#and then a rabbit when he actually confessed that he liked her

[kessielrg]

Going through old wips and such on my computer, and Care Bears fandom, I want to apologize now that the post CB movie 2 fic I wanted to write is still only a faint idea and four disjointed paragraphs. Because that means

“I can’t believe you’re the one who made me turn good.” Dark Heart huffed. “You’re terrible.”

Christy laughed.

is just on some random document that may never be longer than 100 words. 😂😭

Also: Dark Heart's human name was going to be Donovan Hardy because (and I quote my notes) he was 'named after the Hardy Boys on Dawn’s suggestion, nicknamed Nova because John thinks it sounds cool (and anything would be better after being called Dark Heart)'. The fic was going to be called No One Dies From Love, thanks to Tove Lo and her Dirt Femme album that came out this year, with the mentioned title being a single from it.

[cinnamonest]

Female-Targeted Doujin Masterlist

Thank you anon! Sooooo, I have decided to compile a female-targeted/yumejoshi masterlist, I'll add this post to my main masterlist soon.

These were the one I could think of from memory, I’ll come back to this list and add to it if I get more, I'm sure I missed a few from my bookmarks. Feel free to add to it in the comments, and I'll try to find and update it! Also, several of these were recommended from anons in the past, so thank you all <3

FYI several links lead to nh*ntai dot net, so be aware of that.

Umekoppe

As per the post anon is referencing, Umekoppe is a doujin group that consistently puts out exclusively good content!

“The Yandere Prince Won't Let Me Slip Away”

(Part One)

(Part Two)

Premise: Isekai/pseudo-reincarnation trope, premise basically explained by the title, MC is isekai'd as prince's lost lover.

"The Sacrificial Maiden Corrupted by Coupling With an Oni"

(Link)

Premise: Historical Japan setting, the "MC is an offering sacrifice to the Creature, but the Creature chooses to keep her instead" trope.

"Until the Trashiest Boy Toy Exorcist Ren-kun Crushes Me in His Embrace"

(Part One)

(Part Two)

Premise: MC is a girl that attracts malevolent spirits, exorcist-kun is obligated to help her ward them off (with orgasms, naturally).

"The Spy Who Ravished Me ~Reborn As a Mafia Princess in a Deadly Game~"

(Link)

Premise: Isekai, MC reincarnated into a game where she knows who the guy who is most likely to kill her is, but in her attempt to avoid getting killed by him, ends up taking actions that make him grow into an obsessive love-hate instead. Top tier, this boy is probably the worst (in a good way) of how all the Umekoppe love interests treat the girl.

"Heibon Onna wa Downer Kami-sama ni Izon sarete Modorenai" (this one didn't have a translated title, sorry)

(Link)

Premise: MC discovers her friend is a shrine god and wolf-boy. Wolfboy fun times ensue (and in the end she's apparently unknowingly trapped into being with him forever, so that's nice).

You’re Cutest When You’re Pathetic ~Obsessed Golden Retriever Boy Haru’s Disciplinary Sex~

(Part One)

(Part Two)

Premise: Softboy™ neighbor finds MC's phone with lewd stuff on it, gets her confessions in drunk conversations, turns out to not be so much of a Softboy behind closed doors.

Oniben Katze

Another group that also does a lot of fem-targeted stuff.

Serious Sex with my Brutish Boyfriend

(Link)

Premise: MC's lover gets mad over rumors that she's a slut, decides to get possessive and rough over it.

Dog Eat Dog Era

(Part One)

(Part Two/Extras)

Premise: a personal favorite, an isekai'd witch adopts two dragon boys who grow up to have a strong fixation with her and noncon ensues.

Parasite Garden

Makes notably darker stuff that contains more controversial subject matter/themes, so be warned.

The Corpse of a Goldfish is at the Bottom of the Swamp

(Link)

CW: INCEST

Premise: possessive brother wants to corrupt/mindbreak sister to keep her forever (spoiler: he succeeds)

The Neighbor in Room 203 Disappeared Leaving their Keys Behind

(Link)

Premise: stalker girl meets her match, as it turns out the boy neighbor she's stalking pulls a spiderman pointing meme and has actually been her stalker for even longer and to a much greater, darker, and more more extreme extent, and is intent on not letting her go.

My Sweet Bunny Cage

(Part One)

(Part Two)

Premise: tiny girl is kidnapped by a crazed guy convinced she is the reincarnation of his lost pet rabbit.

Other

(artist listed below titles)

If you wish, hypnosis ~Maki-san's secret love therapy~

(Link)

Artist: Meeo

Premise: pretty straightforward, after she doesn't believe it's real, MC's coworker uses hypnosis on her for Certain Specific Purposes.

Sakaki the Lazybones Shows His Talents at Night

(Link) (Contains all chapters' links on the page, you might have to scroll down on the chapter list to see chapter one on some phones)

Artist: Potsunen Jin

Premise: (Another personal favorite) MC's younger coworker, peak innocent idolizing softboy, is in love with her and takes advantage of a situation while she's drunk after watching porn to "learn what girls like." Clingy, possessive relationship ensues.

Lady K and the Sick Man

(Chapter One) (site's menu is a bit awkward to deal with, but you have to click in the corner to view the menu to go to other chapters).

Artist: Rororogi Mogera

Yet another personal favorite, this one does have slight male gaze to it in that it focuses on the girl quite a bit, but it still focuses on the guy way more than the average doujin. Also the guy is an older bigger guy, if you ever tire of the twink/twunk standard in yumejoshi stuff.

Premise: guy moves into an apartment with a ghost lady and just kinda accepts it because he can't afford to live anywhere else, but quickly decides he’s down bad for ghussy.

I Became the True Love Object of Mr. Segawa, Who Has a Huge Attitude and Body

(Link)

Artist: Haruo Haruyama

Premise: very straightforward office coworkers to lovers, coworker is a big guy who turns out to be kinda sadistic, which is good for the masochistic MC.

