can lie with the best of them, but something about the Voermans—their ooze of power, control, wickedness—renders you novice-level in skill.

“Okay, uh. Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“Good. You can tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

You hang up, and her shadow falls upon you. A whisper of, “Follow me,” into your ear before she turns away.

You remove your shoes to heed her order, feet a light pitter against the floor, and she leads you further down the darkening hallway.

“He looks to punish me for my misbehavior,” she whispers, eyes lidded and bloodshot. “If you would like a promotion for your husband, I suggest you take him up on his offer.”

“I would never.”

“Oh, don’t act virtuous on my account.” She pauses to lean in close, perfume cloying and thick. “You think you’re the first?”

Feigning surprise, your eyes widen. “No, I don’t.”

“At least you’ve done better than them.” You see it, then. Hurt, raw and visceral, tucked between the wrinkles of her brow. “They jumped at his little opportunity. Every single one of them.“

Maybe this is why she confides. Sees some shred of loyalty within you, needs some way out to prevent drowning from her own desperation.

“Listen,” you say. “I love my husband, and I would rather lose everything than betray him like this.”

She tilts her head back. Stares down the line of her nose for a long few moments, jaw working beneath the skin. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually believe you.”

You aren’t sure where you stand with her. She shares her suspicions—rightfully so—but still, she’s never acted untoward or disrespectful. Not like the others you’ve met. Blunt, but never rude. Shit, she even gave you advice.

“I have a question,” you say as she leads you into an office. Locks the door after you enter. “When you talked about prowling wolves, who were you referring to?”

She heads for the desk then takes a seat in the thick-cushioned chair. “Many people, dear.” She nods you over. “I slipped something into Carl’s drink, so get what you need while he’s asleep. But make it quick.”

“What?”

Her fingertips clack against the keyboard before the home screen sunburns to life.

“To protect my own safety, I can tell you nothing, and tonight never happened. Do you understand?” She rolls away from the desk to allow you room to take her place.

Oh. You get it now.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You search through his web browser, emails, personal files. A few emails from upper management, more business related. B.O.W. incrimination, salary cuts for bottom-rung employees, buyer information. Most of it makes little sense to you, heavily coded as it reads.

But one name sticks out. Nolan Reed. The lead virologist linked to a secret project that Carl helps fund, who pops up in files dating back three years ago—around the time USSTRATCOM had been tipped off to Umbrella’s dealings.

Okay. You have a name. Another lead. Maybe you could track this Nolan to the head of the project.

With a heavy sigh, you shut off the computer then turn to Carina. “How did you know?”

“You’re good at what you do, make no mistake. But I’m the best.” She gives you a smile, almost prideful if you squint hard enough. “As it speaks to your talents, I wasn’t entirely sure until your phone call.”

You exhale a sheepish laugh. “I panicked. Your husband’s quite scary.”

Her face falls, darkness shadowing her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

You escape the Voermans alive. Carl snores on the couch. Carina wishes you well.

She never tells you why she helped.

Leon does a poor job at hiding his anger. A cloying tension festers throughout the house as you enter, as he rises from the couch with a huffing sigh.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You pass by him in a rush, and he grabs on to your arm. Spins you half-around, enough to catch the ghost in your eyes. “Leon, please. I don’t have time for this.”

One thing about him—he knows when to back off, leave shit for later. And he must see those ghosts swimming around, fresh as a bullet wound. Bitter as a blow to the ego. That’s why he lets you pass.

The office is a mess by the time you’ve finished pulling out files. Separating the names you recognize from the names you don’t. Leon hovers in the doorway, ice clinking against the inside of his glass. You’re guessing whiskey, but can’t chance the time-waste of looking back.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, and you almost snap. At him, in two. For all the government’s resources, all the preparation and the research—not one goddamn mention of Nolan Reed in almost a hundred files.

Maybe it’s the stress of the day. Maybe you’re worn down, threading a lost-cause needle. But biting back your anger takes every ounce of empty-tank energy left inside you.

“Nolan Reed. That name ring a bell?” You rest your head in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk.

“Who?” he asks. Steps into the room, footsteps muffled by his socks.

You look over at him, a palm clasped over your mouth, and note his lack of outfit change. Still in his suit from work, jacket undone, tie loosened. And you think.

Either an alias, or Carina Voerman played you. The latter catalyzes your downfall.

Shit. You might’ve fucked up the whole operation.

“I went to see the Voermans for dinner tonight. Had a… very lovely time.”

His shoulders tense, fingers white-knuckling his glass. “What?” You nod. It’s all you can do. “You—” His eyes close, lips drawn into his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna put you in any more danger.”

“That’s bullshit.” His glass slams to the table, and you expect a shatter than never comes. “I knew the risks when I agreed to this. So did you. And we made a deal to HQ—to each other—that we would never act alone.”

His disappointment cuts quick, and it cuts deep. Festers and wells, and fuck. You really don’t wanna cry. Not in front of him. Unprofessionalism to the highest degree. But you suppose you already crossed that bridge and burnt it to ash.

“I know. I fucked up. You don’t have to tell me.”

He spins your desk chair around, plants his hands on each arm, and stares at you. Asks, “How long have we been here?”

“Four months tomorrow.”

“And you still don’t trust me.”

“Listen, Carl approached me. Right outside your door. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how that would’ve looked? You don’t say no to these people, Leon.”

You wish he would understand. He hasn’t heard what you’ve heard, seen what you saw. You are nothing but fodder, disposable, breakable, a means to an end, a prize. You are nothing.

“Carina told me her last husband tried to experiment on her. Mary told me that if you’re cheating, I should mind my fucking business. Lucia’s husband beats her for fun—”

“You’re in too deep with these people.”

He might as well have slapped you across the face. Given your shock, maybe he did. “I can’t fucking believe you. What happened to saving innocent people, hm? You suddenly forget about that?”

Raccoon City cuts deep.

“You seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”

He sleeps on the couch for the next week, of his own volition. Can barely look at you from across the dinner table, when you see him off for work, when you ready for bed—as if you give a shit.

You don’t need him.

You don’t.

Too busy anxiously dreading a phone call, a knock on the door, an interception of life-ending proportions.

Four months, two weeks, three days in: your mistake comes back to break your skull wide open.

—

Okay, so it doesn’t. But a blow to the head sure feels like it, and the blood seeping into the collar of your shirt doesn’t help.

“Sorry about that,” says the woman, swimming soupy behind the opaque sheathe of your blindfold. “We didn’t expect you to put up such a fight.”

“Good. How’s your boy’s windpipe?”

“Severed. Where did the spouse of a businessman learn experience with knives?”

You exhale a humorless laugh, working numbed wrists beneath their bindings. “I dabble.”

“Oh, I know.” A chair scrapes, and your head follows the motion, until gooseflesh prickles along your forearms. She sits close. Close enough that you smell her expensive perfume. “I guess I should cut the act, huh? We know you’re USSTRATCOM.”

“And I know that if you wanted to kill me, I would’ve been dead in that parking lot.”

“You’re right. That’s not why we’re here.” Someone steps up behind you, fiddles with the knot holding your blindfold in place. Then, inky darkness. Plying shadows dance across the basement. “I’m here on behalf of Carina Voerman. You know her, right?”

Your poor vision fails to adjust, instead a gentle sway that incites nausea. “I guess you could say that.”

“She has a proposition for you. Let’s say it’s a good-faith agreement between like-minded individuals.”

“Like-minded?”

“Two talented spies after a similar goal.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.” Bathed in shadow, she leans in close, and you note the curve of her features. Hooded eyes, full lips, an aquiline nose. Little to go off of, but you’ll take anything at this point. “Nightingale, we can help each other.”

She’s done her homework. Unsurprising, given Carina’s efficiency. Her intelligence.

But you still don’t trust her. Any of these people.

“So what’s in it for me?”

“You want Nolan Reed, yes? Carina can get you to someone even higher on the totem pole. All you need is to dig up some dirt on Carl, be a little birdie in the government’s ear—”

“The U.S. doesn’t have that kind of jurisdiction over here.”

“Not yet. But Umbrella’s claws dig deep, do they not? He gets extradited to the U.S., that’s one more player out of the game.”

“He’s a small fish in one very big pond.”

The woman grins, laughs under her breath. “A win is a win is a win. Think of the long-term.”

“Carl Voerman isn’t our target.”

“But a bioterrorist is still a bioterrorist, right?”

You’re worn down. Exhausted. Sore as all hell. Really miss your bed.

Fuck your pride, you miss Leon.

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk to my contacts, see if I can’t get something worked out. Widen our field of view.”

“That’s all we ask. You do that, Carina will pay you back tenfold.”

The car dumps you a few blocks from home. Shoeless and battered, you hope Leon still holds his anger close. Can’t imagine his reaction otherwise.

Unfortunately, you experience a string of misfortune. He’s on you as soon as you unlock the front door then step inside. Asks where the fuck you’ve been, drags you over to the kitchen table to play doctor.

Worry. Worry tenses up his shoulders, furrows his brow, leaves him tender and malleable.

“I should probably apologize,” he says, discarding another square of bloodied gauze.

“I mean, I kinda deserved it.”

He treads carefully around your blunt-force wound, crusted with dried blood. The wet cloth burns regardless, despite his cautious touch. “Maybe. Some of it.”

“You are a very shitty apologizer.”

“Cut me some slack. I’m not exactly used to this.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He smiles at you and the world rights itself. Your headache ceases. You forget about the last few days so easily it almost makes you sick.

“What’s that saying? You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”

You don’t expect him to kiss you, and if anyone asks, you absolutely do not pull him closer. Definitely don’t curl a fist in his hair. Definitely don’t sigh in relief.

No. God, no. You’re playing pretend. Faking a relationship built upon foundational love.

This means nothing.

It means nothing.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #my fics #series: ripe for the picking #i am. so nervous oh my god #im out of touch. have not written an actual fic with deep plot in do so long #what if ppl hate it oh NO #BITING MY NAILS ANXIOUSLY

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inkspiredwriting · 28 days ago

Text

Broke the rules

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the sprawling grounds of the Umbrella Academy. Thirteen-year-old Five Hargreeves crept silently through the shadows, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Tonight was another night he would see Y/n, the girl who had captured his heart.

It had all started a few months ago during a rescue mission. Five and his siblings had been dispatched to save a group of hostages from a dangerous situation. Among them was Y/n, a brave and resourceful girl who had caught Five's eye immediately. Despite the chaos and danger, there had been an instant connection between them.

After the mission, Five couldn't get Y/n out of his mind. He had to see her again. So, he began to smuggle her into the Academy every evening. They would spend hours together, talking and laughing, sharing their hopes and dreams. It was the one bright spot in Five's otherwise regimented and controlled life.

Tonight was no different. Five made his way to the hidden entrance he had discovered weeks ago, his mind filled with anticipation. As he approached, he saw Y/n waiting for him, her eyes lighting up when she spotted him.

"Five!" she whispered excitedly, throwing her arms around him.

"Y/n," he replied, hugging her tightly. "I missed you."

They sneaked into the Academy, careful to avoid the surveillance cameras and the ever-watchful eyes of Sir Reginald Hargreeves. They made their way to Five's room, where they could finally relax and be themselves.

"I brought you something," Y/n said, pulling a small, wrapped package from her bag. "It's a book I thought you'd like."

Five's eyes widened with delight as he unwrapped the gift. "Thank you, Y/n. This means a lot to me."

They spent the evening reading and talking, the hours slipping away unnoticed. But unbeknownst to them, Sir Reginald had grown suspicious of Five's nightly disappearances. He had been monitoring the house closely, and tonight, he decided to investigate.

As Five and Y/n laughed softly over a shared joke, the door to Five's room suddenly burst open. Sir Reginald stood in the doorway, his expression stern and disapproving.

"Number Five," he said coldly, his gaze shifting to Y/n. "Who is this, and what is she doing in my house?"

Five jumped to his feet, his heart racing. "Sir, I can explain—"

"There's no need for explanations," Sir Reginald interrupted, his tone icy. "You have broken the rules, Number Five. You know the consequences."

Y/n looked between Five and Sir Reginald, fear and confusion in her eyes. "Five, what's happening?"

Five took Y/n's hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "It's going to be okay, Y/n. I'll handle this."

But Sir Reginald was not in a forgiving mood. "You will never invite anyone to this house again, Number Five. Do you understand? This is not a place for outsiders."

"But she—"

"Do you understand?" Sir Reginald repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Five's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes, Sir."

Y/n's eyes filled with tears as she realized what this meant. "Five, I—"

"I'm sorry, Y/n," Five said, his voice choked with emotion. "I wish things were different."

Sir Reginald stepped aside, allowing Y/n to leave. She gave Five one last, longing look before she turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

Five stood in the doorway, watching her go, his heart breaking. He knew he had to obey Sir Reginald's orders, but that didn't make it any easier. As the door closed, he felt a sense of loss he had never experienced before.

From that night on, Five was never the same. He buried himself in his training, determined to become stronger, to protect those he cared about until the day he finally had enough. The memory of Y/n lingered, a reminder of the young love he had found and lost, and the cost of living under Sir Reginald Hargreeves' iron rule.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot #five hargreeves

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magic-shop-stories · 3 months ago

Note

I just found your blog and I love the way you set up your headcanons!!

Could I request your take on soulmate aus for all the boys? Like, what kind of soulmate system would each of them have, how would they meet their fated person? Does it go smoothly, or is it a bumpy ride?

💌 Reply:

Ahhh, thank you so much for the love and this adorable request! 💜 I’ was so thrilled to dive into BTS Soulmate AUs and i really hope it's what you imagined and that it is to your liking 💜 ... Have fun - C -

NAMJOON

Intellectual Slow Burn

HOW YOU MEET

tiny indie bookstore in Mapo-gu

shelves crammed with philosophy and poetry

Namjoon frequents it weekly

always in the same corner - floor cushion #3

green tea cooling beside him

you’re the part-time clerk who restocks the “Existentialism” section every Thursday

you both annotate books with sticky notes

leaving thoughts for strangers

one day, you pick up Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra

you find his note: “Is the Übermensch just a coping mechanism for capitalism? (asking for a friend) – RM”

your reply: “No, but your sticky notes are. – Y/N”

DETAILS

His Notes

philosophical musings in tiny

precise handwriting, dotted with coffee stains

he underlines quotes about self-love and the universe’s indifference

Your Notes

sarcastic quips in purple gel pen

doodles of crying clouds next to Camus passages

The Book That Changes Everything

a battered copy of The Little Prince

he writes: “Do you think the rose ever apologized for being high maintenance?”

you respond: “The fox did all the emotional labor. Discuss.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

booshop

8 PM

rain taps the windows

he’s clutching The Myth of Sisyphus like a lifeline

What He Says

“So. You’re the one who called Kant a ‘coward in a wig.’” (Rubs his neck, glasses fogging.)

“I... I brought banana milk. As a… peace offering? For the capitalism thing.”

His Thoughts

“She’s prettier than her handwriting. Way prettier. Abort mission... wait, is that a Demian reference on her tote bag?”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

leaves longer notes with his phone number scribbled in Morse code

you decode it while he pretends to browse

Phase 2

“accidentally” drops his favorite fountain pen near your counter

note inside:

“Dinner? I’ll let you rant about Heidegger.”

Phase 3

you hesitate

he blurts:

“I’m not good at this. But I’m really good at… listening. And losing umbrellas. Mainly listening.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Week 1-4

notes escalate to essay-length debates in the margins of Rilke poetry

Week 5

first “date” at a 24-hour diner

he brings a 3-page bullet-point list

titled “Reasons I Might Be Annoying (Please Critique)”

Week 8

takes you to Seoul Forest

kneels to fix your shoelace

muttering:

“I think… I’m yours. If you’ll have me. And my overthinking.”

DETAILS pt. 2

Glasses Move

adjusts them three times when nervous

you count them during his confession

Banana Milk

always keeps a carton in his bag

“in case of existential emergencies"

Secret Playlist

makes you a lo-fi mix titled “Margin Notes”

samples of bookstore ambient noise

track 7: “Pause for Highlighters.”

Bookmark Gift

carves you a wooden bookmark with “NamKimdiary” on the back (his old Tumblr username)

KEY DIALOGUE

After Your First Kiss

“I’ve written a thousand metaphors about love. None of them… this.”

When You Fight

“I’d rather lose every debate than lose you. Even if you’re wrong about Sartre.”

Proposal (Years Later)

slips a note into your shared copy of The Little Prince:

“Tame me?”

JIN

Culinary Chaos to Comfort

HOW YOU MEET

a Michelin-starred restaurant in Gangnam

Jin is the elusive "Chef Kim"

known for emotional tasting menus

you’re a food critic

anonymously reviewing his dishes

every course he creates makes you feel his hidden emotions

loneliness in a bitter chocolate soufflé

joy in honey-drizzled tteokbokki

you taste the true emotion behind his dishes

he receives anonymous letters about his food = your critiques

they inexplicably quote his inner thoughts

DETAILS

His Dishes

Jjajangmyeon that tastes like nostalgia

= his childhood memories of cooking with his mom

Bingsu that bursts with loneliness

= his early trainee days

Your Reviews

“The sea urchin risotto screamed, ‘I miss my brothers.’ Hire a therapist, Chef.”

“The kimchi stew is perfection, but why does it taste like you’re afraid of being forgotten?”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

his restaurant’s kitchen

2 AM

corners you after you sneak in to confront him

What He Says

“You. You’re the one who called my soufflé ‘a cry for help in dessert form.’”

arms crossed, apron splattered with gochujang

“Do you have any idea how many chefs cried because of your ‘constructive feedback’?”

pauses, then smirks

“…It was kinda hot.”

His Thoughts

“She’s got a resting critic face, but her eyes… they see me. Wait... did she just steal a dumpling?

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

leaves a mystery dish at your doorstep daily

each meal paired with a dad joke: “Why did the tomato blush? Because it saw the salad dressing… and also you.”

Phase 2

invites you to a “private tasting”

just him cooking army stew in sweatpants

“No Michelin rules. Just… us.”

Phase 3

call him out for hiding behind jokes

he admits:

“I’m scared you’ll taste the mess I really am.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Month 1

exchange angry sticky notes on his fridge

he doodles himself as a crying onion

Month 2

crashes your live mukbang stream

shouting:

“That’s my japchae! And my future wife!”

trends for a week

Month 3

cooks you a five-course meal where every dish tastes like unconditional love

no words

just a ring hidden in a bubble tea pearl

DETAILS pt.2

Dad Joke Diary:

keeps a notebook of jokes to make you laugh

#1: Why don’t eggs tell jokes? They’d crack up… like you do at 3 AM.

Secret Ingredient

adds a pinch of sugar to every savory dish he makes you

“To match your smile.”

Mukbang Cameos

sneaks into your streams wearing a Gucci apron

shouting “EAT THIS, NOT THAT!”

feeding you strawberries

Birthday Surprise

recreates an "I Purple You” live setup in your kitchen

“This time, it’s our color.”