The Man Who Saved Me on my Isekai Trip was a Killer

(Part One)

(Part Two)

(Part Three)

Artist: Ahan Horihori

Premise: this one got kind of infamous and shock-valued the mainstream crowd due to an animated advertisement I believe, it's essentially self-explanatory from the title: isekai'd lady gets saved by a guy who turns out to be a violent murderer, dark and sometimes pseudo-incesty plot twists ensue.

[cryptidghostgirl]

I have another chubby reader for you! I was only gonna ask for one but YOURE SO AMAZING I JUST HAD TO PUT IN ANOTHER REQUEST😞😩 Alastor x chubby!reader, where reader goes out with angel Dust to a party or something wearing a *cough* slutty *cough* outfit and Alastor SEES THEM WEARING IT 👀 and he gets possessive of reader and won't let them leave with angel (whose smirking in the background and fluttering his eyelashes like he's innocent because reader and Alastor are bother emotionally constipated or something and haven't confessed to each other😤) and reader is nervous enough wearing something so revealing already (but they felt good enough in their own skin to wear such an outfit; that confidence is quickly fading when Alastor stops her from leaving with the outfit) so she gets the wrong idea that Alastor thinks she disgusting or body shaming her 🥺 but Alastors just ranting about being ladylike and "dressing like a proper lady" , Angel Dust is now watching this heartbreaking train wreck happen and tries to intervene but then Alastor turns on him about tainting the reader or something but reader has heard enough and just quietly just turns around and walks to her room heartbroken 😭 then angel yells at Alastor and tells him everything *shocked Pikachu face* and goes to reader to fix this misunderstanding, you take it from here????? BUT THEY DO CONFESS

(I LOVE ME SOME HURT/COMFORT AND LOVE CONFESSIONS! YUMM!)

A/N I love your requests and I'm so glad you liked how Sweet turned out. I am actually really proud of that one myself. Of course I will write this. 11/10.

Pretty Bunny (Alastor x Chubby!Rabbit Demon!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort. Body image and weight stuff. I feel like Alastor is a bit ooc but I think this is cute so I don't super care.

Word Count: 2,049

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

“And where exactly is it you two are off to in such a hurry?”

Y/n and Angel froze, Angel's hand resting on the handle to the hotel's door.

"Well?"

Exchanging a covert look, Y/n and Angel turned to face Alastor. Y/n clasped her hands innocently behind her back, looking up at Alastor through her lashes which Angel had done up in silver falsies, and Angel fixed a smile on his face.

"Just out." Y/n hummed.

"Yeah," Angel chimed in, draping one of his lower arms over Y/n's shoulders and bringing her into his side, "little Y/n here deserves a night out on the town and some fun."

Y/n quickly elbowed Angel in the side. The spider demon knew Alastor and his opinions on the night life of Pentagram City. He was tempting fate. Alastor raised his eyebrows.

"You deserve 'some fun,' do you?" Alastor asked, fixing his gaze on the shorter of the pair of demons.

Angel released his grip on Y/n, shoving her forward slightly. She stumbled a bit, shooting him a glare before looking carefully back at Alastor. His scrutinizing gaze traversed her form with care. Angel had insisted on dressing her up and while the outfit he had put her in was a bit out of her comfort zone, Y/n felt incredibly pretty. The little white satin dress hung from her hips, playing gently against her thighs when she walked, and the black knee high platforms made her at least a couple inches taller. Angel had even placed black satin bows around the bases of her rabbit ears to tie the whole thing together.

There were also the chains, thin and dripping off her body. A necklace here, a carefully placed waist chain there, she looked practically angelic. Alastor crossed his arms, tapping his foot menacingly as he impatiently waited for an explanation.

"Well, we've been working so hard to become better people and it's been three months since we've done anything... fun. Besides, it was my birthday last week."

"Uh-huh." Alastor nodded, his lack of amusement with the situation obvious, "And where exactly are you two planning on going?"

"Oh come on, Smiles. It's just a club I know." Angel sighed, "You're starting to sound like Charlie. I thought you wanted to see us fail."

"That is true." was the only response the Radio Demon gave Angel before fixing his attention on Y/n once again.

She was beginning to grow uncomfortable under his piercing stare. Y/n wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching slightly.

"So what is the issue, Alastor."

The name felt foreign on her tongue. Although she had been a guest of the Hazbin Hotel practically since its creation, she avoided Alastor. At first, it had of course been due to intimidation. Then, as he had slowly begun to reveal his true colors to the residents of the hotel, it had morphed into something entirely other. Y/n thought that the Radio Demon, one of the most feared overlords in all of Hell, was pretty.

Y/n had never been good at dealing with crushes or flirting or anything. She avoided him like the plague. Her tail twitched thoughtlessly with trepidation, shifting her skirt just the slightest bit, revealing just the smallest big more of her thighs.. It was the last straw for Alastor.

"You're not going out in that."

Angel pressed his palm to his forehead, shaking his head. Love was his specialty, the act and the feeling. It was obvious to him Y/n had a thing for the Radio Demon, and not just because she had revealed the information to him in one of their late night talks. He never brought it up with the rabbit demon who had become a dear friend in the time they had known one another, but he was relatively certain Alastor had some interest in her as well. The Radio Demon seemed to constantly be a few steps behind her, entering rooms she had just left, letting his eyes linger on her when they did their group exercises.

At Alastor's words, Y/n's mouth fell slightly open. Her breath caught in her throat, a shiver running through her.

"Oh."

Her voice was strained and Angel could tell she was holding back tears. Y/n turned away from Alastor, her shoulders slouching even further.

"That is no way for a proper lady to dress." Alastor continued, not seeming to notice the effect his words had had as he lectured the smaller demon, "I mean, you're barley wearing anything at all! For goodness sake, your shoes are covering more than that dress an-"

"Alright," Angel cut in, stepping up beside Y/n and pulling her into his arms, "that's enough big guy."

"You're clearly tainting her with your promiscuity." Alastor sighed, "What, you want to bring her to some club so ignorant wimps can drool over her all night? Or maybe that's what she wants to have happen."