KEY DIALOGUE

During a Fight

“You think I’m just ‘Worldwide Handsome’? I’m terrified you’ll realize I’m just… Jin.”

First “I Love You”

“I don’t need a Michelin star. I just need you to taste this.”

feeds you a strawberry that bursts with devotion

Proposal

“Marry me. I’ll annoy you with dad jokes for eternity… and make sure you never eat alone again.”

YOONGI

Silent Understanding & Creative Synchronicity

HOW YOU MEET

late-night music production studio in Hongdae

Yoongi works under the pseudonym "Agust D"

you’re a lyricist for indie artists

known only by your pen name "Shadow"

your words and his beats have been paired anonymously by a streaming algorithm

= creating viral hits

you’ve never met

your lyrics and his instrumentals align too perfectly

every time he uploads a track labeled “Unfinished”

you fill in the gaps with verses that mirror his unspoken emotions

fans call it “fate’s playlist”

DETAILS

His Tracks

haunting piano melodies with gaps in the rhythm

as if waiting for words

song titled “Interlude: Ghost”

muffled voice memo:

“Someone out there… knows.”

Your Lyrics

raw, introspective verses about isolation and quiet hope

they trend every time he drops a beat

bridge for his track “The Last”

reads:

“I built these walls, but you’re the echo in the hall.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

24-hour coffee shop near his studio

he recognizes your voice from a podcast where you dissected his “Daechwita” instrumental

What He Says

“You’re Shadow.”

no greeting, just a tired smirk

slides you a USB drive

labeled “Track 08 – Fix It.”

“The last line you wrote… ‘the static in my veins.’ Why?”

stirs his black coffee

avoiding eye contact

His Thoughts

“She’s younger than I imagined. But her eyes... they’ve seen the same nights as me. Damn, she’s good.”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

leaves cryptic notes in the metadata of his tracks

“Meet me at 3 AM. – D”

show up at the studio with a thermos of honey citron tea

Phase 2

collaborates with you anonymously

a song called “Burn It pt.2”

changes the final chorus to “Stay.”

Phase 3

after a year of demos, he sends a track titled “First Love”

no melody

just his voice:

“I’m bad at this. But… let’s try.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Year 1

anonymous collabs

notices you quote his live rants in your lyrics

Year 2

confront him after recognizing his piano riff from an old Bangtan Bomb

“You’re Agust D. Why hide?”

Year 3

he produces a fully instrumental track for your poetry book

liner notes read:

“Your words were my first language.”

DETAILS pt.2

Studio Ritual

leaves the window open when he wants you to visit

playing “Seesaw” on loop

Secret Track

hidden file on his SoundCloud named “Glossary_Of_Us”

has snippets of your voice

Lyric Easter Egg

quotes your first-ever verse in his SUGA mixtape sequel:

“The static’s gone. Now it’s just us.”

Coffee Cup Codes

draws tiny piano keys on your takeout cups

he’s too shy to say “I miss you.”

KEY DIALOGUE

When You Confront Him

“I don’t believe in soulmates. But you… you’re a glitch I can’t fix.”

First Duet Session

“Your voice isn’t perfect. Good. Neither am I.”

Proposal

samples your laugh into a song titled “Forever Interlude.”

credits list: “Feat. My Forever First LOVE.”

J-HOPE

Collaborative Growth & Digital to Real-Life Connection

HOW YOU MEET

on a global dance challenge app called SyncSteps

users upload videos and are algorithmically paired with "rhythm partners."

Hobi joins anonymously under the handle SunshineDance

you’re a shy dance enthusiast

using the app to overcome stage fright

posting under ShadowSteps

the app’s AI matches you based on complementary styles

your fluid, expressive movements sync perfectly with his sharp, energetic choreography

your collaborations go viral

you don’t know each other’s identities

DETAILS

His Videos

crisp, powerful routines tagged with motivational captions:

“You’re one step closer to shining!”

a freestyle titled “Midnight Groove”

= he leaves a frame empty

urging you to fill it:

“Your turn, Shadow.”

Your Videos

intimate, emotion-driven dances in dimly lit rooms

your first upload caption:

“For the girl in the mirror who’s still learning.”

a response to Midnight Groove where you dance in a sunlit studio,

caption: “Found the light.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

app’s chat feature

he messages after your first collab goes viral

What He Says

“Your flow is 🔥! But why hide your face? The world needs to see you.”

adds a sunflower emoji

“I’ll teach you a confidence combo. Step 1: Pretend the mirror is your best friend. Step 2: Steal their swag.”

His Thoughts

“She’s got raw talent, but she’s holding back. Let’s change that… gently.”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

creates personalized warm-ups for you

tagging you in posts:

“@ShadowSteps – this one’s for your left side hesitation.”

Phase 2

sends voice notes with pep talks

disguised as "dance tips":

“Remember, mistakes are just freestyle opportunities!”

Phase 3

after months of collaboration, he slips his number into a private video description:

“Text me. Let’s choreograph IRL.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Month 1-6

viral collabs

late-night app chats

he nicknames you “Shadow Warrior.”

Month 7 - 8

you join a live workshop he hosts

masked, like your videos

he recognizes your signature wrist flick mid-session

Month 9

invites you to co-choreograph a piece for his dance crew

at rehearsal, he pulls off his cap:

“Surprise. It’s your Sunshine.”

DETAILS pt.2

Playlist Clues

his practice mixes include BTS’s “Butter” remixes

track #7 is always “Chicken Noodle Soup”

= your first collab choreo song

Signature Move

adds a tiny hop to routines when he’s happy

you mimic it in your videos

Secret Code

uses yellow post-it notes during IRL performances

“YOU GOT THIS”

= the same phrase from his app comments

Meme King

sends you edits of your dances with dancing carrot GIFs

captioned: “When you finally nail the combo.”

KEY DIALOGUE

When You Reveal Your Face

“I knew you’d be beautiful. But damn, you’re a supernova.”

During a Setback

“We don’t ‘fail.’ We freestyle. Now grab my hand and trust the beat.”

Confession

“I fell for you in 8-counts. But I’ll love you in infinite ones.”

JIMIN

Emotional Mirrors, Artistic Synchronicity

HOW YOU MEET

global photography platform called Frame & Soul

users submit photos

paired algorithmically with "emotional complements."

Jimin posts under JM_Eyes

you’re a introspective travel photographer

posting as Silhouette_Shots

app pairs your photos based on unspoken emotions

his shot of a rainy Seoul alley at 3 AM syncs with your sunrise over a deserted beach

both tagged “loneliness and hope.”

your galleries become a silent dialogue

DETAILS

His Photos

moody, intimate shots:

half-empty wine glass backstage

his shadow stretching across a rehearsal floor

crumpled lyric sheets.

self-portrait of his reflection in a broken mirror captioned:

“Pieces of me I can’t name.”

Your Photos

stark, vivid contrasts:

a lone flower in a cracked sidewalk

storm clouds parting over a cityscape

a response to his mirror photo:

“Even broken glass reflects light.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where:

Frame & Soul exhibition in Busa

your paired photos are displayed side-by-side

recognizes your style instantly

What He Says

“You’re Silhouette_Shots.”

voice soft

eyes tracing your photo

“How did you… see that?”

“Your picture of the ocean... it felt like my choreography. Heavy, but… free.”

His Thoughts

“She’s quieter than I imagined. But her hands, they’ve held cameras and courage. God, she’s beautiful.”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

leaves cryptic comments on your photos:

“Your shadows have better rhythm than me.”

attaches a video of him dancing to your sunset photo’s timestamp

Phase 2

sends you a disposable camera with a note:

“Capture something I’ve never seen. I’ll do the same.”

return it with a shot of dandelions surviving concrete

sends back a photo of his bare feet on a studio floor

matching your caption:

“Roots in unexpected places.”

Phase 3

invites you to a silent photo walk through Seoul

communicates only through his camera lens

guiding you to his favorite hidden spots

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Month 1-3

viral photo pairs

late-night app DMs dissecting light and shadow

Month 4

sneaks you into his dance studio

choreographing a piece inspired by your storm cloud series

“You’re my muse. But I’m… scared to be yours.”

Month 6

you collaborate on a photo book titled “Unspoken.”

final page is his shot of two coffee cups with steam forming a heart

your caption: “Developed.”

DETAILS pt.2

Polaroid Habit

leaves Polaroids in your bag

doodled arrows pointing to his favorite parts of your face

Dance Codes

humming “Serendipity” when he’s nervous

then denying it

“It’s… a vocal exercise.”

Exhibition Easter Egg

hides a tiny JM logo in the corner of his photos

matching your SS watermark

Secret Project

films a dance video

his movements trace the shapes of your photographs

credits list: “Choreography by Us.”

KEY DIALOGUE

When You Doubt Your Art

“You think your photos are just ‘pretty’? They’re alive. Like you.”

First Kiss

“I’ve danced for millions. But this… this is the first time I’ve felt the audience.”

Confession

“I used to chase perfection. Now I just chase your light.”

TAEHYUNG

Tangible Connections & Nostalgic Serendipity

HOW YOU MEET

a cozy vintage shop in Daegu named Timeless Treasures

known for its eclectic mix of retro cameras, vinyl records, and handwritten letters tucked inside secondhand books

Taehyung frequents the shop

leaving behind curated items with cryptic notes

you’re a freelance writer

you discover his first note inside a 1970s film camera:

“Capture the moments everyone else forgets. – V”

you both leave meaningful objects for each other in the shop

accompanied by handwritten stories or questions

the shop owner, a wise elderly woman, acts as a silent guardian

she's placing your items in a dedicated corner

labeled: “Soul Exchange.”

DETAILS

His Items

a saxophone pin with a note:

“For the jazz in your soul. Play it loud.”

pressed maple leaf from his childhood home:

“Autumn remembers what summer forgets.”

Gucci scarf (fake) with:

“Even fakes can feel real if you believe.”

Your Responses

a typewriter key (the letter “V”) and a poem:

“Words fail, but keys don’t lie.”

mismatched teacup with a story about your grandmother:

“Broken things brew the best stories.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

shop’s dusty record aisle

catches you inspecting his latest gift

= a vinyl of “Fly Me to the Moon”

a note: “Dance like no one’s watching… but me.”

What He Says

“You’re the one who took my camera.”

grins, holding up your poem

“Your words taste like hobakjuk; sweet, but… lonely.”

“Why a typewriter key? I’ve been staring at it for weeks.”

tilts his head, curiosity sparking

His Thoughts

“She writes like she’s lived a thousand lives. And her smile... god, it’s brighter than my flashbulbs.”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

leaves a blank journal titled “Our Untold Stories”

a challenge: “Fill this. I’ll do the rest.”

you respond with a tale about a boy who speaks in riddles

Phase 2

gifts you a polaroid camera and a map of Daegu with circled locations:

“Show me your city.”

your photos of abandoned theaters and sunlit alleys become his muse

Phase 3

sends a vinyl record with a hidden track

his hummed rendition of “Winter Bear”

label reads: “For the girl who hears my silence.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Month 1-5:

exchanging objects and stories

nicknames you “Time Traveler” in his notes

Month 6

you find a script titled “The Boy in the Beret”

a play about a man who falls for a stranger’s words

final page: “Auditions: Tomorrow. 7 PM. Bring the teacup.”

Month 7

the shop’s annual “Nostalgia Night”

he wears the saxophone pin you gifted him

you arrive with his Gucci scarf

owner smiles: “Took you two long enough.”

DETAILS pt.2

Beret Code

wears a red beret on days he plans to leave you something

nod to his fashion

Secret Stash

hides cocoa in the shop’s fridge for you

labeled “For the Writer’s Block.”

Vinyl Clue

his “Winter Bear” vinyl has a scratched groove that plays “I purple you” when spun backward

ARMY Nod

leaves a BT21 Tata keychain with a note:

“Found this alien. Think it’s yours.”

KEY DIALOGUE

When You Confront Him

“You think this is a game? I’ve been writing us into existence since day one.”

First Date

takes you to a silent film screening

whispers: “Dialogue is overrated. Just feel it.”

Confession

“I collect vintage souls. But you… you’re timeless.”

JUNGKOOK

Competitive Synergy, Digital to Real-Life Bond

HOW YOU MEET

online multiplayer game called Arena Legends

players worldwide compete in team-based strategy battles

Jungkook, a top-ranked player, goes by the alias GoldenJK

you’re a rising star known as Valkyrie

notorious for your unorthodox tactics

the game’s algorithm pairs you as rivals in ranked matches

your playstyles clash yet complement perfectly

aggression meets precision

game’s AI assigns you as Nemesis Partners

= rare status where rivals share exclusive challenges

each victory unlocks a personalized clue about the other player

Jungkook’s clues hint at his art

“A rabbit doodle in the killfeed”

yours tease your love for indie music

“A lyric snippet in the chat log”

DETAILS

His Gaming Traits

Aggressive yet strategic

dominates matches with bold moves

always protects teammates

leaves golden bunny emojis in the chat after wins

Your Gaming Traits

creative sabotage

use map glitches and unexpected combos

posts montages titled “How to Outsmart a Golden Bunny.”

secretly drop song lyrics as taunts:

“You’re my favorite mistake.”

FIRST CONVERSATION

Where

Nemesis Partner chat room

unlocked after your 10th match

What He Says

“ValkyrieV. Your playstyle… it’s like watching abstract art. Chaotic. Beautiful.”

sends a bunny emoji

“Why the lyric spam? You a BTS fan or just trying to distract me?”

winks via emoji

His Thoughts

“She’s ruthless. But when she revives teammates? Soft. I need to know her IRL.”

HOW HE APPROACHES

Phase 1

creates a custom map titled “Rabbit Hole”

hidden ARMY references

final clue: “Find me where the sky is purple.”

= his favorite Seoul rooftop

Phase 2

sends you a mystery USB drive containing a game mod.

transforms his avatar into a golden knight

guarding a pixel-art version of your hometown

Phase 3

challenges you to an IRL match at a PC bang

shows up wearing a bunny hoodie

controller in hand: “No avatars. Just us.”

HOW YOU GET TOGETHER

Timeline

Week 1-4

toxic rivalry turns into respectful banter

screenshares his art mid-match

you play “Euphoria” over voice chat

Month 2

you team up for a charity tournament

his avatar sacrifices itself to save yours

“Why’d you do that?!”

“Couldn’t let my nemesis die.”

Month 3

invites you to his studio

you find a painting of your ValkyrieV avatar

caption: “My Greatest Opponent. My Only Equal.”

DETAILS pt.2

Gamer Tag Easter Egg

username GoldenJK rearranges to “Jungkook Loves ARMY.” later

IRL Clues

wears a BT21 Cooky keychain during streams

you gift him a golden bunny sticker for his laptop

Secret Mod

codes a private server

your avatars dance to “Still With You” under pixelated stars

Post-Win Ritual

sends you banana milk deliveries with notes:

“For the victor. Next time, though…”

KEY DIALOGUE

During a Match

“You fight like you’ve got everything to lose. Why?”

“Because I hate losing to rabbits.”

First IRL Meet

“You’re… shorter than your avatar.”

“And you’re exactly as cocky as yours.”

Confession

“I used to play to win. Now I play to hear you laugh.”

79 notes · View notes

aquarelliwrites · 1 year ago

Text

All Caught Up

SHIP: Max Verstappen x driver!Reader PROMPT: “I got you three gifts for Christmas. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day or your birthday-” “We weren’t even dating then!” CONTENT WARNINGS: slight alcohol consumption in the last scene, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n

3.1k

You sigh, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. Another one, and it locks. The keys get tossed unceremoniously into the decorative tray right next to the entrance, and your shoes get toed off soon after that.

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day, huh? A transcontinental flight from Nice to Luton of all places, then waiting around for nearly an hour for your luggage to find itself on the revolving conveyor belt in front of you. Then, as if the universe itself had it out for you, the thin metal frame holding your umbrella together twists out of shape under the onslaught of wind - leaving you fuming in the cold rain for 45 minutes before your Uber arrives. The guy is apologetic, of course, and the traffic isn’t his fault, so you try your best to smile and reassure him it’s alright. Following that, you spend the half-hour drive to Milton Keynes attempting to warm up even slightly in your soaked coat.

Really, that whole monologue was a long way of saying the pre-RB20-launch meeting was cold, rainy and miserable in many ways. There were a couple of positive sides to it, though, you think as you unpack your bag in the hallway - your coworkers, both the ones who’d stay in the factory and who’d join you in the paddock, were all delightful and friendly, congratulating you on the promotion. The car itself looked fantastic - all smooth carbon fiber wrapped around the innards of the car like a silk sheet, covered in sponsor logos, sharp nose already pointing to another successful season for the team.

And Max. He was… also there.

The dark and lonely flat seems to mock you at the very thought.

Well, no, that’s a rude way of putting it. Your most famous coworker was as kind as anyone else you’d met before and during that day. You’d already met before, when you became a reserve driver for the team the year before. Your first meeting face to face was nothing but pleasant, and you quickly found you both had a similar sense of humor.

You’re half-worried the kettle won't work after several months of abandonment. It turns on on the first try. You breathe a sigh of relief.

The problem arose in the fact that this grayscale day around you was eclipsed by his presence - as if he was the only object in full Technicolor - as soon as you’d noticed him. His smile was downright infectious, for one, and you honestly could have sworn your hand trembled when you clasped his in greeting.

“Hi, it’s great to meet you again.” He lit up the room with that smile, at least in your eyes. “Christian and the team have only sung your praises for the past few days.”

A softer sigh escapes you when you remember it, and your response: “Oh really? That’s good to hear - they haven’t exposed my worst secrets to you yet.”

“Your worst secrets?” He looked confused while you were busy taking off your coat.

“Yeah, you know,” you grinned, “that I’m secretly a terrible driver who has autopilot installed on her car, or that I’m awfully annoying. So they don’t scare you off, you know?”

To you, his laugh sounded like silver bells, and spring awakening in your chest, and a golden spark blooming into fireworks inside you, and every cliche thing you’ve ever read about in books. You had heard it in recorded interviews and distantly at parties you both got invited to, obviously, but the attraction fully hit you now that you were standing face to face.

Oh, attraction. That’s what it was. You hum and sit down on the couch, your teacup still scalding your fingertips. It's quiet everywhere but your thoughts. Actually, no, if you strain very hard, you might hear your downstairs neighbor's TV.

You couldn’t even fathom how headlines nicknamed him the rain of this cursed place, having spent half the meeting subtly glancing his way, and the other half trying to think of ways to look at him that weren’t… how should you put it? Outright creepy?

Hours later, you both stood in the car park under his umbrella - he’d insisted, and you really couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

“What a Valentine’s Day, huh?” You chuckled, warming your hands in your pockets. He looked towards you - fuck, his eyes were beautiful - and shrugged.

“Never was a fan, really.”