Y/n pulled herself from Angel's grip and marched right up to Alastor. Her eyes wet with unshed tears, he looked down at the finger she was jabbing into his chest in mild shock.

"You are mean." she stated, "I can't believe how wrong I was about you. I thought... god!"

She let her finger fall and crossed her arms over her stomach once again.

"You ready to go, sweet cheeks?" Angel asked and she shook her head.

All the fight had gone out of her.

"No, you go ahead without me. I think... I think I'm just gonna go to bed. Thanks for... yeah."

With those parting words, Y/n stormed upstairs. Angel and Alastor watched until she had long since disappeared into the depths of the hotel. Slowly, they turned to face each other once again.

"What." Alastor said in the most deadpan tone Angel had ever heard come from the demon.

"How could you do that?" Angel asked accusatorially, taking a step towards Alastor, "She is the sweetest little menace on the planet!"

"Do what?"

Alastor's brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't think he'd said anything wrong, done anything wrong. Y/n was the one who had over reacted, stepped out of line, right?

"Do you have any idea how long it has taken her to be confident enough to wear something like that? She has worked so hard on her relationship with herself and... and... she felt pretty. Why would you say that shit to her?"

"I... what?"

"She liked you, ya dumbass! She cared about what you thought of her!"

Alastor took the slightest step back, his hand not grasping his microphone raised to his chest, hovering over his heart.

"I am afraid I don't understand you."

Angel sighed, trying to calm himself.

"Look. Y/n has a crush on you and you just told her she wasn't pretty."

"No I didn't. I told her she should be more ladylike. A crush on me?"

"Yeah well, that's not much better. She is who she is and she is wonderful! The way that she dresses doesn't change any of that."

"She has a crush on me?" Alastor asked again, dumbstruck.

"Yes you idiot."

"But she never speaks to me. I thou-"

"That's cause she's nervous. Geeze, you are dense."

Y/n jumped in shock as she caught sight of Alastor using his shadows to teleport into her room through the reflection of the mirror. Her makeup half off, she turned to him.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Alastor opened his mouth, about to make a comment about her language before thinking better of it and closing it again. Y/n rolled her eyes, her anger and hurt having festered into irritation. She turned back to the mirror, using the cotton pad in her hand to take off the last of her mascara. Alastor watched her face through the mirror as she tossed the cotton pad to the side.

Reaching up, she slowly began to disassemble the sculpture of a hairdo Angel had put her in.

"Why are you here?" she asked again, placing a bobby pin on the table.

"I came to... apologize." he replied, taking a small step forward.

"What, did Angel force ya' to?"

It wasn't often her accent slipped out. Y/n had been raised in Brooklyn but her parents had been insistent she work not to have the accent. People didn't take people who had them seriously, they said. It only ever made an appearance when she was drunk or feeling any emotion to it's extremity, especially anger.

"No, I am here of my own volition."

"Yeah, sure." she scoffed as she pulled the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall freely around her face as she turned back to him over her shoulder, "I totally believe that."

"It was not my intent to make you feel like you weren't... pretty." Alastor carefully said, avoiding her eyes, "Just tha-

"If an apology involves an exception, is it really an apology?"

Alastor had never been good at this. Apologies or any of the other feelings he had been actively suppressing about the rabbit demon since he had come to the hotel. She stood up from her chair, walking over to him.

Y/n knew the clock was ticking, felt the heat of the tears building in her head again.

"What." she asked, throwing her arms out to the sides and looking around the room, "Ya' think I'm ugly? Unladylike? Is that because I let Angel dress me up or because I'm not stick thin?"

"Y/n."

There were tears dripping down her cheeks now. She looked away, crossing her arms tightly across her stomach in protection.

"Just leave, Alastor."

"Y/-"

"Leave!" she commanded, "Get outa here!"

"Y/-"

"I don' wanna talk to you! What don't ya' get about that!"

"Y/n!" Alastor grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him.

"What!" she yelled back, tears streaming hotly down her face, "What, Alastor."

"I... I think you're beautiful."

The tears stopped, Y/n's eyes wide. Fueled by a sudden wild courage Alastor continued, grabbing her hands in his own.

"I do. You... I don't have the words. You..." he shook his head, "I really don't. You are a wonder."

Her nose twitched subtly, her ears adjusting themselves atop her head.

"But then why... why did you say those things to me?"

"I was jealous." he anxiously admitted, "I never meant to make you cry."

"Jealous?" Y/n repeated with a slight laugh and Alastor nodded.

His cheeks were hot and his heart pounding in his chest but he refused to look away from Y/n. Releasing one of her hands, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. Gently, he raised it to Y/n's face, patting away her tears.

"You were jealous."

He wasn't going to be able to escape this one.

"That some other guy was gonna see you like that? Was going to charm you and hold you in their arms while I did nothing? Of course I was."

"I have a confession to make." Y/n said after a moment.

"And what might that be?" Alastor asked as he took another step closer to Y/n, still holding one of her hands in his.

He tried his best to repress a smile, her bashfulness was so endearing.

"I maybe, kind of sort of... think you're beautiful too?"

She looked up at him through her lashes. He let go of her hands, grabbing her by the waste and pulling her body into his.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." she nodded shyly.

"You know, I might have heard something along those lines from Angel just a bit earlier."

"From... that little bitch! I mean snitch! I mean both actually I guess."

Alastor laughed at her antics.

"So, pretty bunny, what are we to do with this revelation?"

Y/n's ears cocked. Alastor could feel her tail twitch, brushing up against his arm where he held her. A shiver traveled down his spine.

"Oh I don't know." Y/n feigned indecision, her hands finding her way around his waist as well, bringing them even closer together, "Maybe you should ask me on a date? If you're interested."

"Interested?" Alastor laughed, leaning down, "Of course I am."