“Me neither. I’ve never had anyone stick around long enough to celebrate properly.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Any plans, then?”

“Not really. They set me up with a flat here back in December, so I’m just heading there for the night. Might get real freaky and order pizza, or something crazy like that.”

“Ooh, don’t go too wild.” He chuckled, and you joined heartily.

The LED headlights of your Uber bathed you both in white light, and you stepped out from under the umbrella. “Thanks for everything, Max. I’m looking forward to this season.”

“Yeah, no problem.” The pitter-patter of raindrops against concrete nearly drowned out his reply as you walked towards the car. He lingered for a moment, gazing at your retreating silhouette through the sheets of rain before unlocking his own car and leaving the car park empty of people once more.

You’re content to stare out of the window now, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The launch is tomorrow, and they'll announce you as the second Red Bull Racing driver. The world will either accept it, or be forced to deal with you for a year.

Truly? Honestly? You're just looking forward to becoming friends with Max.

It is barely 9 in the morning, but the late-July sun is dead-set on giving you a headache today, apparently.

The automated gates at the paddock entrance let you through, and a couple of photographers spot you from a short distance, snapping photos immediately. You grin joyfully, throwing up a peace sign at them before checking your watch.

You have time to make a detour.

The fans at the barrier buzz with excitement when you approach them, and you find yourself in an easy conversation with the front-most ones. It’s nice to hear people are fans of you sometimes, so what?

A girl thanks you profusely for signing her poster, and extends a pink friendship bracelet towards you. “Oh, here’s a birthday gift!”

“Aw, I love it, thank you! Do we match?” You smile, tightening it around your left wrist, right below your watch. The girl simply responds by showing her own wrist - indeed, she has a matching one.

The short detour takes longer than expected, and shortly, one of the social media girls comes to find you. “You’re all great, thanks for coming to free practice!” You wave goodbye and jog to catch up to your coworker.

Your side of the garage is experiencing an unusual amount of activity, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening - the people weren’t too subtle with their cameras either.

“She’s here, she’s here!” Someone yells, and you’re ushered into the middle of the crowd to stand in front of Anthea, your race engineer. Who is, shockingly, holding a cake.

“Happy birthday!!” The crowd roars, and you spot a bunch of the drivers hanging around as well - not that it isn’t obvious, what with the colorful fireproofs in a sea of navy polos. Charles and Pierre are standing somewhere in the middle of the crowd, Carlos and Lando in the back (granted, talking animatedly with each other as soon as the congratulating was over), Oscar and Logan to your left, close by. Max, of course, right next to Anthea.

The cake itself is Red Bull blue and checkered black-and-white on the top, a small model of your car right on top, surrounded by 22 lit candles.

In that instant, you feel indescribably loved. And it's a beautiful, sparkling feeling.

Are those tears rolling down your cheeks? Oh no, they are. And you worked so hard on your eyeliner today - you feel Oscar and Logan each put an arm around your shoulders as you wipe the skin under your eyes dry.

“Happy birthday, dude. You’re finally old enough for preschool.” You yelp when Oscar ruffles your hair lovingly and swat at his hand.

“No, Osc, come on!” You laugh through tears, fixing your hair hurriedly. “Who organized this?”

Anthea grins at you, and Max suddenly looks extremely invested in the concrete floor underneath Logan’s feet. “Max suggested it, I think he was the only one who knew about it? Other than, like, Horner and the people who did your paperwork.”

A soft blush appears on your face, though you feel it burning your cheeks and ears to high heaven. Or at least that’s what it feels like - maybe it doesn’t look so bad to everyone around you. “You guys are the best, seriously. Thank you, Max, and everyone for making it happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap. Blow out the candles already.” Logan pipes up, and the entire garage chuckles. You roll your eyes in mock annoyance, but lean forward with a silent wish in mind, and blow them out in one breath.

Afterwards, you vaguely remember Oscar trying to shove your face into the cake when the candles and car were taken off - and failing - but the minutes after were so chaotic that it felt like one moment you were standing there, hugging your best friends, and the next you’re sat atop a countertop with Max, both attacking the chocolate cake with vigor.

“Oh my God, this is so good,” you practically moan, your mouth full. “Is this Belgian chocolate?”

Max is swinging his legs, hitting your right calf rhythmically with his foot. “Yeah, I think so. I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.”

“Me, too,” you nod, licking off the ganache stuck to your fork. “Hopefully practice won’t be a complete tragedy today.”

“It’ll be good. The data shows it,” he says, completely sure of himself, before hurriedly adding, “I think. I- well, I know. Anthea told me.”

“Good, then. It’ll just be my shit driving that will put me in the wall then.” You nudge his shoulder with yours, but his core strength is greater than you expect and, alas, he doesn’t even move. For a moment, you kind of want to stay stuck to him, leeching off his body heat.

However, it is July, and you are just friends.

He nudges you back - more like shoves, you nearly go flying - and clicks his tongue. “You always say that, but it only happened in Canada. And it wasn’t even your fault.”

You blush, again. Annoyingly. Were you overthinking, or was he keeping track of your results during the season?

“And you’ve already got three podiums. It’s great for a rookie.”

He was definitely keeping track.

You lower your head, smiling. “Thanks, Max. Seriously. For the surprise and the support you’ve given me - it means so, so much.”

“It’s really no problem. I think you’re very talented.”

“I can’t believe you knew when my birthday was,” you pipe up when he takes a breath in between monologues.

It’s evening now, and the late July sun is streaming golden light through the window of Max’ room at the Belgium Grand Prix paddock. You’re standing in the doorway, chewing on your drinking straw absentmindedly while he talks about the data gathered in FP1 and FP2 - as if you weren’t in the debrief together. Or, you know, as if you don't drive the same car. It’s a habit of his that many could find annoying and is nothing but endearing to you.

He looks a bit taken aback, but after a moment simply says “I can’t believe no one’s ever celebrated it with you like this.”

You shrug. “People don’t really stick around enough. Or, most of the time, my friends and family were too far away to make plans,” is your reply. “You know how it is - moving to Monaco as soon as you can and leaving everyone behind.”

“It’s a shame, though.” He’s studying your face now, and you feel some emotion between ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘flustered’ when you notice how he’s checking you out. Or maybe he isn’t?

“It is, but so what?”

“You deserve to celebrate your birthday properly.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s a no-brainer. Which it may be - you’ve had birthdays, and they were great, but they seem like such a long-lost part of your childhood that it takes you a moment to remember when you last held a party.

“I did. Just- well, just not with other people.” You did. Really. You took yourself out to breakfasts and treated yourself to flowers and books and new shoes, occasionally. It’s just that you did it alone most of the time.

“Would you be opposed to celebrating with other people?” Why does he look like he has something planned?

“...Do you have something planned?”

“No, but we could go hang out. Grab dinner somewhere, and a drink after, maybe?”

It’s a casual request, and you feel inclined to accept. Maybe you’re a bit brave, or a bit stupid, or just a bit head-over-heels when you laugh softly and nod. “Sure, what is this? A date?”

Now he’s the one who looks flustered. “Uh… sure. If you want it to be one.”

“Sure.” You’re smiling again, and when he moves on to his next talking point, you’re more than happy to keep chewing on your straw and listening.

Ripping open the wrapping paper to reveal a plain cardboard box, you send the camera guy in front of you a worried glance.

It’s a lovely, warm November morning in Abu Dhabi, and the Secret Santa event is wrapping up. You had gotten Logan - who was practically too easy to shop for - but now it’s your turn to open your present, and you’re nervous.

“Hopefully it won’t explode?” You joke, then run your nail under the piece of tape holding the box closed. When you manage to get it open, your lips curl upwards into a bright smile.

The box is full to the brim without any of the items cluttering together - whoever packed this had to have put immense care into it. You spot a pair of fuzzy socks, candles, bath salts, a bottle of French wine, and many other small self-care items.

“Aww, this is so sweet- Oh, there’s no way.” You pull out the last thing, which is a copy of ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusak. “This is my favorite book,” you tell the camera, having a sense of who this is from, “and I remember I was talking to Max the other day about how sad I was that I lost my copy on a flight a few months ago. We agreed to start a book club over winter break.”

The media employees chuckle at the thought, and you join them. “More like, I made him. Yeah, this is from him.”

“It is.” The woman holding the microphone confirms.

They leave you sitting on the white couch on the terrace, a small smile still tugging at the corners of your lips while you read what he’d written on the inside cover:

‘Sorry I can’t hang out - my weekend is fully booked. How about Christmas at my place? - Max’

You roll your eyes and giggle. What an idiot.

Your idiot.

“Alright.” He starts when you both settle on the shaggy beige carpet in his living room. You’re both a bit buzzed - both having had screwdrivers for late Christmas breakfast, champagne on the balcony before lunch, red wine with the lunch itself, and now you’re nursing a mimosa while he finishes the champagne. Talk about day drinking.

“Alright. Presents, right? How do you want to, like… Should we alternate?” Your head tilts at the size of the pile of presents you definitely knew you didn’t bring.

“I was thinking we could go one by one, from the top, and just sort them by whose name is on it?” He suggests, legs stretching out in front of him. You smile when he playfully nudges your calf with his foot.

“Sounds good,” you nod, taking one last sip for the time being and leaving your glass on the coffee table.

Max reaches for the first present you got him - it’s wrapped in red and green with an obnoxiously large bow on the top - and is delighted when he sees that you’ve gotten him diecast models of his and your 2024 cars, different only in the numbers and the yellow T-cam on yours. He promises to keep them on his desk with a laugh, and hands you the next present.

Inexplicably, it’s wrapped in pink. With hearts all over it. And another obnoxiously large bow on top.

Wondering if he may secretly be colorblind (or unaware of Christmas traditions), you peer up at him with brows furrowed in confusion. Meanwhile, he’s handing you another two boxes: one white one with party hats all over, and another with a candy cane pattern.

“I got you three big presents. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day,” he says. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Or your birthday.”

You can feel yourself start tearing up. “Max…”

He grimaces. “I’m so sorry. Should I have gotten more-”

“Max. We weren’t…” You swipe the tear off your left cheek, a little bit of eye pencil coming off with it. The alcohol is making you emotional, you tell yourself. “We weren’t even dating back then.”

“You were alone, though. I mean we did go on that date for your birthday, but it was just dinner. I, just…” He trails off, pulling at the carpet fibers. “You deserved better for this year.”

You set the box down gently, and move over to sit on his lap. He’s a little surprised when you hug him tightly, but he embraces you back quickly, one of his hands immediately reaching up to play with your hair.

“You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know. Thank you.” You whisper, and you can hear an exhale of a laugh when your breath tickles the back of his neck.

“It’s my pleasure, shatje.” He pats your shoulder, and you kiss him with a giggle still on your lips. Crawling off of him, you turn your attention back to the presents he gave you. The pink box holds the silkiest, softest cami nightgown you’ve ever touched; the one with party hats, a signed copy of your favorite author’s newest novel laying on top of a heavy navy blue knitted blanket. Arguably, though, the Christmas one is your favorite - a pair of Lightning McQueen Crocs. Signed by Charles Leclerc.

“You’re ridiculous,” you burst out laughing again while he only smirks and pours his champagne flute full once more.

“You know it, darling."

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253 notes · View notes

forthevillains · 1 year ago

Note

Ok so here’s my idea… came from a video where a man hires a “wife” and pretends to have a loving family in order to get a promotion from his boss. The “wife” decides to play along and even refuses to get paid for it. The man falls in love with her eventually cause she’s so kind to him.

So i was thinking… what if Wesker had to hire someone to be his significant other to attend a big event/party held by Umbrella? Then he fell in love with her? Imagine he was forced to participate but didn’t expect to meet his love in a boring party 😭

This sounds crazy and kinda cringe but this got me so excited lol

I wanted to write something like that for so long so I feel u! I added a few things to make it work in my head so I hope you don’t mind🫶 (I wrote this while being sick so if anything doesn’t make sense, I apologize)

It was a very important evening to all workers of Umbrella. Everyone was invited and well, the more known they were, the more important their presence would be. Everyone was allowed and not just that - they were expected to bring their other halves, significant others. Wesker wouldn’t care at first. He didn’t want to come anyway, he thought of it as a waste of time, so why should he care? Though when he tried to talk to Spencer, to convince him that he could use that time to work on the research instead, it was to no avail. All Spencer did was tell him to bring some girl too.

Wesker’s annoyance and anger got the best of him. If people thought of him as grumpy before, he’s become an absolute Satan now. Especially when he got to know that he’s to take a woman to the party. Why would he do that anyway? He doesn’t have one, he doesn’t need one, it all sounded so stupid. Is he supposed to find a girlfriend that quick only to dump her as soon as it’s over? No that would be even more stupid.

Wesker knew he had to appear eventually and if he was to do so, he needed someone to act as his partner. An act is all it has to be…

Suddenly an idea popped into his mind. A genius one to be exact. He never thought that he’d come to do something like that, but the opportunity like this could not be wasted. If he didn’t have a spouse, he would simply hire one. And who would be better for the job than someone he already knows? Someone who’s worked for him for a while undercover, someone who always gets the job done - you.

"What the fuck did you just say?!” You nearly choked on your coffee when Wesker informed you about the situation through the phone.

"Just one night, you’re going to act like a girlfriend of mine, be nice to whoever talks to you and at least pretend to have manners. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?” He explains once more, his lips curving into a wicked smile at your reaction. You two weren’t on best terms exactly, but he was willing to pay how much you asked and you were willing to do any filthy job for him. You worked perfectly fine, however only as partners at work.

"I’m an agent, Wesker, not some of your whor-“

"How much do you want, dear?“ he interrupted you. He knew you couldn’t say no to such an easy job. All you wanted was money and he was willing to deliver. So you agreed, though you knew he wouldn’t make it easy for you.

You two made the deal and of course, he wouldn’t let you drown in your own questions about the evening, so you were properly informed, even gifted what you were to wear.

For the whole evening you tried not to leave Wesker’s side. As if he’d let you anyway. You knew what Umbrella was and if you felt anything apart from disgust as you entered, hand in hand with the head researcher, it was curiosity. You were nervous, yet made sure to be observant. It was your first time in there, although you’ve been working with Wesker for a while.

It didn’t take much time for people to notice you, their gazes not leaving you for even a second as realization of who you’re there with hit them. Some of them whispered to each other, some just stared in a surprise. It’s not like anyone would expect Albert Wesker himself to be close to someone, especially in a romantic kind of way. He was a loner, someone who didn’t trust anybody apart from himself, who only talked to two people more than was necessary.

Soon you met a few other scientists and you could feel how Albert was tense as he held you, his arm around your waist, gripping onto you tightly whenever someone was talking to you. You looked at him each time he did that only to find out that he was paying you no other attention. Or so you thought.

It was only about time you let loose finding out that there was no catch as you might’ve thought at first. You’ve began to seek fun instead of possible threats. Though when you were ready to leave Albert’s side he only tightened his grip on you, stopping you immediately.

"What do you want now?” You raised an eyebrow.

"You’re staying here with me like a good loving girlfriend would,” Wesker immediately replied.

"Oh right… I should’ve expected that if you had a girlfriend you’d treat her like a dog.” Your words were harsh and inappropriate, but that was the way you are - honest whenever you could. And since no one could hear the two of you as you kept the distance, you said what was on your mind.

"How I would treat a woman is none of your concerns. You’re staying here.” What you didn’t know is that he wanted you by his side to avoid any unnecessary interaction with others. There were too many people that despised him and it wouldn’t be far from truth that he felt the same way towards them, if not even worse. He needed you, you were the most comfort he could have there even if you were just an agent who happened to work for him.

"Albert! I-I mean we have been looking for you.” It’s no surprise that William with his wife appeared, but it almost made you jump, which made them turn towards you. "And who is this?”

Wesker let you introduce yourself on your own, to make it more difficult for you, grinning at you the whole time. It was quite entertaining seeing you struggle with saying out loud that you’re his girlfriend. You surely needed a shot after that. And this time, he even let you go. Which was probably not the best idea. You didn’t get too drunk, but enough to be a little tipsy.

You roamed around like a lost puppy, telling yourself that you were looking for toilets, but deep inside you knew you just grew more curious knowing this place is free for you to explore without any restraints. However Albert never really let you out of his sight. His shades were very good at hiding his eyes so that no one knew he wasn’t listening to them at all, that he didn’t even look them in the eyes as he shook their hands. You were his girlfriend for the day and he would not risk anything knowing how much you loved to play games with him. Even though he loved it too…

When you disappeared in the hallway, he was right behind you, immediately pinning you to the nearest wall. "Where do you think you’re going, dearheart?”

You gasped at the impact and looked up at him. "I needed to pee,” you said.

Wesker looked you up and down, thinking whether to trust you or not. But no matter how hard he tried to do just that, his eyes got stuck on how beautiful the dress made you look, especially in the cleavage area.

"My eyes are up here, Wesker,” you frowned. You maybe couldn’t see his eyes but you sure felt his burning gaze on your skin and the way his head was tilted downwards also hinted where he was really looking.

"Really?” Now he looked into your eyes and you wished nothing more than to see his own in that moment. Drunk or not, you’d always appreciate Wesker when he wasn’t acting like a grumpy old man.

He leaned forward, his nose brushing against your cheek lightly, before he whispered "I apologize, my dear, I didn’t know.” His words sent shivers down your spine and you tried to make a step back, even though you were so close to the wall it almost hurt your back. That made him smirk.

Wesker was never a touchy person, but right now, after he had few glasses of wine himself, he couldn’t resist the way you looked, not only talking about how good you smelled. And you were all his, for this night at least. Before you got the chance to ask him what the hell is he doing, he gently kissed your cheek, his lips slowly moving towards your jaw. He found it adorable when you threw your head back to give him more access, sliding a hand to your lower back to support your trembling body.

"This wasn’t part of the deal,” you choked out, trying your best to not let out any sound of pleasure.

"I feel like this is what couples do, though. Don’t you think so too?” His mouth moved even lower, his tongue caressing your skin before he nibbled at your neck lightly, drawing another gasp out of you. He felt unprofessional, he was suddenly nothing but a man in need. How the hell did you taste so sweet?

He began to kiss your neck, too caught up in the moment, in how good you tasted. His teeth kept grazing your skin, over and over again, teasing you, leaving you scared whether he would sink them into your neck like a vampire or not. You didn’t even want to think about it, because if you did - you’d probably come to conclusion that you like it.

Though, instead of sinking his teeth into you, he sucked in your delicate skin, forcing a moan out of you. It flattered him, it really did. The way you squirmed in his arms, the way your heartbeat quickened, breath ragged and pupils dilated… He was too caught up in all that, he got carried away (or maybe he did it on purpose).

Suddenly an echo of steps could be heard and he was forced to pull away from you, as a few of his co-workers walked by, already giving the two of you disgusted looks. Wesker only nodded at them to get going before turning back to you.