[pickingupmymercedes]

Wrong for me - Charles Leclerc

📷 @/nicolo.furicchia

pairing: charles leclerc x fem! f1 related! reader (the reader is a tp's daughter, I wrote with Toto in mind but there's no names)

song: Angels - Miley Cyrus

warnings: angsty but happy-ish ending

wordcount: 1k

a/n: Bit of a short one but it is my first time writing for Charles, so would you guys give some feedback? Also I'm thinking of opening up requests for drivers x readers with songs inspirations, I actually really like to take songs as inspirations

I know that you’re wrong for me, gonna wish we never met on the day I leave

It was everything your father had warned you not to do, yet it was everything you’ve thought about ever since he walked through the f1 paddock back in 2018. You knew he was wrong for you, but the very thought of each other consumed every inch of logical judgment in both of you. He had a couple of girlfriends since, they were all nice and polite, you tried to stay away but it didn’t make much of a difference. Their official reason for the break ups were the hardships of dating a driver, but he would tell you sometime later some of the exact words he heard were “Why am I always so sure your mind is on her?”.

A puppy love that had burned bright for a little over 6 months when you were still 16 but somehow had managed to quietly find its way through to today. Only this time the flame had threatened to burn not only your hearts but the entirety of his and your father’s team. The tension between the two of you had always been evident to those who knew what had happened back then, but as the 2024 season went further it was more than obvious to anyone with eyes that there was something there. Feelings and desire neither of you would dare to act upon and that would further build an atmosphere that could be felt and cut with a knife, making you wish every day you had never met.

When you finally realized you had the same effect he did on you, hurting him was how you protected yourself from giving in to the urge to fall head first into a love that you believed would not be able to thrive. So as his relationships crumbled down to their inevitable ends, you embarked in a string of meaningless flings in search of someone that would take your mind off of the one thing that you truly wanted.

Bringing him down to his knees with every ghosting you’d purposely inflict him, finding some unimportant meeting to attend instead of where you said you’d be, all the while excitedly celebrating his first win, birthday or even little achievements, moments of weakness you’d let your true emotions surface, only to shut him out right after, pledging to not drag him down the rabbit hole that was your blinding infatuation, with what you believed to be his way out of “misery loves company”.

Some of the drivers, protective as they had become of you, caught on pretty early how although Charles wouldn’t confess his affections, he would never candidly deny them either, which resulted in rising untrust between some of them, with your father on the other hand taking the blind eye approach and ignoring what was obvious until he couldn’t anymore.

You tried to pretend things were taken care of, but every time you found yourselves in the same space sparks could almost be seen coming from every other direction. The breaking point being a very public and loud display of how tense things were between you and him one Saturday night at the paddock, the motive long forgotten as both of you screamed at the top of your lungs for things the other had no fault. The frustration of walking on egg shells around each other clearly evident on the screaming match, and your father’s first intervention resulting in two grown adults looking like sulking toddlers who had just been told they had to deal with their emotions before anyone got seriously hurt in the cross fire.

That wasn’t the last time, and although you would try to keep discussions and screaming matches alike from happening, the public stares and midnight bedroom escapades escalated to a point where everyone decided enough was enough, and you were both locked at the FIA conference room, to either “kiss or scream it out” – their exact words.

“I’m not like your past relationship, Charles. I won’t bring you security, peace and quiet. I’m a mess and you know it, you’ve seen it. Everything I touch turns into a huge media monster and I’m fated to lose every single person I love. It’s not your fault I ruin everything, and it’s not your fault I can’t be what you need” You confessed, looking him with bloodshot eyes, tears falling freely.

“I don’t want them, I want you. Baggage and all, media attention and crazy fans, protective father and f1 drivers haunting me for years to come… The mess and everything they always said you’d be, because that’s the woman I fell in love with.” And although you had reservations on what you believed could be a relationship with the power to destroy his life, and potently his career, you gave in, letting your heart speak louder than your fears.

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: This Confession Has Meant Nothing (Yandere Derek Goffard x Reader)

Title: This Confession Has Meant Nothing [Yandere Derek Goffard x Reader]

For Horrorfest request:

I don't have much of an idea beyond Derek as Patrick Bateman style serial killer. You're his final girl/boy. Surviving his spree.  he hates how fascinated he is with you.

Word Count: 748

notes: yandere, mentions of killing, derek wants to (maybe) kill you; reader is a sex worker

You are one, stupid ugly piece of shit. You’re worthless. Gutter trash. So far beneath him that you’re almost not worthy of killing; not worthy of him scuffing his shoes, handcrafted genuine leather that costs more than rent at your shitty apartment for a year. More, maybe. 

You are nothing. Just some bones and a meat suit, just something to bide his time with, something for him to (maybe) fuck and film and when he’s bored enough, dissect. He even tells you his real name (Derek Goffard, and you looked impressed, and you SHOULD BE) because he’s going to kill you so why not? 

You’re just something to discard with the morning trash, the morning paper, maybe his nice shoes too because he can buy a new pair whenever he fucking wants. An inconsequential speck.

And yet.

He can’t stop thinking about you. 

About the way your lip curled up at him when you realized what he’d done to Susie or Cheryl or whatever her name was. Doesn’t matter. A woman he bought for the night after he bought you, and you were pretending to get along so well that for a moment he assumed your first reaction to seeing her bleeding out from the knife sounds in her torso would be to reach out. Grief. Horror. Shock.

But no. Instead, you’d looked at him… straight at him… like you had the fucking right And you sneered. Actually sneered! With this look of hatred in your eyes that told him you thought you were better than him, that he was shit and you were gold.

You really were fucking stupid, weren’t you? 

But then how--and the thought creeps into his brain and he smacks it out viscerally with his hand--did you get away from him? How did you make it out of the condo, into the hallway, down the stairs (ALL those stairs) and out the front door into the night? How hasn’t he found you yet?

Maybe you didn’t have to be smart to survive. Yeah. That made sense. Animals survive in the wild all the time, don’t they? Not all rabbits are eaten by wolves. Some are just fast enough to scurry off into some hole to hide out in, to live another day, to fuck and breed and repeat the cycle until they are either roadkill or fall prey to an eagle or some shit like that.

You were his rabbit. 

But he wasn’t going to let you get away. He couldn’t imagine you getting away, cleaning yourself up, getting out of the city. You’d get some job that pays the rent and meet someone; maybe you two would have kids, and you’d be a grandparent or something ridiculous like that, decades down the line.