"That was a mistake.” He spoke, breathless, one of his palms already on your cheek, gently caressing it. And it meant one thing - he didn’t mean the words. All of his actions sold him out. No matter what he’d say, it wouldn’t save him now. No matter how calm he acted.

You were a totally different case though, your head was dizzy and you couldn’t tell if what just happened was real or a dream. You felt like you were floating, but still, you nodded. "We should… get back,” you then muttered and tried to make a step forward, but your knees failed you and you almost fell to the ground. If it wasn’t for your boyfriend for the night who quickly caught you. "Sorry.” You only added. He couldn’t comprehend whether it was the alcohol or his doings that got you like that, but he somehow found it cute. But you could never know, he was too good at hiding his own feelings.

When you got back, it was all the same, except for a few details that you probably wouldn’t even be able to catch. Wesker’s hold on you was firm, yet gentle, his gaze kept drifting towards you as he scanned your body language to know if you’re alright. He was trying to see if the moment the two of you had did leave a mark on you only physically or also mentally. He wanted to know how you felt. But he wouldn’t dare ask, not in front of all these people. So he just waited for the end of the night. Only taking in how beautiful you looked, how well you talked your way out of all the questions even with alcohol in your system. He truly admired your talents, how well you worked with people. Though what he enjoyed the most was your warmth. Something he hasn’t felt for a while as he was a workaholic, with no time for lovers, not even affairs. He thought he didn’t need physical touch, but your body next to his felt perhaps too good.

Finally, it was over. You were able to say goodbyes to the very few people that dared approach you, before the two of you finally left the building, both glad it was finally over. The silence between you was uncomfortable, tense and even though you wanted to speak up, you were afraid of making it all just worse. You might’ve talked your way out of discussions about opinions on animal or human testing, but for sure you couldn’t find one good word in a conversation with the man beside you.

Only when you two entered the car, Wesker in driver’s seat and you in passenger seat, then he sighed in relief as it was just the two of you. And that alone made you speak up.

"Don’t say anything, whatever it is, I don’t wanna talk about it, I’m too done for that,” you say before he has the chance to say anything and for once he gives up, knowing that it must’ve been draining for you. Especially knowing that you hate special occasions and tight dresses. But you still did it, for him. And also for money, but that didn’t really seem that important to you as you’ve actually quite enjoyed his company (you wouldn’t admit it though).

Wesker started the car and let you be without any other words. He wanted to give you space after what happened and so he did. You were quick to fall asleep in your seat, making it easier for him to look at you without being seen at all. His eyes kept drifting towards your neck the most and it took all his self control not to grin at the hickeys. God did he want to do it again.

His first intentions were to bring you to your house and drop you off in there, but as you slept in the seat next to him, he changed his mind. You were going home with him whether you liked it or not. He paid you for the whole night anyway, so you couldn’t say a word against it even if you were awake.

If you were still asleep when he got home, he’d carefully take you in his arms and carry you all the way to his bed. You might wake up alone the next day, but you’d surely know who was the one to take care of you. And even though he wouldn’t dare admit any feelings towards you just yet, he’s surely going to be way more gentle with you from now on…

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #oneshot #resident evil #resident evil wesker #wesker x reader #wesker x you

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spitefulsatanfics · 29 days ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

> “You can stop right there, Señorita. I’m gonna get you out of here. Trust me.” — Luis

PAIRING: Luis Serra x Female Reader (She/Her)

TONE: Enemies to lovers, coworker love, slow burn, canon-typical horror, apocalyptic romance, hurt/comfort, protector!Luis

WRITTEN BY: Little Devil <3

RATING: Mature (17+ for language, canonical violence, blood/injury, kissing/intimacy, horror themes)

WORD COUNT: ~7,000

BASED ON: Resident Evil 4: Remake

SYNOPSIS:

You and Luis Serra were once co-workers—begrudging, brilliant minds working for Umbrella Europe, watching the Las Plagas parasite unravel like a plague foretold. He flirted. You rolled your eyes. And when the outbreak came, you both ran. But the deeper into this infected nightmare you fall, the harder it is to deny that somewhere between hell and survival, your hearts started beating in unison.

I. THE CALM BEFORE THE CURSE

Umbrella Europe Lab | Sierra Verde, Spain | One Month Before Outbreak

The lab always smelled like bleach, regret, and ambition.

You sat hunched over your workstation, eyes glued to the microscope. Las Plagas Variant A00. Early stage. The cells twisted under the lens, spiraling into violent growth patterns. Aggressive. Unstable. Beautiful in the way venomous things often were.

“Careful, cariño. You keep glaring like that, and the microscope might just quit.”

You didn’t look up. “Luis, do you practice being this annoying or is it instinctual?”

A smooth chuckle drifted from behind. “It’s a gift. Like my bone structure.”

Luis Serra. Professional pain in your ass. He leaned beside you, lab coat flared open, shirt barely buttoned—because, apparently, dress codes were beneath him. His smile was casual, but the exhaustion behind it wasn’t.

“Still tracking the accelerant response?”

“You mean cleaning up the mess you made with your ‘experimental cocktail’? Yeah.”

He winced theatrically. “Ah, mi culpa.”

Your glare softened, almost fond. Almost.

He tapped the glass of your culture slide. “You know what they’re really making here, don’t you?”

You stilled.

“I know,” you said. Quiet. Heavy. “And I know you’re not just flirting your way through the apocalypse for fun.”

His smirk faltered. “You think I don’t lose sleep over it?”

You didn’t answer. But you saw it. The truth in his posture. The guilt under his bravado.

And a part of you—the part you swore you’d buried—wanted to believe he was more than he pretended to be.

---

II. GROUND ZERO

Two Weeks Later | Sierra Verde Facility Collapse

The screams came before the sirens.

You ran through blood-slicked corridors, lab alarms howling in deafening pitches. Las Plagas had breached containment. People you knew—colleagues, mentors, friends—were gone. What was left behind wasn’t human.

A snarl echoed down the hallway.

Your boots skidded. One of them—an infected researcher—lunged at you, mouth split too wide, black veins bursting beneath translucent skin.

You couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.

Then a hand yanked you backward.

“Run!”

It was Luis.

Blood on his shirt. Eyes wild. He raised his pistol and fired twice—clean, practiced. The thing dropped.

You stared at him, breath ragged. “You came back?”

His fingers tightened around yours. “I’m not leaving without you.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. You just ran.

He led you through a side hatch you never knew existed, down into the guts of the facility—past generators, water lines, and memories that already felt ancient.

And when the hatch sealed behind you, Luis leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

“You okay?” he asked.

You hated that your chest ached at the sound of that stupid pet name again. You hated more that you were glad he was there.

---

III. CLOSE QUARTERS

Subterranean Maintenance Tunnels | Night One

There was no exit. No plan. Just dark, recycled air and the sound of dripping pipes.

You curled against the cold floor, wrapped in a discarded thermal blanket. Luis paced like a caged lion. The silence was thick, broken only by your shaking breaths.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, kneeling beside you. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked down. A gash on your arm—shallow but angry.

He tore a strip from his already-ruined shirt and wrapped your wound, hands surprisingly gentle.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Field medicine or flirting?”

You opened your mouth to fire back.

But he was close. Closer than he’d ever been. His eyes, usually lit with mischief, were tired. Focused. Real.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

You didn’t answer. But for the first time since the outbreak, you slept. And when you woke up to find his hand resting near yours… you didn’t pull away.

---

IV. THE VILLAGE OF SHADOWS

Present Day | Village Outskirts

Rain sluiced down in sheets. The safehouse—a hollowed barn—reeked of mildew and rot.

Luis sat by the window, pistol on his thigh, wet hair clinging to his brow. You watched him silently, cradling your stitched arm.

“We move at dawn,” he said. “Too many of them out there tonight.”

You nodded, though the weight in your chest said otherwise.

“I should’ve done something sooner,” you whispered. “I knew what they were making.”

“So did I,” he said. “I thought I could sabotage it from the inside. Buy us time.”

You turned to him. “You really tried?”

He nodded, barely. “And I failed. But I won’t stop now.”

You saw it then—the wear in his bones, the cracks in his armor. And suddenly, you didn’t hate him. Not anymore.

---

V. FRAYED EDGES

Village Perimeter | Dusk

It happened fast.

You were scouting the edge of the treeline when three infected villagers broke from the brush. You fired, but one of them got too close—his blade nicked your side, shallow but stinging.

Luis was there in a heartbeat, dragging you back behind a rusted tractor. The moment the threat was down, he was at your side.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice tighter than usual.

You hissed as he peeled your shirt aside, cleaning the wound with water from his canteen.

His hands didn’t tremble.

He didn’t crack a joke.

Not this time.

“This was my fault,” he said.

“You didn’t send them after me.”

“I still brought you into this.”

His jaw clenched. You saw it—the same guilt from the lab, now weathered by blood and fire. But behind it, something softer. Protective. Fierce.

You reached up and brushed his knuckles. Just once.

“I’d rather be here with you than safe and alone.”

He blinked. And for the first time, Luis Serra had no smooth line to offer.

---

VI. IN THE CROSSHAIRS

Minutes Later | Forest Edge

You were almost back to shelter when it happened.

A noise—too fast, too low. One of them had tracked your scent. The infected villager lunged from the trees, machete raised.

Luis turned too slow.

“Luis!”

You didn’t think. You moved.

The gun kicked back in your hands—once, twice. You tackled the thing off him, dirt and blood splattering your arms. You pinned it, drove your knife down, the scream rattling through your bones.

Then silence.

Luis sat against a tree, wind knocked from his chest.

You were already at his side. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Are you hurt?”

He groaned, coughing. “Mostly my pride.”

You helped him up, hands trembling. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He winced, leaning on you. “Didn’t know you cared so much, corazón.”

“I don’t,” you lied, breathless. “You’re just useful.”

“Liar,” he whispered.

---

VII. THE FIRE BETWEEN

Abandoned Cabin | Later That Night

Luis sat shirtless on the floor, wrapping a new bandage around his ribs. You hovered nearby, heart still galloping.

He looked up. “You saved me.”

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “Figured I owed you.”

He smiled. Not cocky—just grateful.

“Gracias,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

That made something flicker in his eyes.

“You’re not the man I knew in that lab,” you added. “You’re… better.”

He chuckled. “Low bar.”

You knelt beside him. “Still true.”

There was a long pause. Then, without thinking, you reached out and brushed his cheek. His hand covered yours.

“I like this side of you,” you said.

“I like being someone you’d want to see.”

And for once, you didn’t run from the silence between your heartbeats.

You leaned in.

And kissed him.

Not out of fear. Not because it might be your last night.

But because you wanted to.

Because you meant it.

---

VIII. RECKONING

Village Edge | Rescue Point

The dawn sky bled orange and smoke.

You and Luis stood side by side, weapons ready. The chopper was coming—just a few more minutes. You could hear the engines, faint above the treetops.

Luis looked at you, bruised and smiling. “So, coffee after this?”

You laughed. “Depends. Still planning on poisoning it?”

He smirked. “Only if you’re into that kind of thing.”

And then, softly: “You really saved me back there.”

You met his gaze. “We save each other. That’s what we do now.”

The chopper crested the hill.

You didn’t look back.

You reached for his hand.

And held on tight.

---

END: CHEMICAL HEARTS

Written in blood and survival by Little Devil <3

#resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #resident evil one shot #re 4 remake #luis serra #luis serra x reader #luis serra one shot #luis serra imagine #resident evil imagine #leon s kennedy

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punkypiscesell-writes · 11 months ago

Text

Like a sun, shining late at night

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Frankie works in a coffee shop where you have been coming for the last few months. The crush from the first time he ever saw you is bubbling over on the hottest day of the summer.

warnings: Frankie and reader are in their twenties, small town vibes, pining, fluff, kissing, no use of y/n, reader has no pronouns and wears a dress, the picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read.

word count: 9.3k

notes: Happy Frankie Friday! I wrote this for @secretelephanttattoo 's secret springs creative challenge and it's purely self indulgent. I'm graduating from university next month and the idea for this fic came from that. This also falls more in to the first week's theme, but I didn't have time to finish this until now. I hope you'll enjoy!

Dividers by saradika

”Frankie, can we switch, I need a break,” his coworker whines in a hushed tone, leaning against the wall. She has the gift of puppy dog eyes that she has perfected over time and uses only when absolutely necessary. No one can say no to her.

Frankie dries his hands on a too wet hand towel; the break doesn’t come a moment too late. He just finished cleaning the cabinets in the kitchen that’s more like a shoebox than an actual kitchen.

Their boss was right. Times like these, when waves of customers aren’t pushing in through the door, is the perfect time to clean. The narrow space of the shoebox-kitchen in a heatwave is an experience Frankie wouldn’t mind skipping though.

His skin is sticky and little droplets of sweat have formed into big splotches of wet fabric on his t-shirt, stretched across his shoulders and upper back. The electric fan in the cramped corner is barely functioning and begs to be replaced in a weather like this.

“The kitchen is all yours,” Frankie gives the damp rag to the younger coworker and sees her eyes light up when he relieves her from the front of the coffee shop. She might handle the humidity a bit better, at least she has enthusiasm to immediately push the damp cloth against the fridge door and find something to furiously scratch off.

Only a couple of tables are taken under the exhausted ceiling fan circling warm air in the cozy café. More people are sitting outside by small round tables under pastel striped umbrellas.

The pink lemonade they make daily from the boss’ recipe is sweating with ice in most customer’s cups, easing the effects of a seemingly endless spell of sweltering heat. The town center has fallen quieter as people are either enjoying their summer holidays by travelling or spending their time at the beach not too far away.

Frankie can’t blame them. Anyone would escape the temperatures in this weather. The ones who are brave enough to stand the scorch from the concrete and minimal shade from any dry trees lining the streets have made their way to cafes with cold drinks and ice creams. The amount of different fresh baked goods, bread and pastries, that are delivered daily have been cut in half just because people are more interested in something light and cold.

The sounds from the street flow into the coffee shop in waves through the open windows and door. Frankie says pleasantries to the few people who come and go and leave their tables for him to empty. He does a few turns outside to bring a straw for a child who dropped his to the ground and to wipe the artisan gelato off the table when someone accidentally knocked over their bowl.

There’s easy music playing from the speakers. They lull him into staring outside, at the people in their airy clothes and sun on their skins. There’s nothing else for him to do other than wait for someone to come in or leave.

The sweat that pushed through earlier sits against his temples and back like a second skin. It’s not going to dry until the sun has set and the night sweeps through the town with cooler air. He listens to the laughter from people sitting outside and the screech of seagulls somewhere nearby.

Some kids skateboard past the café, a few on rollerblades. Few cars drive towards the coast at a crawling pace, pumping out music that shakes the glasses on the shelves lining the walls, turning people’s heads, while some nod to the beat.

This morning, when Frankie got out of the shower with his hair still dripping wet and his skin too stubborn to dry even after toweling, he looked at a t-shirt hanging on the back of a chair. It’s still newly crisp and in need of a few washes. The neckline isn’t worn and stretched from overuse yet, like his usual clothes he wears to work. He has his t-shirts and jeans, and sometimes a cap that his boss always reminds him to take off.

That isn’t the case anymore. He pulled the new t-shirt over his head and decided today would be the day. If you were to come by the coffee shop, that is.

He leans against the counter, doodling on a piece of old receipt; another order of pink lemonade and a sundae. The customer is enjoying them under the shade of one of the pastel umbrellas while reading a book.

Frankie’s curls are enjoying the heat and humidity, the salty air blowing in from the coast making him look like he shouldn’t be standing behind a register in a coffee shop but at the beach by a lifeguard station overlooking the waves. They fluff every time the ceiling fan manages to flutter the air with something that resembles a cooler breeze. A strand tickles his temple, immediately remembering your fingers against his forehead. It was just a simple touch.

“There’s a dandelion seed…” you mumbled last week, when you reached for him over the counter. He was making your drink, focused on pouring the milk into the mug, when like you would’ve done it a hundred times before, your fingers caught the fluff and stayed against his temple a second longer.

“All gone,” you said and continued your story about painting a wall in your childhood home deep green, like nothing had happened.

Frankie drops the pen against the stone counter and touches his fingers against the spot where yours had been. His heart gives a thump and another, the thought of you like cotton candy in his mind.

Everything changed when you walked into the coffee shop with a canvas bag flung over your shoulder.

It was the end of March. The day was grey and windy and people were looking for comfort inside the warmth of the café. It looked like it would rain at any moment, the air even smelled like it. The first time this spring.

You unraveled a thick scarf from around your neck and stopped by the door to take in the café. You took note of the few empty seats and tables, most taken by people working or by those who were on their lunch breaks.

Frankie could only stare at you, with his head going blank, until you took a step forward and you smiled at him. A joyful, eye crinkling smile that comes out easily and stays on your cheeks for a long time.

There was something else to it as well. It wasn’t just the smile that left him dumbfounded. It was the way you lit up from inside first, your skin glowing, your eyes sparkling even on the grayest of days like you held stars in your soul. It was enigmatic, electric, magnetic. Frankie immediately wished to experience it again.

You made your way to the counter and asked Frankie what he’d recommend for lunch.

“You new here?” He asked when he had written down your order and given it to someone working in the kitchen that day. He got to making your drink, a mocha that you gracefully asked to be made with more milk and sugar.

“Oh no, I’m from here but I moved away for college. I don’t get to visit as often anymore as I’d like. But now my last couple of courses are online and I could come back home to finish my thesis.” You took a deep breath and laughed out of nowhere. “That must’ve been exciting for you to hear.”

Your brow arched with the edge of your mouth. He could’ve listened to you read the ten different tea options they had and then he would’ve asked you to repeat them. He would’ve still been hungry to hear your voice more.

“It’s okay,” he said and turned awkwardly from you to steam the milk to hide the blush that crept up to his cheeks. The heat of it burst in waves that showed up across his skin in red splotches.

The milk got done too fast. He thought of anything cold, anything mundane, that would make his blood stream calm down. Just another customer, just another damn customer, he repeated to himself.

He poured the milk gently on top of the chocolate syrup and espresso, folding the foam in on itself to make a pattern on top of the drink. He had made it hundreds of times before, a skill he was proud of, yet now his hand was trembling, and the lines got muddled.

The mug barely made a noise when he set it on the counter, even though his attention was on you eyeing the fat cookies on top of the display cases. You read each label of the options carefully; chocolate chip, white chocolate and cranberry, macadamia and walnut, raisin, triple chocolate, salted caramel, cinnamon and brown sugar, –

“I’ll take one of those lemon and blueberry cookies as well, please.” Your smile got softer when you turned back to him.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he could only say, unsure if he meant the café or the lunch you were about to eat. The cookie looked massive on the small plate he placed next to the coffee mug, reaching high with blue swirls. He was mesmerized by the spark in your eyes and the unsaid mischief in your voice.

You stood in front of him, quiet. Your brows rose slowly and the longer the silence stretched, the more you looked confused.

“Should I wait for the sandwich and pay after or…?” You finally asked and it got Frankie to shake back into action.

“Fu –,” he caught himself just in time to not swear in front of you, even though it made that beautiful smile spill onto your lips again, this time accompanied with a light giggle. His wish came true. Your laugh was just a tip he didn’t expect to get, much more valuable than money in that moment.

“You can pay now, I’ll bring the sandwich to you,” his mouth barely kept up with the words and the moment was over so fast that he wasn’t sure what he had actually told you. But you dug out your wallet and your card and he was tapping on the register to get the right amount charged which he checked twice before you paid.

You accompanied your generous tip with a soft thank you before you collected your drink and cookie off the counter. There was another customer behind you already, forcing Frankie to focus. From the corner of his eye, he saw you sitting by the windows, peeling your coat off and hanging it on the back of your chair.

You sat down and for a fleeting moment he could’ve sworn that you were watching him, still with that smile on your face. When he was done with the customer who came after you, you were already typing on your laptop.

You stayed for hours. So long in fact that Frankie’s shift ended, and other people came in for their evening shifts. You ate your lunch, got another coffee and the same cookie after a few hours, and then kept on sipping on the drink even when it had gone cold long ago.

Your brows were pulled together and at times you leaned closer to read something on the screen of your laptop. You wrote fast. Your fingers flew against the keyboard and at times you stopped just to keep your fingertips hovered over the letters before you kept on going. The sound got drowned out in the steady ambient chatter of the café.

You had a notebook next to you where you wrote a few words here and there. When the café was fairly quiet, he could hear you clicking your pen a few times, then tap it against the half-filled page. A soft, muffled rhythm against the paper.

You rolled your shoulders back and bent your neck from side to side. Every once in a while, you looked out the window, at the darkening day, and the first drops of rain against the glass.

After that day you became a regular at the coffee shop. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday Frankie could expect you to come by. Sometimes you came in early and spent the whole day there. Some other days you came in later and left early, but every time you had lunch and then typed away on your laptop.

Some days you looked more tired than some other days, and some other times your smile was a little dimmer than the others. It still fell on your face easily, but it wasn’t as wide or as energized as he had seen on you usually.

When the days were getting warmer and the sun stayed hung on the sky a little longer, you didn’t come to the coffee shop for two weeks. Frankie was doing his shift, waiting to see you that Tuesday like he normally would. To hear you tell him about your weekend, to hear your voice at all.

His shift ended and you didn’t show up. It left him empty, like something was missing. You had become such a constant at the café that when you broke the pattern, the day seemed off. Maybe you were sick, down with a cold that everyone seemed to have as winter shook from the trees and sunshine forced leaves to bud on the branches.

Then you didn’t come by the next day either. With his coworker Frankie tended to the constant stream of customers who came and went steadily in and out the door. When there was a break, he could only watch the cookies that managed to stay crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. There weren’t many left anymore and your chances at choosing one were getting slimmer every time the door opened, and it wasn’t you who walked in. You didn’t.

When the weekend rolled around, there was a hollowness in Frankie’s chest. He was missing you, as terrifying as that was to admit to himself. He missed seeing you sit at one of the tables by the window where you could watch people as an escape from your work. He had never asked what your thesis was about, how it was going or what made you choose the topic. In that moment he regretted it.

Frankie missed the way you paid attention to what was happening around you. You listened to others, and you started to say hi to some of the other regular customers. Until he noticed you weren’t only paying attention to them but also him.

Sometimes he caught you staring, watching him do his job, follow his moves as he made drinks for customers, wrote down orders and listened to answers for his polite questions about how their day was going. In the beginning, you hastily turned from him in an attempt to not get caught even though he always already had.

He could see you smile when he entertained a toddler by making faces at her while her parents were choosing what to eat. Your brow furrowed and you shook your head when he listened to an older lady shamelessly hit on him.

And then one day you didn’t turn from him when he caught you staring. You stopped hiding your interest in what he was doing. Your cheeks caught the smile on your face and then you got back to your own work.

All those looks, all those smiles, made him want to say he was done for the day and come sit and people watch with you even if you wouldn’t have watched other people, only him.

The next Friday, after another whole week of not seeing you, Frankie didn’t have high hopes for you to show up that day either. It was possible that you had grown tired of the place, of the same sandwich you took every time, the mocha that you usually ordered twice, or the one or two cookies that you always got after careful consideration. Or maybe you were finished with your thesis. Maybe you had left the town again and he was wasting his days daydreaming about you.

The line was long, and the kitchen was overflowing with orders. Frankie had just finished typing one more and had it register in the kitchen when he lifted his gaze to find you standing in front of him.

You didn’t look like yourself. You held your canvas bag in a death grip on your shoulder and you were inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, steadying your breath as best you could. You avoided looking at him and you hid under your clothes.

Your voice was sunken and without your usual animation, the fall and rise of your tone was gone. You didn’t make conversation. You didn’t ask how Frankie’s day had been or if anything unexpected had happened, like you normally did.

“I’ve just had a bit of a hard time lately,” you dropped the façade completely without actually saying anything. You only had to see Frankie’s face once to read the worry from the furrowed brow and the seriousness in his eyes.

His mouth was in a tight line, and he tried to understand you without asking you a serious question. He never had; he didn’t think it was his place even after weeks of friendly banter.

As he was preparing your order, your distress crawled under his skin as well. You opened the light jacket you wore over your sweatshirt, you flinched from the hiss of the espresso machine, and you stood there making yourself as small as you could.

In that moment he decided to get to know you better, to do something about the thump in his chest when you opened the door to the café and to the shivers that ran up and down his back when you stood close enough and he could smell your perfume.

So far, Frankie was harboring a crush across the café, a stolen glance here and a playful look there, an attempted flirty tone in his voice on questions that were too basic to incite any interest or a spark in the corner of his eye. You had captured him without you knowing it, and without him knowing what to do with the swell of happiness every time you were around.

You tried so hard to seem like yourself, but you were on autopilot. You ordered your usual coffee and sandwich. You stared at the foamy milk on top of your mocha. He put too much effort into his attempt at making the leafy shape perfect, only to mess it up and then mess it up even more when he wanted to fix it.

You didn’t say a word about it like you would have if it was like any other normal day. He noticed the short-bitten nails and cuticles on your hand when you paid for your order.

“I’ll bring it to the table,” Frankie told you, watched you nod once and drag your feet against the floor to your usual table. You sat there, staring out the window, your head tilted, and your mind elsewhere. Frankie took heavier steps than usual to alert you, but placing the sandwich in front of you still spooked you out of your head. You tucked your hands between your thighs and let the last bit of steam evaporate from your coffee and the grilled sandwich sit untouched until the fillings looked sad and undesirable.

There was finally a break in the flow of customers. Frankie’s head was buzzing, and his feet were tired. The breather couldn’t have come any later. Yet he didn’t take his break. Instead, he was drawn to observe you like you were a magnet to him. Whatever he was doing, he always made note of you. Something was missing.

“Could I get one of those big cookies?” A customer asked and it clicked instantly in what else was off.

“I didn’t order this,” you told him when he placed the thick chocolate chip cookie next to your laptop that you had managed to get out of your bag. He saw the screen; a text editor open with a margin full of notes and different parts of the text highlighted with red.

“it’s on the house,” he gave you a soft smile, hoping it would ease at least some of the anxiety that had made you look ill while reading through the document on your laptop. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see you burst into tears at any moment.

You thanked him without any sound actually leaving your throat before you got back to reading. He was bothered by the state of you. It made him turn on his heels and take those two steps back that he had put between the two of you.

“Can I ask you something?” He didn’t stop himself to consider before he asked the question, but it got you interested. You looked at him straight in the eyes for the first time the whole day and waited for him to continue.

“Why haven’t you ordered the chocolate chip cookie before?” The cakey cookie draws both of your attention to it and the question takes you by surprise.

“Because I knew I’d like it the most and wanted to save it for something special.” You picked it up and cracked a piece from it. Even Frankie could smell the buttery richness laced with the caramelly sweetness from the brown sugar the baker had once told she uses.

The chocolate was in big chunks, some broken, some sticking out from the piece between your fingers. Instead of taking a bite, like Frankie thought you would, you set the piece down on the small white plate and fixed your attention on him.

“I didn’t know you had noticed, or kept book of what I ordered.” The words came out like a question, but there was nothing for you to ask. You just stated the obvious.

It made the peaks of his cheeks blush instantly. How much more of a creep could he even sound like, asking you about your order. “No one’s ever noticed,” you said a little quieter. Your tone made it sound like you weren’t talking about the cookie anymore. The words held much more weight to them.

“I hope I didn’t overstep any lines, it’s just that you’ve become a regular here, orders are easy to remember after a while.” Frankie watched you break the cookie into even smaller pieces, some of the chocolate falling on the plate.

“It’s okay,” you assured, and a hint of your smile faded across your face. He would’ve missed it if he blinked but he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He never can.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

You ordered one more coffee that day. You didn’t stay as long as you normally would, but when you closed your laptop, you looked a bit calmer. Your shoulders weren’t pulled to your ears anymore and you seemed to be able to breathe without much effort again. You seemed relieved. You waved him bye from the door when you left and the corner of your mouth rose just the slightest, telling him that you’d be okay.

The next time you came in, the next Tuesday, you opened the door and immediately when your gaze landed on Frankie, you glowed. You gave him a chipper, “Hello!” and ordered your usual mocha and sandwich, this time with the salted caramel cookie.

“So, how long have you worked here?” You asked him while he was pouring milk into the steaming jug. After that he gave you pieces of himself to you, answers that were insignificant in context, but they created an image of what he was like.

He told you that he hadn’t worked at the café for that long, but it was a job that he enjoyed. He took care of his mom, which made you ask if she needed to be taken care of. “She’s just getting older,” Frankie smiled to you. He valued his time with his mom, especially after his dad left when he was still young.

At the same time he gently asked you questions too, usually over the counter when he was carefully making your drink and hoping it would last a little longer every time so you’d have more time to answer.

When you came in, he continued the puzzle of you, collecting your words into his memory. How you moved out of the town when you felt the time was right, nothing really holding you back. You went far, but still came back to see old friends and family every few weeks. How you ended up wanting to come back for the rest of your studies, knowing this would be the last time before you’d need to properly start a career and wouldn’t have time to visit as often as you normally would.

There were moments when you would’ve probably spoken for a long time. About your plans for when you were done with your thesis, what festival you were going later this summer, what you still wanted to experience before becoming a full blown adult. “I don’t know why, but I want to go to the beach and have someone cover me in sand.” You laughed when you said that, shook your head and continued, “The problem is that I don’t want to be washing sand off me for a week after that.” It made Frankie crack up as well.

You would’ve told him anything. But then the mocha was ready and he had to set it on the counter and it cut you off immediately. It was like an axe to your words, cutting them short and making you laugh before you collected your thoughts and said, “We’ll continue from here the next time.”

As spring turned into warm early summer, the sun stayed up a little longer and the birds started to sing more as a sign of their little nests getting full, you smiled even more. There was levity in your steps, almost like you could’ve taken one last one and then flown away without looking back. You swapped your long sleeved shirts and jeans to tops and flowy, lighter pants and dresses. There was a glow on your face from the sun and when it rained, you welcomed it with open arms to enjoy the smell of summer arriving.

Every time you came to the café, you brightened Frankie’s day. Seeing you brought a smile on his face, warm richness to his voice, and his eyes always glinted when they found your brightness. You started to call him by his name and every time you said it out loud, he wanted to hear you say it more.

“Frankie!” You exclaimed when you reached the counter after standing in line for a moment. He had already seen you and you had given him a wave of your hand before you got back to tapping on your phone.

“Frankie!” You approached him when there was a break in the stream of customers coming in. You switched in which hand you held your empty water glass in every few seconds. He reached for it but you pulled it back.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you began and cleared your throat. “I have these tickets…”

“Hi, could I ask for something to be changed in my sandwich order?” A middle aged man wearing a pressed suit cut in and pushed you from the counter. You took a step back and gave him all the room he needed. Your shoulders deflated and you stood awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Frankie listened to the customer while his attention slipped to you.

“Thank you, and sorry,” the man apologized to you before he went back to his table by the corner where he had spread all his stuff.

“He was in a rush,” you joked flatly, staring at the glass in your hand.

“What did you want to ask me?” Frankie took in the nerves on your face and softened his voice. You avoided his attention as he tried to ease the strained energy between the two of you. Instead, you offered him your glass.

“Could I get some more of the raspberry and lime water, the container over there is empty,” you waved your hand towards the water station. Your voice was flat, admitting defeat.

Frankie wanted to know what you had in mind, what tickets you were talking about, he would’ve pushed for it. There was no chance for it though, the moment was over. You took your glass with a quiet, “Thanks,” and returned to your seat, burrowing your head in your work.

“Frankie, are you serious?” You once asked, when you saw the new cookie flavors. White chocolate and strawberry, lemon and raspberry, coconut and ginger, and one that you wanted to save.

“Frankie?” You asked with a lower voice when there weren’t many customers around. He leaned forward instinctively. “Can you watch my stuff for a moment? I have to go make a call.” You waved your phone in the air. He nodded, all words lost when he was lost in your eyes in the closer proximity. He came to collect your empty plate and wipe the few crumbs off the table, and then stood by all your stuff like that was his job.

“Hi Frankie,” you said with mischief in your voice when you leaned against the counter. You didn’t have to tell him your order anymore. He knew it like he was the one ordering it.

“The carnival’s this weekend.” You swallowed after stating the fact.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Everyone knew the carnival season was starting, information about it was plastered all over the town.

He could see the question on your lips, how they opened and closed like you were about to say something. You wet them with the tip of your tongue. Your eyes flicked to the shelves and machines behind Frankie, too nervous to look him in the eyes.

“Are you going?” You tapped your fingers against the speckled stone counter.

“Yeah, with some friends.” Immediately the hopefulness drained from your eyes even though the smile remained.

“That sounds fun. I hope you have a good time.” Whatever you had really wanted to say, or ask, drifted from reach. He wanted to believe you had planned to ask him out but chickened out at the last second.

“Are you going?” He rushed to ask when you refilled your water.

“Maybe.” You bravely held onto the smile even though it was slipping, cracking to show the disappointment that was already lacing your voice. You still waved him goodbye before you left, but you rushed off in a way that he hadn’t seen before.

Frankie straightens his t-shirt against his shoulders and sips at his water bottle. There’s only a couple of people left in the café and closing time is ticking closer. His coworker clatters something in the kitchen, but soon she’s whistling again to the music that she can hear through the speakers.

You would’ve come already, if you were to come to the café today. A sweltering day like this, wasted in a café, didn’t seem like something you’d do. “I can’t wait to hang out at the beach and do nothing all day,” you once said and even the thought made relief flood your smile.

“Frankie, can you come and help me a bit?” His coworker calls. Even though she was only supposed to clean the fridge, she has extended her task to include the cardboard boxes on the top shelves, with different types of napkins inside them. One is balanced against her chest, the other she’s barely able to hold on the shelf.

“I tried to wipe the shelf behind them but didn’t think how heavy they are,” she grunts as Frankie secures the box from her hand. “Thanks,” she sighs.

“And you cleaned the fridge already?” He asks, expecting to see the stuff inside it organized. The door opens to a fridge that looks incredibly like it hasn’t even been touched.

“I’ll get to it right away!” His coworker pushes the door back closed, and him out of the kitchen. “Thanks Frankie!” She hollers but doesn’t get an answer.

“Hi Frankie,” you say, in your strappy short sundress, sunglasses pushed on top of your head. Sweat beads against your forehead. Your skin glistens from the heat and the sun cream he can smell from far away. Sweet peaches.

You have a flower-patterned fan in your hand which you wave towards your face. The space between where your collarbones meet under your neck is wet with sweat trailing towards the neckline of your dress.

“Hi.” He combs his fingers through his hair and takes the necessary steps to meet you by the counter. The question he had on his mind for you this morning drains out of him. He can’t ask you out. He’s convinced it would be weird, it wouldn’t be appropriate. You would probably run away without a second thought.

“I’ve never seen this place this quiet before,” you wonder out loud. The cooler air that you fan against your skin wafts towards him with every push of your wrist. At the same time he can smell you more, that sweet sunscreen that takes him back to his childhood. The hot days when the sand under his feet was too hot, the sunscreen sticky on his skin and the salty water slipping into his mouth with every push of his arms.

“What can I get you?” Frankie asks, not wanting to assume you’ll go for your usual this time.

“Lemonade and…” You look at the cookies and stop in front of the one that you still haven’t tasted. “One of those triple chocolate brownie cookies, thanks.” You fidget with your dress while he pours plenty of ice into a takeout cup and drenches them in the tart lemonade. He chooses a cookie that looks the biggest and fattest.

“You’re not working today?” Frankie asks when he sees a smaller canvas bag on your shoulder and how it’s not bulging with contents as your usual canvas bag does.

“I actually finished my thesis.” You focus on digging out a couple crinkled five dollar bills and push them into the tip jar.

“Congrats.” What else is he supposed to say? His chest fills with disappointment. You said it long ago. You were here to finish your studies and now you’ve done it.

“Thanks.” The silence between the two of you stretches and teases the lines of discomfort. The look on your face matches the bittersweetness on Frankie’s face.

“You’re probably leaving soon then?”

You turn to look at the sweating cup on the counter and swirl your straw through the ice. You nod before you open your mouth, “Yeah, in a couple of weeks. I’m on holiday until then.”

“I’m happy for you,” and Frankie truly is. He saw how much you worked in the past few months. You’ve earned to have a breather before you’re thrown into work. “I hope you’ll come and visit again.”

“Of course.” You smile that genuine smile that is nothing but you. It’s the first thing that lights up your presence and the last thing he has seen in the past months when you’ve left through the door to go back home.

You take your lemonade and wrap your cookie in a napkin, leaving the plate on the counter, and head outside, under the shade of the sun umbrella. You watch people pass by and bask in the heat while slowly fanning your face and chest. The sun is finally sinking lower and the lower it gets, the faster the temperature seems to ease up. Frankie’s coworker finally emerges from the kitchen, just as it’s time to start closing up. You’re still sitting at the front while Frankie sweeps the floors.

“Hi!” He hears your cheerful voice say to someone. The edge of the broom clatters against one of the table legs, his attention on you and the small child you’re talking with.

Your muted voice carries into the café, the rise and fall of your excitement clear in your tone. You’re showing him something while his mom stands next to you, they’re both listening to your words intently.

Frankie continues sweeping, wanting to be done with work and get out of the sweaty cafe. The child’s high pitched inhale is clear and demands Frankie to look outside again. The air is full of rainbow colored soap bubbles. Some are smaller than the others but they all gleam in the golden sunshine.