No.

That wasn’t what he wanted for you. Not when he’d killed so many others in the past few weeks. Not when he recognized you for what you were: his, in some way. His to kill. His to finish with. 

Yeah, that would be nice. After he killed you, he’d take a break from it for a while. Maybe see if he could get a promotion at his dad’s business. Find someone to get engaged with--appearances, and all that--and pop out a kid. He could always go back to killing if he felt like it.

That’s the way the world works. He was allowed to kill because he was richer and smarter and better looking. You were going to die because you were nothing beneath his (expensive) shoes. 

He just has to find you first. Oh, and when he does… he presses his face against the car window, breath fogging it up. He can just imagine what he’ll do to you. Hurt you. Kill you. Keep you? All three sounded enticing.

His fingers itch, his cock goes hard, just thinking about it.

The street lights are dim in this part of the city, but bright enough for people to make out the faces on the corners, the curve of bodies standing close to the curb. 

If you ran, you might have run right back here; where you ply your trade and get your drugs and maybe have a few people you call friends. It’s where he picked you up the first time, after all.

And he’s got all the time and money in the world to track you down again.

[sundrop-writes]

Ghosting

Mike Schmidt x Fem!Reader

Summary:

Mike has been in love with you for as long as he can remember. For about as long as the two of you have been best friends. He always thought he would have more time to work up to confessing those big, dangerous feelings for you - until something more dangerous swooped in and stole any time he had left with you.

Mike Schmidt x Fem!Reader. Star-Crossed Lovers. Pure Angst. Set during the events of the movie (and features spoilers for the plot).

Word Count: 3,700

Horror Characters Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this fic contains major spoilers for the film - so if you haven't watched it yet and you're just here for Josh Hutcherson being sad and beautiful (and if you want to watch the film unspoiled) be warned; this fic does use Y/N; this fic is almost pure angst - the beginning is fluffy, but that only exists to make the angst hurt more; this fic does not have a happy ending; hurt, no comfort; this fic has mentions of Mike's past traumas and him having symptoms of PTSD; the reader is a mother figure to Abby; Mike refers to the reader as his 'wife' (in his mind, not in dialogue); Mike is in love with the reader (and it's implied that she knows this/can sense his feelings) but he doesn't get a chance to actually confess to her and they aren't in a romantic relationship at any point during this fic; (uh, kind of spoiler for the fic but this was in the prompt/request) - major character death: the reader character dies after being stabbed by Springtrap/William Afton/The Yellow Rabbit (gotta love fnaf - when a character has that many names); mentions of blood; descriptions of violence - descriptions of the fight between Afton and Mike, descriptions of the reader being stabbed by Afton; Abby is there to witness the reader's death; idk what the other warnings are aside from major angst - this will be an emotional gut punch. Anyway, please enjoy it lmao.

A/N: The title of this fic comes from the song Ghosting by Mother Mother. I was listening to different songs trying to pick a title, and I really like how this one fits. How their romantic love was like a ghost in their lives - not discussed, but felt between the both of them, and after she's gone, she becomes a ghost in his life.

...

Mike woke up to the smell of pancakes. 

Typically, mornings were his least favorite time of day. Seeing as he was the kind of person who didn’t sleep well, didn’t sleep at all, or found himself consumed by nightmares when he did - most mornings, he was too tired to comprehend the world around him. Mornings were a chaotic mess for him as he tried to pull himself back from the brink of insanity while operating his sluggish body with far too little energy until he got some coffee into his system. He came to resent mornings, as for him, they existed only in a dreadful haze. 

And he rarely ate a proper breakfast because of it. Most of the time, his ‘breakfast’ consisted of a large cup of coffee and a few pieces of Eggo waffle that he would snag off of Abby’s plate going out the door as he scolded her for not finishing it all. 

The second that the pleasant smell of freshly cooked food reached his nose, his stomach growled. 

Through the sleepy fog of his brain, hearing voices - multiple voices - coming from down the hallway, he realized that it wasn’t just Abby and some muffled cartoon characters from the TV. 

“Which one?” Abby posed, her voice bright and curious as ever. 

“Personally… I like the red sweater. It matches the red laces in the shoes you picked,” You replied, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the sizzling of the pan. 

You were helping her pick out her clothes. Abby would have never wanted Mike’s help on the subject. So often she scoffed at him if he suggested that he could help her put her hair in a ponytail or if he told her that she should put on a jacket if it was cold outside. But she asked you for your advice about clothes because she admired you. She thought you were pretty, as she had told Mike on multiple occasions (not so subtly hinting that he should date you). 

Mike heard footsteps thundering down the hallway as Abby rushed to her room to get dressed, likely carting along the clothes you had helped to pick. He distantly wondered how you had gotten into the house before he was even awake. 

And then, he remembered - a few weeks ago, he had given you a key to his place. 

It was something that had come after he had accidentally locked his own set of keys in the car, his mind jumbled and forgetful after not having much sleep the night before. And with the evening ticking on and the takeout you had picked up for the three of you quickly getting cold in your hands (everyone eager to simply get into the house and eat) - Mike had been hit with the realization that any solutions to unlock the car - the spare key, a metal coat hanger, a phone to call a mechanic - were all locked in the house. 

So he had hoisted Abby in through her bedroom window (after scolding her for not locking it) and gotten her to unlock the front door. And shortly after that, he had given you a house key, because generally, you were better with things like that. 

You were much more organized - your mind a clear, calm palace compared to the chaos that Mike often found himself swamped in. You were someone who worked incredibly well under stress, and that was why Mike valued you so much in his life. Right from a childhood where the two of you had pulled pranks together and he had been copying your homework, to the time he had leaned on you during the initial stress of Garett’s disappearance - up until now. When he was a messy, disorganized adult who still needed you far more than he was ever willing to admit. 

It was just one of the many reasons he admired you so much. You took care of him in ways he couldn’t even put into words. 