The warm breeze carries them easily away from you before you blow on the soap bubble wand again and a burst of new bubbles escape into the air. The child follows the bubbles until they burst in the air. You offer the dripping wand to him, which he takes carefully into his small fist. He blows on it and the bubbles burst straight against your face. You pull back in laughter, wiping soap off your face.

“Frankie?” His boss calls for him, forcing him to meet her in the back.

The back alley is scorching hot, the sun trapped between the brick walls. Frankie drops the trash in the dumpster and takes his bike, the seat hot under his palm. This is the worst time to have his truck at the mechanics, and the only thing on his mind is driving with the windows down.

The air gets immediately cooler when he steps out on the street, the sun umbrellas closed and drooping in the light breeze. One of the seats isn’t empty.

“Don’t tell your coworker I stayed here even though she told me to leave.” You stand up and take slow steps to him. You take your sunglasses off and fidget with them, bathed in gold. You stop right in front of him and your smile pulls crows feet to appear next to your eyes.

Frankie is lost for words. Seeing you here, while he’s not in the café, is different, even though nothing has changed. Your closeness, the shy glances that you try to hide in the sun shining in your eyes while you don’t cover them with your sunglasses awakes those deep thumps in Frankie’s chest again. He’s even more confused when you put them in their case, and the case in your bag, no intention of shielding your eyes.

“Did you forget something?” Frankie’s voice is unsure, full of doubt on why you would’ve stayed after the closing time.

“I wanted to ask if you’re busy?” You swing your canvas bag next to your leg and wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. As he stands in front of you, he could swear it’s just the two of you on that street, bathed in the dark rays and the refreshing breeze that the day has been craving for hours. There’s salt in the air, blowing in from the coast.

“No?”

“Would you like to go to the beach with me?” Your voice shakes gently in a way that someone might mistake it for you being cold. Frankie’s heart flies heavily in his chest, the sound in his ears dizzying him into questioning if he heard you right. You beat him to it.

You switch your weight from one sandalled foot to the other and grab your bag with both of your hands. The uncertainty is back. You try to keep on smiling, but it falters the longer he doesn’t answer.

“Forget it—” You raise your hand in the air and are ready to wave it in the air to dismiss your question completely.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Frankie snaps out of his reeling head, shutting you up in an instant. His hands sweat against the seat and handle of his bike. His mouth is dry and the pit of his stomach is filled with butterflies.

How long he has contained them, but you broke the jar with one question, filling him with the good kind of anxiety. He knows that whenever he gets nervous, he shuts down. Just like the first time he saw you, the first time you visited the café, his shyness takes center stage in how he acts. He gets quiet, his brain short circuits. No one else has been able to do that in a long time, no one else but you.

This time, seeing you standing in front of him practically radiant in the setting sun and by your happiness, he doesn’t want to lose any second of that to his reserved being.

“Hop on,” Frankie tells you gently.

“What?”

“I’ll ride us there.” He emphasizes the words by climbing on his bike, the seat still too warm even through his shorts.

“Okay,” you laugh and push your bag on your shoulder. Frankie offers you his hand, yours slotting with it like it has always belonged there. What he doesn’t expect is your other hand to land on his shoulder, holding on dependently as you swing your leg over the rear rack. You squeeze the muscle there, your fingertips digging into the tightness under his skin.

“Wait,” you say, and pull your hand back from his. Frankie misses the contact immediately, the imprint raising moisture from his palm. Your sandals scuff against the ground and the bike sways just a little as you find at least somewhat comfortable seat.

Your both hands are pressed against his shoulders, hanging from him awkwardly. Your hands are hot, gripping to him, and it makes his head spiral.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” but you don’t sound sure at all. Immediately when the bike bumps on a crack in the pavement, no matter how much he tries to avoid them, you let out a sound somewhere between a screech and a yelp, your hands shaking and your balance flailing. Frankie’s feet are against the ground immediately.

“Okay, this won’t work. Wrap your arms around my middle, it’s more secure.” You don’t say anything for a beat, he only hears a light chuckle.

“More secure you say?” The meaning isn’t lost on him. You could understand his words in many ways, what wrapping yourself around him would imply, and apparently you stuck with exactly the one that suggests something else than riding a bike.

“You know what I mean,” his voice cracks with unintentional humor.

“Do I?”

“Yes, now just trust me.” You fix your chuckles and sigh out. Your breath fans against his back. You lower your hand from his shoulder, drag it against the muscle closest to his spine, and leave a trail of sparks that burst into goosebumps all over his body, every nerve ending awake and alert. Your hand rounds against the softness of his side, and over to his middle.

“Is this okay?” The question is full of uncertainty even though you’re trying to hide it under the smile he can hear in your voice. His confirmation gives you enough confidence to bring your other hand on him as well, tightly wrapping around him, securing you against him.

“You want to try again?” Frankie hears the drop in his voice and the slight tremble that your closeness causes. He can’t trust his voice at all, when you squeeze closer to him, your chest glued to his back.

“Yes.” You lift your feet off the ground and Frankie gets to pedaling.

You let out a squeak as the bike twitches into movement but relax against the broadness of Frankie’s back. The blowing breeze cools your skin and brings much needed relief for Frankie to keep his focus on the street and not in your hands that twine together around him in such confidence that it makes his stomach drop.

In the traffic lights you drop your feet against the ground at the same time as Frankie does and pull them back up when the light turns green. The salty water gets closer with every turn of the wheels. Streetlights flicker on and a deep blue mass swells across the sky behind you.

The sun colors the horizon in rusty yellows and oranges, the deepest parts already red that fade into the nearing night. Seagulls laugh somewhere up above, and the breeze turns cooler towards the sands that you’re already waiting to have under your feet.

You squeeze Frankie’s t-shirt into your palm, to hold onto him and to keep him close. There’s not much traffic around, some cars here and there, and the quieter it gets the more Frankie can hear the nerves talking to him in his head. For all he knows this could be a dream, after months of pining after you.

You gasp out loud when you see the sea. The horizon bathes in the last sunlight, wispy, blue and purple clouds swirled in like in the cookies you’ve been eating. Your hands untangle around Frankie and rest softly against his back. You’re pulling back, letting go, and the emptiness is already settling in with how he misses your touch.

Your feet brush up against the sandy ground and you’re off his bike, off him, drawn to the ocean. The metal chain clangs against a railing as Frankie locks his bike to it, eager to follow after you.

You stand in the ocean, the waves splash against your ankles, and you look like a vision. Frankie sits further back in the warm sand. His toes bury deeper in, and the remnants of the heat keep him grounded. He doesn’t care if it gets under his clothes and if he’ll find it for days to come. It’ll be a reminder of this night.

There’s a bonfire that crackles and sparks embers into the air, some people around it laughing. They’re making smores, the burnt smell of sugar wafting through the salt for a second. You point out a boat in the distance, the lights clear against the darkening sky. The waves crash in mellow waves against the sand, leaving white fine froth on it.

A fancy restaurant by the beach has a live band playing easy jazz, the sounds from the soft saxophone and the piano drifting towards the water. You stand in the foamy waves, watching your feet get devoured by the dark that ebbs and flows.

Frankie holds on to your bag and sandals and watches you against the rusty sky. He could watch you until it was completely dark and even then, he could make out the silhouette of you against the night sky.

“I’ve always loved the sea,” you say with your voice somewhere between a whisper and a soft sigh when you make your way back to dry land, like you were dreaming and wouldn’t want to break the spell or wake up. You don’t hesitate to sit next to Frankie, your thigh brushes against his.

“Thanks for coming here with me, I didn’t know if you’d want to.” It’s easy to lose himself in you. In the gentleness of your voice. Now in the warmth that pulls him in closer to you, searching for more contact with you.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I guess… I guess I’ve been scared that I’ve read you wrong.” You swallow and lick your lower lip between your teeth. He might not be the only one who has been shy this whole time. Your confidence comes and goes, sparks every few moments and then gets replaced by a timidness that holds you back. You can’t face him. You can barely let your voice be heard over the lapping waves and the music from the restaurant.

“How do you think you’ve read me then?”

“That maybe…” You stop yourself. You play with the hem of your dress. The fabric bunched against your bare thighs. “I’ve been a bit scared to be forward, maybe, just because I wasn’t sure what you thought of me. That maybe I was reading the signs wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time, you know. That maybe, possibly, you might… I don’t know…”

Listening to you try to wade your way to the point through the waves of your nerves is endearing, while it’s also pushing Frankie to smile. His crush for you is pulling it out of him with the heat that spreads from his chest up to his neck and cheeks.

“I mean I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while,” You finally admit and the crush he has been holding onto blooms into a garden. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes but I had to ask. I had to know if maybe… you would’ve wanted to ask me out as well.” The words are out. You drop your hands and everything you wanted to say is now out in the open. It doesn’t erase the butterflies that flutter somewhere between the two of you, but finally having the truth out does bring out a safe peacefulness, something he can lean on.

“Hmm,” he hums out a breath. Words have left him completely. The warmth of your skin close to his is reminder enough for him to keep his head focused, his eyes on you and his heart from flying from him. He moves his leg just a little to get it pressed against yours. You’re waiting, your eyes on him, your body turned towards his.

“I wanted to ask you out the first time you came to the shop.”

The words take you by surprise. A smile spills on your lips. You try so hard to contain it, but hardly manage to keep yourself from laughing out loud.

“Why didn’t you?” Your eyes are tearing up, either from the breeze or the release of nerves. One lands on your cheek. Frankie is quick to reach his thumb out and catch it. The tear rolls down to his palm, heavy and beautiful, leaving behind a streak that gleams in the last rays of the sun. He closes it into his hand and spreads it onto his skin with his fingers.

“I’ve never been good at seizing the moment or being brave. I didn’t want to be a creep.”

“So, you’ve let me be a creep? Watching you work, coming in every other day?”

“But you’ve been working.”

“My thesis has been done for a while. If I was there only for that, I would’ve stopped coming about six weeks ago.” Laughter bursts from you and Frankie in disbelief. The more you laugh, the more the indifference he convinced you were feeling reveals to be plain blindness.

You press your forehead against his shoulder, a gesture he doesn’t expect but also isn’t surprised by. You’re in his space, on him, never breaking a boundary, but wanting to absorb him as much as you can.

“What have you been doing then?”

“Applying for jobs, reading different forums and articles, sometimes nothing.” He holds his hand out and like earlier, yours fits against it like it belongs there. It’s not just a simple touch anymore though. It’s revelation of what you’ve been hiding. It’s hope for something to come out of it. Whatever will happen might just be a short fling. Or maybe it’ll be the beginning of something Frankie hasn’t had before.

Frankie takes you home. The energy is different as the night has fallen above the town. The air has turned balmy promising a mighty thunderstorm in the coming days. It doesn’t stop you from pressing yourself against his back, sticking to him with your arms around him. He doesn’t mind it, neither do you. You only push in closer and hold on tighter.

“Thanks for the ride home.” You fix your dress and stand in front of him. Your eyes drift to his lips, and you wet yours.

“Sorry for the uncomfortable seat, I’ll have my truck back next time.” Your reaction is worth every word. The soft smile, the drop of your gaze, the hand that reaches for his and twines with his fingers loosely swaying back and forth.

“Next time,” you repeat back to him, the words hanging as a promise in the air. They’re wings to his heart that soars into a fast beat, excited for whatever’s to come and nervous of the same prospect.

“I better get going.” Your eyes still flit to stare at his lips.

“I’ll wait here, make sure you get home safe.”

“The door is right there.”

“I’ll still wait.” You reluctantly let go of his fingers and take a step back, then another before you turn from him. Frankie rests his hands on his thighs and waits. You dig your keys out and stop. Maybe you don’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The sound of your sandals against the concrete is loud in the quiet. You have a new kind of bravery in your steps when you come back.

“Would it be completely inappropriate if I kissed you?” Frankie’s heart is in his throat. He shakes his head, giving you permission to step even closer.

You lean in but you don’t rush into it. You bring your hot palm against his cheek, and further in to tangle your fingers into the hairs at the base his neck. Your first move is to press your forehead against his and take a breath.

Your chest rises and falls steadily when you close your eyes. He presses all the details of your face into his memory from such close proximity. Your lashes, the faint lines next to your eyes, the plumpness of your cheeks, the curve of your mouth which you breathe a heavy sigh from. Your nose nudges against his, as a final sign for him to throw away his insecurities.

Your lips press against his slowly, so soft it leaves room for so much more. Your kiss is a breath and Frankie needs to chase it to keep his lungs filled. It’s easy to deepen the kiss, to have your lips slot with his, to feel the tip of your tongue tease his bottom lip just to test how he reacts.

You press in closer, just to get Frankie to pull you in even more. The bike under him wobbles as he moves to hold you closer, from you pressing your weight against him, yet somehow, he’s the most secure he’s ever felt in anyone’s embrace. A sighed out moan vibrates in your throat and your hand tugs at the curls on his head. And then it’s over.

Too soon, yet just at the right moment. He wants more, his body craves you, and the blown out pupils in your eyes under the orange street lights is enough to tell him that he’s not the only one. You lick the moisture from your lips, the signs of his mouth from around them, and pull your hands back. The smile that he has learned to want to see appears again, this time with the heaviness of unadulterated lust on your skin. You’re an ember in front of him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you pledge and give him one more soft touch of your lips against his. Frankie doesn’t want to let your lips go and chases after them with the kiss still on his lips. You giggle and pull away.

Frankie’s hand slides from the back of your thigh, right under the hem of your skirt and slips off your skin with heat etched onto it. His fingertips are sensitive from holding onto you so tightly, from wanting to have you.

You give him one last look from the door, and you fix your dress on the thigh he was holding. Your own fingertips brush against where his hand was resting, excited and like it was his place to touch. He hears your tender laugh accompany the wave of your hand, before you disappear from view. He brushes his fingers through his hair with the hand he held you with, the scent of your sunscreen tattooed on his palm now forever etched to his memory.

#secretsprings #frankie friday #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales triple frontier #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fic #katsheadincloudswrites #like a sun shining late at night

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letthemkook · 22 days ago

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Glass Garden K.SJ

Pairing: Yandere Seokjin x Reader

Genre: Dark Romance, Psychological Thriller

Warnings: Possessiveness, emotional manipulation, captivity themes, obsession, unhealthy relationships, Smut***

Intro: Everyone says Kim Seokjin is perfect. Perfect smile. Perfect manners. Perfect lies. But perfection is just another kind of prison—one with roses at the gate and your name etched on the key.

⸻

You met Kim Seokjin on the worst day of your life.

Your bike was stolen. You were drenched in rain. And your umbrella broke in half like it was laughing at you.

He was standing under the glow of a café sign, dressed too perfectly for someone alone. Warm drink in hand, scarf wrapped like he stepped out of a drama. And when he looked at you, you didn’t think handsome—you thought dangerous.

He invited you inside. Just for a moment. Just to dry off.

He knew your name.

You never told him.

⸻

Weeks later, strange things started happening.

Your shift schedule was rearranged without notice—but always conveniently giving you the same lunch break as a man in a gray coat. Jin. He said it was fate. You said it was creepy.

Your landlord told you someone anonymously paid your rent three months in advance. The envelope was sealed with pink wax.

Your best friend started avoiding you. Ghosting your calls. “I’m fine,” she texted. But you noticed her Instagram was wiped clean. Then her number stopped working entirely.

Jin said people come and go. “But I’ll always stay.”

⸻

You tried to leave the city once. Bought a train ticket to Busan. Never made it to the station.

A black car pulled up outside your apartment. A man in a suit handed you a phone. Jin’s voice was on the other end.

“Come home,” he said gently. “I get anxious when I don’t know where you are.”

You looked out the window. The rain had started again. And someone had left your favorite flowers on the doorstep.

⸻

His mansion is called the Glass Garden.

Every room has no locks. Except the front gate. That’s bolted shut.

Every meal is served with your favorite dishes. Except your phone is gone.

Every night, he lays beside you without touching. Except when he thinks you’re asleep, and he whispers things like, “You’re mine now. You’ll love me eventually.”

You used to scream.

Now you wait.

You wait for the day he slips up.

But you also wait for him to come back when he’s gone too long.

Because somewhere between fear and longing, something is breaking inside you.

And Jin knows it.

He watches you through the mirrored glass and smiles.

“You see?” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “Even flowers learn to grow in cages.”

⸻

The glass garden has no clocks.

You don’t know how long it’s been—days, weeks, maybe months. The seasons change only in the artificial scent diffused through the air. Today it smells like spring. Jasmine and rain.

There are cameras in the corners, disguised as flowers. You pretended not to notice at first. You’d smile while dressing, cry in the shower, fold your clothes neatly like a good girl. You wanted him to think you were adjusting.

You wanted him to relax.

But Jin doesn’t relax.

He watches.

“Why don’t you hate me more?” he asked once, brushing your hair back as you laid in his lap. “You should scream more. Cry more. Beg.”

You stayed quiet. That seemed to upset him more.

“I want your real self,” he said that night, hovering above you, eyes wide and starved. “I don’t want your fear. I want your honesty. Love me or break me. Just don’t lie.”

You spat in his face.

He kissed you anyway.

⸻

He gives you gifts now. A music box. A dress. A journal with half the pages already written—entries in your handwriting that you never remember writing. They say things like:

“Jin held me so gently today. I felt safe.”

“Maybe this is what love looks like.”

“I don’t miss anyone anymore.”

You asked him if he forged them.

He only smiled.

“Darling,” he murmured, “if you think I’d fake your feelings for me… then maybe you don’t understand how deep they already go.”

⸻

One night, he lets you into the east wing.

It’s darker there. No flowers. Only framed pictures of you.

Some are real—candid shots from your old apartment, grocery store, café. Others… you don’t remember being taken. In some, you’re smiling. Naked. Bent over his desk. Crying. Laughing.

“I never touched you before you came here,” he says calmly, standing behind you. “Even when I could have. Even when I wanted to. I waited.”

You swallow.

“But now I don’t have to wait anymore, do I?”

You turn.

His pupils are blown wide. His hands shake as they reach for you.

Not to hurt.

To worship.

He drops to his knees.

“Please,” he whispers, breath hitching like a prayer. “Please let me love you properly.”

⸻

You should scream.

But instead… you nod.

Just once.

The last part of yourself—what little remained—wilts in his hands like something already dying.

And he kisses it.

He kisses you.

“You’re mine now,” he says, pressing his lips to your wrist. “Say it back.”

You hesitate.

Then whisper, “I’m yours.”

He exhales like you’ve absolved him.

The lights dim.

The music box plays.

And somewhere outside the glass walls, the world forgets you ever existed.

⸻

You wake up wrapped in silk.

The bed is made of velvet and fog. His arm is around your waist, loose but firm—like even in sleep, his body remembers what belongs to him.

The cameras are off today.

You know because the little light in the corner doesn’t blink. And Jin hasn’t left your side. Not since last night.

Not since you told him you were his.

⸻

You thought submitting would give you time.

Make him drop his guard.

Let you breathe without being watched.