He smiled to himself as he heard more of your chatter with Abby. Previously, he had remarked that the key was for ‘emergencies only’ - but he couldn’t bring himself to care all too much about the breach of that rule as he tumbled out of bed. Especially when the smell of bacon also reached his nose as he walked to the bathroom. 

It was when he was pulling on his pants that he glanced at the clock and realized he was already running on the late side. Not too late yet, but he had to put some urgency in his step. He had somehow forgotten to set his alarm, today of all days, when he would be meeting with a career counselor after the disastrous incident that got him fired from the mall. 

He rushed down the hallway struggling with his tie, bringing his usual air of chaos with him. His heart instantly warmed at the sight of you and Abby - you had her sitting at the table, somehow so much more polite and cooperative for you, with a glass of juice beside her plate while you scooped freshly made pancakes onto it. 

“You know, usually when most people break and enter, they don’t make breakfast,” Mike commented, his voice cool and jovial as he grew increasingly frustrated with his tie. 

He thought he was forming the knot correctly, but it kept falling loose in his hands, causing a deep crease across his brows as he frowned at the fabric. 

You giggled at this - both at his words and at his obvious struggle. You put the pan on the counter as you walked toward him, leaving Abby to pick up the bottle of syrup and begin thoroughly drowning her pancakes while you weren’t looking. You knocked Mike’s hands away in that wordless kind of care and began calmly tying his tie. 

“Well, I considered going the traditional route, but there’s nothing worth stealing here.” You remarked, playing off the banter that was only built between the two of you after years of friendship. “Plus, The Breakfast Burglar has such a nice ring to it.” 

“That makes it sound like you steal people’s breakfast.” Abby giggled. 

“I would, if certain little girls didn’t drown their pancakes in syrup.” You replied, not bothering to look over your shoulder at her to know what she was doing. “That’s enough, Abs.” 

She rolled her eyes harshly at this, but put the bottle of syrup down and picked up her knife and fork. 

Mike grinned widely at this. You were more like a mom to her than their own mother ever was. And the fact that you knew her so well and took care of her without question always brought him joy. 

His smile only widened when you smoothed a warm hand down the front of his chest, and he looked down to see a perfectly neat knot in the front of his tie. He felt a tingling swarm of butterflies in his stomach at your touch - something that threatened to spread through him and turn him into a dizzy, lovesick fool. Urgently, he needed to distract himself with something else. 

His eyes shifted over to the side table, and he realized that his keys weren’t where he usually threw them down when he got home. 

“Have you seen my-?” 

Once again, you were two steps ahead of him. More organized than him. 

“Keys.” You said, turning around to the counter and holding the key ring up on your fingers. “Your resume, formatted and printed.” You held up a folder that contained this as well. “Your wallet, and breakfast burrito.” 

You gathered up his wallet and a warm bundle wrapped in tinfoil - his breakfast. The small notion of caring, the fact that you thought ahead to make something he could eat while rushing out the door - it caused that dangerous tingle to overtake his stomach once again. As you crossed the room and placed all the items in his hands, he had the intense urge to lean over and kiss you - he knew the domesticity was crippling. 

You had been his best friend for years, you had helped him take care of Abby for as long as the little girl could remember. You felt more like a wife to him than anybody else ever would. 

And yet, you had absolutely no clue how he felt about you. It would have felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to lean over and kiss you goodbye before leaving - just like a husband would do with his wife. But the two of you weren’t married. You weren’t even dating. You took care of him because you were his best friend. Because you had always taken care of him the way a best friend should. 

“What would I do without you?” He said, knowing that the pure fondness in his voice could have easily given him away - if he didn’t talk to you like that all the time. 

“Hmm… probably run around naked and starving,” You chuckled, shrugging as you walked back over to Abby and sat down beside her at the table. “Now get going. I’ll take Abby to school.” 

“Have a good day, Abs.” Mike said, wishing his sister well - only to receive a mindless nod in reply before she went back to chatting with you about something, excitedly telling you a story involving one of her imaginary friends while you watched her with absolutely rapt attention. 

He moved toward the door, but he found himself caught up in the sight of you. You were a hero in their little world as you rushed to save one of Abby’s drawings from some syrup that dripped off her plate. When you complimented the picture, she glowed with a smile he hadn’t seen in days. 

That was a huge part of it, too. The love he felt for you that grew more agonizing each day. You brought out all the best parts of Abby, as well as keeping Mike himself from going truly insane. 

For a single moment, he wondered if he should tell you. He wondered if he should just blurt out the words before running out the door, leaving you to simmer in it. Giving you time to think about it - to yell at him about it later. 

It hovered on his tongue. 

I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. 

But when you looked over and saw him still standing by the door, he locked eyes with you, and suddenly it was gone again, swallowed up inside of him like a nasty ache that would live there forever. 

“Go, Mike! You’re gonna be late!” You said, your voice edging with casual laughter. 

You picked up one of the couch cushions and swatted him with it as you walked by to get Abby a paper towel from the kitchen. 

No. He would tell you some other time. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t work up the courage to tell you at all. 

… 

He was going to die. He was going to be killed. 

And he wasn’t going to get the chance to tell you that he was in love with you. 

Strangely enough, that was the one thing Mike was thinking about as he laid on the cold, dirty floor of Freddy Fazbear’s condemned pizzeria. His stomach burned with searing pain as he received another kick from the large, intimidating monster that he knew only as the Yellow Rabbit. 

He was going to die. He wouldn’t get to tell you how he felt. He would never get to see you ever again. 

He was going to save Abby. He was going to make sure that she got out of here, escaped somehow. And you would take care of her. That thought was a singular comfort to him as he felt one of his ribs crack from the metal (poorly disguised by the foam and fabric around the edges of the suit) colliding with his torso.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The Rabbit mocked him. “I killed your brother, now I get to kill you. Symmetry, my friend!” 

���Get away from him!” 

Mike almost thought that the intense pain had caused him to hallucinate, or that he had hit his head on the floor hard when he had been thrown down - it couldn’t actually be you.

But he heard your voice, fierce and fiery as ever, defending him as you had so many times before. He struggled to get his head up to look, but he caught a glimpse of the Yellow Rabbit as the strange animal collapsed. 