But it’s only gotten worse.

He doesn’t leave you alone anymore.

He bathes you. Brushes your teeth. Picks your clothes. Holds your hand during every meal and kisses your cheek after every swallow like praise.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he whispers.

You ask to go outside.

He laughs softly. “Love, you are outside. This garden was made for you. Do you know how long it took me to build it?”

He touches the glass. The birds are fake. The breeze is fake. The flowers? Real. Grown in soil made of crushed bones and promises.

You ask, “What if I still want to leave?”

He smiles. “Then I’ll just have to build you a bigger cage.”

⸻

You try to run anyway.

You wait until he’s asleep. Count your steps like prayers. Steal the garden shears hidden behind the orchids. Creep to the gate with bare feet and a shaking hand.

The lock clicks.

You taste real air for the first time in months.

But before you can take your second breath, he’s there.

Not running. Just walking. Calm. Like he knew this would happen.

You turn.

“Go ahead,” he says, spreading his arms. “Try.”

Your fingers tremble around the shears.

He doesn’t flinch.

You swing.

You miss.

He catches your wrist mid-air.

“Shhh,” he soothes, dragging you back, slowly, like a lullaby. “That’s not how flowers behave, darling. You don’t bloom by cutting your roots.”

⸻

That night, he ties your wrists in silk.

Not tight. Not painful. Just… present.

A reminder.

“I still love you,” he says, watching you from the edge of the bed. “Even if you tried to kill me. Even if you wanted to run. I still want to take care of you.”

You glare. “Why?”

He leans in, brushing your lips with his. “Because even when you hate me, I see it. That part of you that’s afraid to leave. That tiny part that already loves me back.”

⸻

You cry when he kisses you again.

But you don’t pull away.

And in the glass garden, that’s as good as a vow.

——-

The silk around your wrists has turned into something else.

Not a restraint.

Not even a punishment.

A ritual.

Each night, he ties you with care—thumb brushing the inside of your palm like he’s memorizing you anew. He whispers sweet things into your hair. Tells you how beautiful you look when you stop fighting him.

“You don’t even know how soft your eyes get when you give in,” he says one night, cupping your face as he leans in. “Like petals soaking in rain.”

You don’t answer.

Because some part of you wants to believe him.

⸻

That night, you sit on his lap.

He doesn’t make you. He doesn’t even ask.

You just crawl into his space and lower yourself onto him like it’s gravity’s fault. Like it’s inevitable.

He stares up at you with something so raw, so reverent, it makes you feel like the villain.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “You don’t even flinch anymore.”

You ride him slowly, mechanically—your hands still tied, your wrists resting on his chest like a promise you never meant to keep.

He doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t move. Just takes it, breath hitching, gaze glued to where you meet him.

“You’re so good to me,” he chokes out, voice breaking with a laugh. “My perfect girl. My obedient little bloom.”

Your lips part, but you don’t speak.

Because if you open your mouth, you might scream.

Or worse—

You might beg for more.

⸻

Later, he unties your wrists and kisses the red marks like a priest blessing something holy.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” he murmurs. “The part of you that wants to stay.”

You want to scream that he’s wrong.

But your body’s still trembling from the high he gave you. Your thighs ache from how tightly you held onto him.

And he knows.

He knows.

So he just smiles and tucks you under the blanket, stroking your hair as you cry silently against his chest.

⸻

“You’ll love me eventually,” he says. “But I’m in no rush.”

He kisses your temple.

“I’ve already made forever.”

#bts imagines #bts army #bts #bts jin #kim seokjin #imagine #yandere #smut #possesive love #bangtan

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ninsletamain · 10 months ago

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Happy B-day to one of the sweetest people I know @quarantineddreamer! Much love from myself and @frostbitepandaaaaa!

We hope you enjoy your gift! A certain someone told me you’d like an X-Files AU. (:

“I think you’d have better luck interviewing the victim, Andor.”

Cassian turns around, undeniably relieved to see his partner, Special Agent Jyn Erso, perched on the bottom stair of the half-rotted stoop. She blinks up at him from under the brim of her almost comically large umbrella. Her eyes are knowing, her expression as lucid as ever. She had, no doubt, witnessed the entire debacle between him and the local law enforcement on her short trip from the car to the sway-backed and moss-fringed front porch of their newest crime scene investigation.

“Ah, that’s not my job, Erso, that’s all you,” Cassian tosses back archly. Jyn rolls her eyes and he comes to join her on the bottom stair. He assumes that she does not wish to venture inside the rotted, sodden prairie Colonial until absolutely necessary (and perhaps is wanting to dodge the ire of the local sheriff that Cassian had just pissed off in almost record time).

“Lay it on me, Andor. What is it this time?” Jyn asks, trying to sound bored but he knows better. His partner likes to evoke the straight-laced, no-nonsense career woman but Agent Jyn Erso is also the most accomplished forensic pathologist and scalpel wielder in the FBI… perhaps in the whole damn country. And one doesn’t reach such lofty acclaim by being squeamish. She had also quietly denied several career opportunities over the years that could be considered, well, more sane, in favor of chasing lights in the sky and slicing and dicing in backwater morgue bays.

Had stuck with him. But he tries not to think about that part.

He ducks under the umbrella and they venture out in the weedy front yard in tandem. Jyn makes no effort to accommodate his seven inch height advantage and Cassian does not expect her too. The rain is a dismal, steady drizzle and much of his back is damp within a few steps.

“The victim— 34, male— looks to have been frightened to death,” he announces as if commenting on the shitty weather.

“Cassian,” she groans, stopping to look at him like he had just expressed his desire to join the circus. He knows that tone well. It’s also never a good sign whenever she uses his first name. “Frightened to death?”

He nods, trying, and apparently failing, to keep the amusement off his face because Jyn’s eyes close and she sighs mightily as they continue on their way. “You ever heard of the Boogey Man, Erso?”

“There’s no such thing—“

“Look, I’ll leave it to you, Dr. Erso. Once you get the autopsy done and dusted then you can call me crazy.”

They reach the car and Jyn pulls the door handle on the passenger side. She drove here, but she is not fond of driving— especially when there is a perfectly good man to do it for her— and Cassian is always happy to oblige her in her few glints of prissiness.

She closes the umbrella, shakes out the rain and swings her sensible kitten heels into the car. “Cassian, I’ll save us both some time.” She leans precariously close to him, elbow on the center console of their little rented Cabriolet. He freezes in the midst of fastening his seatbelt (after having to push the seat back what felt like a good four feet). Her hair is damp and a bit wild despite the shelter of the umbrella (her hair always gets frizzy in the humidity— he thinks it’s unbearably cute) and he can smell her perfume. His heart stops in his chest.

“You’re crazy,” she pronounces sagely and falls back into her seat.

He puffs out a laugh, shakes his head, and fires up the car.

#Happy Bday B!!!!!#Love you lots girlie!#thank you Frost for adding the short story #myworks #rebelcaptian #jyn erso #cassian andor #jyncassian #crossover #X Files AU #rebelcaptain X files au

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surrealitea · 1 year ago

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Trigger warnings: fem! reader, pm! dazai, angst, blood, death, guns, alcohol, angry at waitress (abusing staff is never okay), dazai-typical suicide comments, please comment if I'm missing anything

Belladonna: silence

Word count: 3.8k

Author notes: This have been in my drafts since late November and I wanted to get it out before I turned 19 (that didn't exactly happen), so here's a birthday gift from me to you. I also apologise because all my other Dazai drafts are also angst.

The rain started to pick up but neither of the two teens bothered to pull out an umbrella, not that they had one, or take cover beneath the restaurant awnings. They welcomed the light shower which soaked their clothing and prevented the blood that coated it from permanently staining the garments. Trailing behind the bandaged young man, who skilfully avoided the lit streetlights which would reveal the darkened red patches to an innocent passer-by, was a young girl of the same age in equally dark clothing.

“Have you ever considered leaving the Port Mafia?”

The question made the boy’s artful steps pause as he turned to his companion.

“Why? Do you plan on leaving me, Belladonna?” he teasingly replied with that classic ambiguous smile that never got close to reaching his eyes.

The girl paused, lips parted slightly as if to say something but shut just as quickly. She stood there facing him, however her eyes never met his unbandaged one, instead staying fixated on the straightness of his nose and pointiness of his jaw. After a moment of pause, the answer followed.

“Of course not, I could never leave you… till death do us part.”

The boy’s piercing stare didn’t soften. The answer was hardly satisfying considering the prolonged pause used only by those yet to master the art of lying. He said nothing though, and simply turned back around, relieving the suffocating atmosphere that unnerved the weary office worker unfortunate enough to pass by them in that moment.

The pair continued their walk once more under the starless night sky whose hopeful twinkles were slaughtered by the insomniac-inducing brightness of city-light neon.

The office door closed with a slight click as the person failed in their attempt to enter unnoticed. The man that sat conceitedly in the plush leather chair, which looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, turned his calculative eyes upon his visitor.

“Ah, Dazai, what brings you to my office?”

“Why did you give orders to execute Y/N without consulting me?”

“Come now, you are smart enough to already know why.”

“I won’t let you.”

“Why? Because she is your girlfriend? Surely you aren’t foolish enough to actually fall in love.”

Dazai gave no response, only hardening his glare at the man still seated in the plush throne of an armchair.

“As an executive you should already be aware that such relationships are a weakness not needed in the Port Mafia.”

Silence from Dazai continued to pervade the room as his stare took on a bloodthirsty edge which would have unnerved anyone else.

“Let me handle this, there is no reason for you to involve others when she is my subordinate.”

“No, another executive will be tasked with the mission of eliminating Y/N and you are not to interfere. Should your personal feelings get in the way then I will have no choice but to take disciplinary action against you.”

Knowing he no longer had room to argue with his superior, Dazai reluctantly resigned from the verbal battle. Though he was sure to leave the with the stench of unfinished business, and a clear promise of defiance which certainly wasn’t his brightest idea but not regrettable to the boy.

With the insolent slam of the office door, Mori picked up the phone beside him and dialled a number. It didn’t ring long before a familiar snarly voice answered the call. “Chuuya, could you come to my office?”

The tight dress felt constrictive around the girl who was used to her looser work clothes that provided the freedom of movement needed for her line of work. The boy opposite her, who stayed in his usual attire despite his request to dress up, busied himself with the menu although it was obvious that no words were being comprehended. The girl’s menu, wrapped in an elegant black leather cover characteristic of such a high-end restaurant, stayed in its neat form, untouched.

Without ever having removed his eyes from the cream tinted paper, “Are you not going to order, Belladonna? You’ve been staring into space for the past fifteen minutes.”

She startled out of the daydreams that violently consumed her like a starved beast and shakily grabbed the menu from its resting place only to tear apart the binding with more brutality than necessary. She quickly flicked through the pages while restlessly shuffling, from the overpriced entrees that wouldn’t be more than a mouthful to the extensive wine selection flown in from every famous vineyard in Europe, none of the elegantly printed words registered to her frazzled brain still drowned in its own paranoia heavy enough to block out the world around her.

She was saved seconds into reaching the last page by the waitress that seated them that evening and had already been waved off by Dazai prior for the two guests were then still indecisive. With a practiced upturn of the lips she patiently asked if they were now ready to order.

The boy closed the menu and handed it back to the woman, not once taking his eyes off the fidgety girl across from him, as he recited his order that consisted of the priciest steak and a bottle of vintage wine he definitely wouldn’t enjoy.

When silence followed his response, Dazai asked, “Belladonna, have you made a decision?”

The frazzled girl dared to glimpse at the eyes of her lover which she had until then avoided all evening so far. Dark pools of hollowness which took in everything they saw without giving away anything themselves caught hers and trapped them there inconsiderate of her pleas to look away.

“Belladonna.”

His voice took on a sharper commanding edge this time but still sounded light and teasing to any stranger.

“Uh, I- I’ll have the same, thanks.”

“An excellent choice, ma’am.” With that the waitress left the two teens to their uncomfortable silence.

Dazai’s mouth was moving, and the girl could just barely make out the hot air spilling from his mouth from their close distance. But his words never registered, blurred instead with the dozens of other patrons merrily chattering away till it became incomprehensible white noise. Her eyes drifted longingly to the door a dozen or so paces away and just barely obscured by the oriental plant that didn’t quite suit the establishment’s French aesthetic.

“-re you listening to me? Belladonna? I’m recounting my brush with death here, and you’re spacing out? Do you not care about me anymore?!”

The buzz finally subsided into a medley of words again, and the girl was confronted with the pouty face of her lover whom she starred confusingly back at with owlish, empty eyes still not quite present.

“… I’m listening, you were talking about-“

She was thankfully saved by the waitress who had returned with the exorbitant wine comfortably blanketed by a bucket of ice and was placed at the edge of the table. She took the already uncorked bottle and poured the bloody liquid into two glasses then elegantly wiped the nozzle on a white cloth, the colour bleeding into the pure shade, before slightly bowing and leaving them to savour the ambrosia.

As Dazai lifted the glass toward his date in preparation of a toast, the last few drops were already sliding down the glass and past rouge painted lips.

“Belladonna, you’re meant to savour such wines. You’re lucky that slug isn’t here to chew you out for such barbarism,” he teased as his own lips kissed the glass only to slightly pucker at the unaccustomed sweet fruitiness not found in his usual choice of poison.

Now drowned in a strained silence once again, and with no attempt made by his partner to break it, Dazai decided to make the first move and asked, “how was your day, Belladonna? I was so busy overseeing a weapons shipment that I never got to visit you.”

“Oh, it was fine, just the usual boring paperwork regarding mission reports and such.”

“Aww! And without me there to entertain you it must have been so boring you were willing to finally join me in the afterlife to escape this oxidising world’s mundanity!”

An empty, sad chuckle left her chewed-up lips at the Dazai-typical comment as she placed the glass down that was already half empty of her second drink.

“No, not yet. There are still things I want to do with my life, places I want to see once I’m finally free.”

The unnoticeable twitch on Dazai’s lips lasted no more than a split second, though whether it was a smile or a frown not even the demon himself could tell. “Free? And what exactly do you mean by that, my Belladonna?”

The poor girl didn’t get out more than a few frantic stutters before they were interrupted by the waitress again who had arrived with two steaming plates of their finest cuts personally cooked by their renowned head chef himself. A look of blissful relief painted the girl’s countenance at the sudden end to a tense interrogation.

Dinner was shrouded in silence as the two quietly ate their meals while the steak was still juicy and tender, and salad still fresh and crispy. Dazai had scoffed his down with a little too much vigour (probably being the first thing he’s eaten today, maybe yesterday too), and with only a few mouthfuls to go finally looked to his partner. She, on the other hand, had barely touched her food, and was currently chewing with about as much enthusiasm as someone forced to eat sand.

“What’s wrong, Belladonna? Is the food not to your liking? You look like the slug whenever we’re forced to work together.”

“Oh, um- it’s a little dry, I guess…” she stuttered, avoiding eye contact with the boy in front.

“Really? It looks fine to me. Here, let me try some.”

The girl frantically grabbed the plate and yanked it away from the outstretched hand, the knife fell in the process with a deafening clatter. Two pairs of owlish eyes met, though one had a touch of fear that the demon could definitely discern. Sheepishly, the girl returned the plate back to the table and collected the knife from the floor while avoiding the impassive eyes of her partner.

Another minute of tense silence was thankfully broken by Dazai as he waved down the waitress.

“My dear Belladonna here says the steak is dry. Bring the chef out so he can fix this abomination, I can’t go serving anything but the best to my Belladonna.”

“Oh! Of course, Sir. I’ll bring him here right away, Sir. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” the waitress hysterically apologised with overly exaggerated bows to the two.

“Ah- No! It’s fine, really! The steak isn’t that bad actually, and I wouldn’t want to cause them any more trouble.”

“Belladonna,” Dazai’s strict chastisement shut the girl up. “If it’s not to your liking then say so. You’ve been a mess all evening, it’s getting annoying.”

A muffled sorry escaped bitten lips.

“What are you still doing here? I already gave you an order.”

The waitress, who till now had been watching the two, turned around in a panic to escape the wrath of the demon before her.

“You know what, it’s fine, I’ve lost my appetite. Belladonna, we’re going.” Dazai stood up with a loud clatter and grabbed his partner’s hand to drag her away from the teary-eyed waitress fearing for her employment.

“Ah! Dazai, wait!”

The boy turned around, only to address the waitress that was too distressed to move. “You can charge our meal to my dog, Chuuya Nakahara, when he visits this weekend,” he proclaimed, before promptly storming out of the fine-dining establishment. The mood, already soured by the earlier commotion, felt even worse now as all the staff were already well aware of the rumours surrounding his reputation.

The cool breeze nipped and chilled the girl’s bones to ice as her jacket was sadly left abandoned on the side of her chair back inside. Her wrist was still being painfully clenched in the vice grip of her partner who clearly had no intention of loosening his hold.

“Hey, um- thank you for tonight. Though, I need to go now, I have an early mission tomorrow and am really tired.”

“I want to take you somewhere,” Dazai interrupted as he stared absently into the distance.

He started walking off into the pitch black yonder, and while his grip slightly lessened it did nothing to ease the hand-shaped bruise forming, nor the tempest of anxiety in her stomach.

The full moon, tinted an eerie blue, illuminated the abandoned warehouse and its surroundings just enough to make out the outline of a young man in a pitch-black coat. Obscured in the shadows was his partner, the young girl of the same age in equally dark clothing. A gentle breeze tickled the two’s hair enough to send a chill down the shadowed body’s spine (or was it the boy’s stare?).

“Have you ever considered leaving the Port Mafia?”

The question made the girl’s eyes widen as her muscles tensed in trepidation.

“Of course not, I could never leave you.”

She tried her best to hide behind a smile, but the rueful upturn of her lips easily gave away her secrets to the boy who could read her like a book.

“Then tell me what you were thinking of when you colluded with the Special Division?”

The girl wasn’t stunned by the statement that she had already known was coming, though it certainly didn’t help her prepare for this situation. She stood in silence, no longer worried about the chilly evening that didn’t bother her anymore, instead more concerned for her trembling soul being consumed by the red-eyed demon.

“Answer me!”

His response lacked the subtle warmth and adoration it once had, to the point she thought all of their history together was just an unrealistic dream that would never come true. And maybe that was so because…

Now all the fear that had been building up in her stomach and tormenting her mind was finally on full display at the sight of that all-too-familiar tarnished silver barrel. She flinched. Not the subtle jerks she had been giving all night whenever he said her name, but a jolt backwards like she was prepared to flee.

She wanted to throw up. Spill the pricey contents that unsettlingly filled her stomach across the gravel below.

She wanted to run away. Leave her life and everything- the good and the bad- behind to start anew in a foreign country far, far away from the Port Mafia.

That was the plan after all. But what did it matter now? What did it matter now that she was cornered by the man who used to whisper sweet nothings into her ear under sweaty sheets, the man who now forced her to either stare down the imposing loaded barrel waiting to dole out her inevitable fate, or the demonic, unfamiliar, red eye.

She wanted to breakdown and cry. Maybe his non-existent heart would have just enough pity to end her suffering quickly rather than continue this pointless torment. But what was she expecting from the mafia’s greatest torture specialist, the demon prodigy himself? He was probably relishing in her suffering, quietly laughing behind those watery eye mocked her for naively believing their relationship was ever truly real to him.

She wanted to give up. So tired of all these mind games and bloodshed that maybe she knew this was the only true way to release her soul from the bloodstained underworld, from all this worldly suffering she regrets enduring.

The click of the safety being turned off broke the agonizing silence. The muzzle pointed between her eyes at an almost point-blank range that even a blind man couldn’t miss. Most in her situation would be on their knees by now pathetically begging for their lives as they lie through their teeth about some loving family they can’t bear to part with, however she just stood there. Eyes were murky with tears that refused to fall, and a defeated smile graced the lips that he wished to kiss such sorrow off of because they only ever deserved joy.

“I love you, Osamu.”

The sorrowful crow whose beady black eye had silently judged the scene took flight in a frenzy as the gentle thud disturbed it. The dark liquid which miraculously until now had yet to stain the girl’s dark clothing soaked the black cotton a disturbing wet colour till the original shade disappeared in its entirety.

A barely visible stream of smoke rose from the hot muzzle as it rested by the side of the heartbroken lover.

The silence that followed suffocated the midnight air which took on the faintest hint of an irony scent.

“You can come out now, Chuuya, the deed is done.”

The shadow clad figure hesitated but didn’t seem surprised by the address from his partner. Unmistakeable orange locks came into the moon’s view for the first time since arriving at the warehouse as their owner floated down from the cracked window on the second floor.

“I didn’t think you would actually go through with it,” the ginger apprehensively replied.

“Oh come on, Chuuya, we’re partners, you should know me better than anyone, that a demon can’t fall in love.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

Dazai never answered Chuuya. Never spat back a teasing comment like usual to raise the ginger’s short temper in hopes of him kicking the bucket from high blood pressure. Dazai never even looked his way.

Instead, his right arm started to lift. The heavy object weighty in his hold, and the slight sizzle to his temple unpleasant, though it didn’t matter when all would be over soon. Nothing mattered anymore now that the heart that once beat for you both had gone silent at his own hands.

He was ready. Always had been for the past eighteen years. All he had to do was pull this trigger and-

“Hey!”

A swift kick to the wrist was all it took for the gun to fall from his grip with a resonant thud.

“Geez! If you were going to take it this badly why’d you kill her at all, you clearly knew I was following you.” The chihuahua’s barking never registered to his ears which still rang with the sound of his yet-again failed attempt.

“Oi, are you even listening to me?!” It was clear by the lightless eye that he was not. Chuuya seriously didn’t understand why he still bothered with this enigma of a man. Even if he was the only one who could read him, Dazai still managed to dumbfound him at times.

Though, looking back on his meeting earlier in the day, he supposed the outcome was inevitable.

“Chuuya,” the mafia don started the second his office door clicked shut, “I have a mission for you.”

“What is it, Boss?”

“I want you to eliminate Y/N. She has been caught leaking important documents to the Special Division in hopes of defecting from the mafia under their protection.”

The words clearly shocked the young man as his mind raced with any possibility that such a statement was untrue. He had met the girl several times while in the company of their mutual, Dazai, and was never once struck with any suspicion of possible disloyalty from her. Afterall, she was (somehow) the Demon Prodigy’s lover, and Chuuya knew that despite his general laziness toward work his partner would never tolerate betrayal to both him and the organisation. But Chuuya also knew better than to question the words of the boss as the former doctor would always, always prioritise the organisation’s security no matter the cost.

“I’ll see to it that it’s done,” was all the ginger could respond with.

“Chuuya… Dazai will try to interfere, you don’t have to stop him, just make sure that the task is completed. Afterall, I’m sure he won’t risk his position over some senseless feelings that need to be purged.”

With that, the young man was dismissed from the office and sent on his way to end the life of his work partner’s cherished lover.

“hehehe hahahaha!”

Chuuya was broken from his thoughts by the deranged laughter in front of him.

“Oh, hat rack, did you honestly think I could ever fall in love? Someone like me isn’t capable of such senseless feelings… no, if they do exist, they should be purged or else I might start seeing a point to living.” His tone was kept light the whole time, even his partner somehow bought it, though deep down he wasn’t entirely fooled by the lack of eye contact and the brunette’s quivering shoulders.

They stood like that for some time, in the silence of midnight which ate up the distant noise of Yokohama’s always bustling nightlife. They ignored the corpse not even five feet from them despite knowing they would have to call the cleaner to dispose of it and the blood which had somehow dried despite its unsettling size, a testament to how long they stood there.

Eventually, the silence and the cold became too much for Chuuya who had started to make his way back to the busy streets and toward home. But he stopped after only a few paces.

Dazai had not moved from his position, not even looked toward his partner, and instead opted to continue staring into the jet-black sea that perfectly reflected the moon’s azure glow.

“Hey… you coming or what?”

All he got was a hollow hum of approval in reply, though it still took Dazai another minute to finally set off. Chuuya never tried to leave without him despite his muffled grumbles of “damn, it’s cold,” and “hurry it up already.”

As they finally set off, Dazai couldn’t help but stop beside the cold body of his once lover. Her skin a ghostly pale- even for a corpse- and a clear icy blue tint to her lips that even his favourite vibrant red lipstick couldn’t disguise. And yet she was still the most beautiful woman to ever grace his sight, and probably ever will in his (hopefully) short, pitiful life.

“Don’t worry, my dear Belladonna. I’ll join you in hell soon.”

And as if it was a careless afterthought, whispered to the winds, the boy didn’t even realise the words escaped his lips.

“I love you.”

Extra (because I really wanted this in but didn't want to ruin the vibe):

“Oh, and I’m not paying for your meal, stupid mackerel, or sharing the rest of this bottle with you after you wasted it.”

“Aww, but as my dog, it’s your duty to serve your master.”

“You- I’ll kill you!”

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd manga #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd dazai #dazai x reader #pm dazai x reader

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reveluving · 1 year ago

Text

mother knows best ; phillip graves x reader x jeff sadecki

summary: mama knows love when she sees one. or three.

warnings: mostly Phil & Jeff’s mom’s POV, mentions of angst (teen!Jeff cheating but not on you, family fights, parents passing away), very tiny allusions to s~mut (minors DNI!), loads of fluff towards the end, Mama Denise is yours and her boys’ number one fan 🩷

a/n: thought I’d use this chance to write this after this ask! this is based on this lil' post! I know Jeff’s mom is named Linda but this is about him and Phil, a.k.a. my mind, so say hello to Mama Denise! pls don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

» interested in more of the series? find it here & here!

Denise Baker has always been a sweet lady. The epitome of a Southern’s hospitality. Married twice, first to a man named Danny Sadecki, then the second being Tom Graves after Danny passed away. They were good people. The best, feeling grateful each day for giving her the best gifts a hopeful mother could ever ask for.

Two amazing boys.

Keeping their last names rather than changing them to her maiden name was instinctive. At a one-year-plus age gap, Phil took after his mother’s Southern twang whereas Jeff followed his stepfather’s general American accent. They grew to be one happy family, and the brothers, despite their differences in interests and personality, would fight tooth and nail for one another.

But since Tom’s passing, the boys have been less lively, and understandably so. No matter how well they hid their sadness behind innocent smiles each time their mother was in the room, she could see right through them. She didn’t know what she did to earn such sweet boys, always attentive to their Mama at a young age, but she had always hoped to see the fire in them return someday.

That was until they met you.

You and Phil were the same age, just beginning middle school with his brother somewhere a little further from the Bakers’ than the town’s high school.

The brothers had been waiting for their mother to pick them up when you slid next to Phil in the waiting chair. It was raining cats and dogs in Wiskayok, so you had to squeeze yourself into the bus stop to avoid getting drenched.

“Sorry,” You squeaked with a guilty smile when your shoulders touched.

Phil was beyond the age of believing in cooties, plus, he and Jeff were a mama’s boy, and she didn’t raise a woman (girl?)-hater.

“S’okay.” His smile was half-hearted, a little miffed that he couldn’t get to the stand in time when it began raining, and at this point, Jeff had noticed your sudden presence. They’ve seen you before, especially Phil. You always sat in front of him in class, mostly seen with full of life and blinding smile with a missing tooth.

“Your mom’s coming late, too?” Phil knew he didn’t have to make the conversation any longer than he’d like, but he had no reason to do that with you. You were so… nice, and yet, so respectful. Always giving him a wave instead of barging into his personal space bubble like a lot of his classmates did.

Plus, his mother was already thirty minutes late, what was there to lose?

“Yeah. My brother and I have been waitin’ for a lil’ while,” He replied with a shrug, pausing for a second before asking, “You?”

“Yeah, same,” You responded, though more lighthearted than he was, kicking your feet as you looked at the road, “It’s okay, though. Mom’s always busy. They’re probably tired. So long I’m not alone here, I’m not scared to wait for my mom.”

There you go, with your smile again. Phil couldn’t help but smile back, it was tiny but you could see the slight quirk of his lips. Jeff, too, found your positivity infectious and had been listening.

He had joined in on the conversation moments after. It was fairly light, with Jeff doing most of the talking, but that didn’t mean Phil wasn’t listening and chiming in once in a while. It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later when Denise came, rushing over to her boys with an umbrella and endless apologies.

You were ready to say goodbye to the two and resume waiting on your own when Denise approached you with a motherly look.

“Hi, darlin,” She crouched in front of you, with Jeff and Phil at a perfect height as they stood under her umbrella, “I’m Denise, Jeffrey and Phillip’s mama. What’s your name?”

You were a lot shyer with her, considering she was an adult, but you trusted her enough with your name since you kinda knew his youngest.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Even with the heavy rain, her soft-spoken voice was hard to miss, “D’you know when y’mama will come pick you up?”

You shook your head, telling her that with your mother working at a busy cafe, it could vary. And like you told the boys, you were alright with waiting rather than daring to walk home since the bus stop was always full. Still, Denise, ever the kind-hearted woman, offered to drive you to your mother’s workplace.

Denise understood that you were wary and good on you for being careful, but to her surprise, Jeff and Phil were nice enough to reassure you. And whether you agreed because of their mother’s gentleness, Jeff’s natural talent to make you feel comfortable with all three of them or even the hint of promise in Phil’s eyes that everything was going to be fine, Denise was glad you did.

Your mother was extremely thankful, even offered to pay for their lunch for their next visit, but Denise refused and with the two becoming fast friends just as you were with Jeff and Phil, the rest was history.

Though, high school was… eventful, to say the least. While the two of you remained close, almost joined at the hip, you and Phil sometimes preferred backing off as Jeff’s popularity grew. Not that Jeff’s behaviour changed with the two of you, he was still the dorky, good-willed boy you knew.

Although you and Phil may have fought a little with Jeff when he told you about his cheating on Jackie with Shauna. He broke up with Jackie soon after, but his decision to stay with Shauna may or may not have affected your friendship. You and his brother weren’t too keen on the idea of their own friend/brother being a cheater after all.

Jeff especially hated it when it rocked what the two of you had. He was dumb enough to think ending up with Shauna or Jackie would make him forget his interest in you, and surprise surprise, it didn’t. The three of you stayed close friends, though he promised never to bring up about Shauna around you or Phil at all.

And then, high school ended.

Phil’s decision to leave town for the Marines was not only the biggest shock to the neighbourhood but especially to his own family. Not that he didn’t have the means to be one, if anything, his mother and brother knew he’d be one of, if not, the best ones out there. He just never expressed his interest in military work at all.

Throughout their years as a family, Mama had never seen the two fight so badly until Jeff discovered that Phil had been considering leaving Wiskayok, leaving their mother after they both finished community college. Though their fall-out didn’t last long, no more than two weeks, especially when their mother expressed her worries and sadness over their rocky relationship.

Plus, Jeff didn’t want what strong bond he had with his brother to end just like that. He cared for his brother too much, and in their moment of vulnerability, he apologized for not doing more in their high school years. When some of his peers saw his little brother as his shadow rather than a person. Phil insisted that he barely cared about them, even flat out said they weren’t necessarily his friends unless it had to do anything with football.

They hugged it out, and Mama was over the moon. Suddenly, the thought of Phil leaving for the military wasn’t as difficult, knowing that her boys were still going to keep in touch, and on a high note, no less.

He spent his last month in Wiskayok with you and your mother with the most mundane of things.

But oh, how Mama’s emotions dipped when you, too, left shortly after your mother passed away.

She couldn’t put it past you for doing so. How could she, when you’ve been nothing but an angel? A one in a million and she’d be damned if she convinced you to stay like a bird in a cage. As much as she and Jeff would love to, insisting that there was something for you in town, but just like with Phil, they didn’t. It was far too selfish of them, and you had so much potential.

And as thankful as Mama was to have Jeff by her side at all times, there was someone else.

Shauna.

Shauna never sat right with her, no matter how far she was ‘willing’ to go to get to know her future mother-in-law better. Though the smile she brought out of Jeff was nowhere near as big or as wholesome as he was with you, there was a hint of guilt for feeling the way she did. Hoping you’d end up with one of her sons.

But she wasn’t the only one thinking as such, but Jeff felt that he had lost his chance when you left.

So, he carried himself again to be a better person, especially when he truly believed Shauna was the one, much to his mother’s disbelief. Hell, she’d seen bigger smiles from him when he was with that Jackie girl before they broke up.

But her boy was insistent.

Maybe, for once, her mother’s intuitions were wrong.

And as the days went by, the possibility of Jeff putting a ring on Shauna grew higher, Mama did her best to accept her as her own. The two were civil at best, and no doubt that was enough for the two.

But the years grew dull for the Sadeckis, and the second Jeff came knocking on his mother’s door at two in the morning, his wife not in sight, she knew she should’ve done more to stop what they had.

It began with petty arguments, with Jeff being the one apologizing to Shauna, despite knowing she was in the wrong or if she began the fight in the first place. Then it became quarrels, something about her nonexistent book club when in reality, she had been meeting up with a man named Adam.

Each time Mama received a call from her eldest, telling her that he and his wife ‘needed space’, she’d cook up a nice meal and make sure his old room was ready with the amenities he needed.

If it weren’t for Jeff’s attempts to calm his mother down, telling her it wasn’t worth the trouble, she would’ve marched down to Shauna’s front door and knocked some sense into her with a rolling pin. How dare she point her finger at Jeff, attempting to invalidate her own faults by saying it was him who cheated first during their years of marriage, thus, giving her the green light to do the same.

Although yes, Jeff has done it once, when he cheated on Jackie, he regretted it. Immensely, especially seeing the disappointment in his mother’s face. Oh, how he apologized to her like he had committed the biggest sin of all, and frankly, he did. And though his mother was dismayed by his dishonesty, she knew when any of her boys truly regretted something.

Boy, never has he wished for things to turn out differently and still, he wanted to work things out, when he tried to show his mother what he saw in Shauna.

And she did, but she didn’t see what she or Jeff hoped she’d saw. The final straw was when his wife—his ex-wife disrespected his mother in her own house. He had given her many chances, forgiving her more times than he could count, but he could not stand for her raising her voice at his beloved mother.

Denise had every right to feel grateful when the divorce happened, but that didn't mean she openly celebrated it in front of her son. But Phil was different, even went as far as having a congratulatory gift sent to their doorstep since he was still on duty. Despite knowing his brother was rolling in dough with his line of work, Jeff couldn’t help but gawk at the gifts, much to his mother’s amusement. A set of cashmere sweaters that probably cost anywhere from half to one grand, complete with a few bottles of fragrances and even one of the finest reds to commemorate the moment. Plus, a personalized rose-gold bracelet for Mama because why wouldn’t he want to spoil her at any given chance?

And though he and his mother did enjoy a few sips after moving back into the Bakers’ house, he couldn’t help but wonder how you were doing.

But he didn’t have to wait for long.

The day you and Phil returned to Wiskayok, standing in front of Mama’s door, she nearly dropped to her knees. Not only has she missed her youngest boy, despite his efforts in calling and texting and visiting in secret each time his deployment ended, but she most certainly missed you, too. It was your first time visiting since the very day you left, after all. Phil didn’t take it to heart when his mother scolded him for not telling her that the two of you were colleagues and maybe were together.

In reality, though, she had a feeling that you were still around. Closer than what you made them believe.

There were days when Phil had a chance to call his mother, and she’d suddenly bring you up. Wondering aloud if you were alright, how life was treating you in God knows where, and somehow, Phil’s confidence in his responses, telling her that he was certain you were doing well, she believed him. Word for word. As if she knew he was with you throughout your journey to find yourself, just like he did.

And she’d be right when the universe reunited you and Phil on the battlefield. When Shadow Company joined forces with 141 and Los Vaqueros, not expecting to find the girl of his dreams amongst the chaos and in those years, you laughed, you smiled, you wept and you released yourself for him and him alone. Finally acknowledging what the two of you were afraid to address as teenagers all those years ago.

Phil couldn’t imagine bringing his walls down for someone other than you and though like with everyone else, he still kept up the proud and almost infuriating act, no one else had the privilege to see the more caring, affectionate side of him except for you.

But Mama wasn't the only one surprised by the revelation.

On the first night of your arrival, Jeff didn't talk much, instead, hanging on to your every word. From the very moment you reached the city alone for the first time, till the very day you carried yourself into your team and reunited with Phil. How you even remembered the gifts you were meaning to give him and their mother in the middle of the conversation. And as the night fell, you insisted on booking a hotel not far from the neighbourhood.

Oh, how Mama has missed the old days when she'd tell you to stay over, making sure to call your mother about your whereabouts. While she wouldn’t dream of replacing your mother, it was understandable how her attentiveness for you has skyrocketed, now that she knew you and his son were coming over much more often.

Still, she had conditions, eyeing Phil with a knowing look before telling him that you’d be staying in the guestroom. Still spick and span for hopeful days like these. Phil's cheeky smile was worth a thousand words, knowing his mother had caught on to what type of little games the two of you played. Her eye-roll was good-natured, even letting out a hearty laugh when she caught the embarrassed look on your face.

Throughout your stay, she saw how your relationship with Phil blossomed, and how the more-than-friendly feelings between you and Jeff were beginning to rekindle. How her sons’ true emotions—their true colours were showing in that same very house as it always did, as if nothing had changed. Mama knew there was something more to the loving looks they’d give you whenever you looked away.

And when she saw the three of you hanging out and sitting close in the backyard patio, watching the stars and laughing over a stupid stunt one of them had done as kids, she knew that you and her boys were going to be A-ok.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

a/n: we love mama denise. ;; gorgeous rose divider by @firefly-graphics ♡

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