You had picked up one of the chairs, and brought it down over the Rabbit’s head, perfectly imitating something that would have been on Monday Night Raw. Except this was pure wood, not a collapsing chair, and all the pieces that splintered and fell in front of Mike as the Rabbit collapsed were because of the pure force of your hit. The fury of which you defended him and his life. 

“Y/N!” Abby yelled your name from across the room. 

She rushed into your arms as you stepped over the Rabbit’s prone body, and you swept her into a tight hug. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s going on?” You rushed to ask, brushing her hair out of her face to inspect for any injuries. 

“I’m fine.” Abby told you. “Mike-” She then turned to her brother, frantic, and pulled away from you to fall to her knees by his side. 

“Mike, what the hell is going on?” You asked, on your knees at his side just as quickly. 

You turned him over on his back, inspecting him for injuries now - definitely not liking what you found. 

Abby held his hand and he grasped it right back, his head still dizzy from the thorough ass-kicking he had just experienced. 

You gasped when you saw blood leaking through his shirt. He grunted in pain when you pressed your hand into the wound, clearly trying to lessen that bleeding. 

“What - what are you doing here?” He croaked out. 

As much as he was thankful for you swooping in and saving him, he wished that you were safe somewhere else. Anywhere but here. 

“Abby left her jacket in my car, and when I went to return it, I saw your Aunt Jane passed out on the floor, and - and, I just had a bad feeling.” You rushed to explain. “Somehow, I figured you’d be here.” 

Mike hadn’t exactly told you the details of what was going on. 

As close as the two of you were, he wasn’t sure if you would be entirely receptive to the concept of Abby being ‘friends’ with robots that were controlled by ghost children, and Mike somehow feeling connected to his own missing… dead brother by being in this place. He had simply told you that his new job was a night shift at a creepy old abandoned pizza place. 

But of course, you were two steps ahead of him. As always. 

You pulled back your hand to inspect the bleeding, and Mike groaned again. 

“Should I call an ambulance?” You asked, and Mike shook his head furiously. 

“No, we have to-” 

We have to leave. You have to leave. You have to get Abby out of here, to safety. 

All of those words dissolved on his tongue as he watched with utter shock. He wanted to scream as a big yellow hand clasped onto your shoulder from behind, and soon, a pair of large rabbit ears rose up from the floor. 

He wasn’t down for the count. 

Before he could speak, before he could move, Mike’s throat became choked as he saw your expression shift from the kind concern that you had worn for him many times - to pain. A brutal shock of your own. 

The Rabbit had shoved his knife into your back. 

A bright pool of red began to form in the middle of your shirt as the tip of the knife just barely poked through the center of your chest. 

“No!” Mike shouted, rushing to sit up despite the pain screaming in his body. 

He put a shaking hand to the middle of your chest as though it mattered, as though he could save you from this. He hated how warm your blood felt underneath his fingers. 

Abby let out a scream beside him. Distantly, in the back of his mind, he felt a pang of guilt that she had to see this. That she would spend the rest of her life trying to get over this. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” The Rabbit mocked him. “It always hurts more when you love them!”  

The Rabbit let out a brutal laugh and then yanked his knife from your back, and you released a sharp breath as the Rabbit shoved you toward Mike, causing you to collapse into his lap in a bloody heap. 

Somewhere far away, in another world, Mike heard Vanessa shouting from the doorway. Maybe he felt some sense of relief, thinking she would shoot the Rabbit down and this would all be over. But as the Rabbit’s attention was drawn away from him, he turned to where you were draped across his lap, the small pool of red on your shirt now soaked into a large puddle as you sputtered and some of that harsh bright red blood came out the corner of your lips. 

“Mike-” You choked out, reaching for him. 

“Tell me what to do,” Mike choked out. 

His mind was miserably blank. He felt your fingers clutching at his bicep, like he held the key to saving you, like he could restore your life - but his mind was screaming and his chest collapsed in on itself. 

You were always the one that guided him. He didn’t have an idea if you didn’t plant it in his head first. 

“Y/N,” Abby sobbed. 

“It-it’s okay.” You told her, struggling, gurgling, choking on your own blood. You took your grip off Mike, extending the hand weakly to her, and she took it. “It’s g-gonna be okay.” 

She let out another harsh sob, and Mike felt his lungs fill with stone. 

“Tell me what to do,” He said desperately, not realizing how thick his own voice was, how close he was to breaking down. He ran a trembling hand over your face, brushing away some stray hairs - he hated how cold you felt to his touch. “Please, tell me what to do.” 

He thought you might suggest some first aid. An ambulance. Tell him where your car was so he could carry you there, cart you away, get you to safety. 

“You-re g-gonna take c-care of her-r.” You told him, shifting your eyes distinctly from him toward Abby, giving her hand a squeeze. “You’re gon-na m-make it ok-ay.” 

“Y/N.” Abby cried, thick tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“Abby. You’re gonna b-be s-strong.” You grinned at her - your teeth were covered in blood, and it looked as menacing as it did fond. “You’re g-gonna be good for-r M-Mike, right? My little a-artist.” 

Abby nodded, more tears leaking from her eyes. 

And then, with some gears turning in her head, these words seemingly having triggered some line of thought, she looked up and spotted something across the room. She muttered something about the drawings and leapt up before Mike could stop her. He didn’t have the strength to chase her - he only hoped that she was leaving, escaping while the others were distracted. 

When he looked back down at you, your face was falling more limp, and your shirt was somehow even more soaked in blood. His jeans were wet, and he couldn’t even process why. He pressed a hand to the front of your shirt, trying to cover the wound as you had done with him - his muscles shook even harder when blood gushed out between his fingers and seemed to leak from you harder, as if to spite him. 

“Y/N,” He sobbed, leaning down. He cradled the back of your head and touched your forehead against his own. 

For a moment, he dreamed about putting his lips against your own and bringing you back to life with a kiss. Like some stupid fairytale. 

“Y/N, I-” 

I love you. 

“I - I know.” You croaked quietly, cutting him off. “D-don’t w-waste it on me now-w.” 

He felt the puff of your last breath as it expelled out against his cheek - he felt you go completely limp in his arms. 

“No-” He choked the word off in his throat, swallowing down sobs. 

No. 

He held you tighter against him, and feeling how cold you were, he let out a shuddering howl of a sob. He clasped your lifeless body against his chest - somehow believing that he could use the power of his grief to inject more life back into you. 

The rest of it was a blur. The deadly snap of springlocks, Vanessa shouting at him to abandon you - to abandon your body as the building collapsed in on itself. 

Mike didn’t truly break down until he was scrubbing his blood off your face in the bathroom sink that night. Seeing the red washing down the drain and knowing that it was the last traces of your life he was washing away - that was what truly did it. He collapsed onto the floor and stayed there for hours, sobbing more than he breathed, unable to move. 

When his cries finally died down, Abby slowly crept in and asked him how he was feeling. He lied, telling her that he was feeling fine. She raised up a shy hand, offering him one of your sweaters that you had accidentally left on their couch a few days prior. 

He thanked her and then finally peeled himself off the floor. He tried to make pancakes and Abby remarked that they weren’t as good as yours. It felt impossible, but her words made him smile. It was a small, dull smile - but it was a smile, nonetheless. 

A few days later, when he finally fell asleep for the first time after you had died in his arms, it was with that sweater wrapped around his pillow, wafting your faded smell into his nostrils. It was the first time in years that he didn’t dream about Garett. The dream he had about you was just as haunting.

...

A/N: Also, I don't know if Afton's knife would actually be long enough to go through someone's back and pierce out the front of their chest but - one, it's a cool imagery, and two, the knife looks pretty large when compared to the scale of the Springtrap suit hands. Anyway, I don't actually care all too much if it's accurate or not, I had fun writing this lmao.

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.” You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

[otakubimbo]

.The Rabbit and The Wolf

Bad date and confessions

You’re still trying to get your not a date but a date with Iruka out of your head when you get some information that sends you into a spiral.

MDNI. MATURE CONTENT.

Ch 1 2 3 4 5

master list

OBN: okay so i realized that i uploaded chapter 4 twice so here's chp 5, it's a lil shorter than the regular chapters cause i cut the original into 2. hehe. mwah!

All night long Kakashi’s face plagued your dreams, tossing and turning with the thoughts of him. As you awake, if you could even call it that since you didn’t even sleep, you realize you’re covered in sweat and your bonnet has escaped you in the night.

“Fuck” You groan attempting to pull yourself from the entrapment of your sheets. It was a long day before it even began, dragging yourself to the bathroom to get a good look at yourself. Yeah, you looked exactly like how you felt. Like shit. Hopefully, a shower will fix you up a bit; the steaming hot water should put some life back into you.

After your shower, you hadn’t even realized that you were already running behind, you would have to go visit your sister after training or you would be late. Barley putting yourself together, you hurry to the training grounds, but you are still late to your standards especially since Sasuke was already there.

“You look terrible” He comments, noticing you as you walk up.

“Thanks, didn’t notice.” You say pushing your palm into his forehead for his rudeness.

“Must have been one hell of a date.”

You groan with an exaggerated roll of your eyes telling him to watch his mouth, “It wasn’t a date Sasu, first of all. Second, where is your respect for your sensei and her personal life?”

“I’ve known you for too long for that to matter,” he says casually which makes you roll your eyes even harder as you give your body the stretch that he needed. Unfortunately, he was right, he was like a little brother to you, and just like a little brother, he was annoying.

“Are you seeing him again?” His question throws you off guard. He wasn’t one to usually ask these kinds of questions.

“Well, well, well, aren’t you nosy today? I mean, Yeah, we are friends. We will see each other when ya know we all hang or whatever.�� You respond with a shrug of your shoulders.

“So, it didn’t go well.” He comments chuckling to himself. You flick him right in the forehead this time.

“Please stop” You groan putting your face into your hands. The last thing you wanted was more reminders of last night.

Eventually, the rest of the team shows up, well besides Kakashi of course, and they immediately both start pestering you about last night. The vein in your head would explode at any moment if they wouldn’t stop bothering you about it, so you made them a deal. If they could land a hit on you before Kakashi showed up, you would tell them about your night. You assumed it was going to be easy, except the training that you had been putting them through was having them show actual improvements. There were movements that you could feel they may have to take them with some type of seriousness.

“Well better luck next time, kids” You chuckle taking a place beside Kakashi as soon as he decides to arrive, “Took you long enough.” You elbow him in his side.

“I was actually late for a reason today. We have a mission.” He states holding up a scroll in his hand. “We just must deliver this, simple enough. But there is a festival happening in the village we are going to so I thought it would be nice. A reward for all the hard work.”

Naruto and Sakura celebrate, of course, while you look at the man confused. You place your hand on the side of his face to check for warmth.

“You sick? Who are you and what have you done with Kakashi?” You question as you’re still trying to gauge his temperature. He swats your hand away. You have never known this man to do anything easy.

“Yes, I’m fine. There's nothing wrong with taking things easy for once.” He remarks casually.

“Hmmn, well y’all have fun with that.”

“Oh. You’re coming on this mission too.”

“Me?” You question and you can see him smirking under his mask.

“Yes, you.” He responds, bringing even more joy out of Naruto. “We can discuss the details of the mission. Everyone else go get ready, it’ll be a three-day trip.” He dismisses the kids, and you stand there knowing that there must be something else going on for you to also have to go.

“So, what’s the actual mission?” You ask him once the kids leave.

“Your favorite, a little recon, a little stealing intel.”

A huge grin spreads across your face. These were your favorite missions, and they were always your favorite with Kakashi because there would always end up being some type of bet involved between the two of you.

“Oh, this is going to be fun. Just like old times. I knew you weren’t getting soft on me” You playfully pushed him.

“There really is a festival and I do want the kids to enjoy themselves, that wasn’t a lie.”

“Awh you are getting soft on me in your old age.” You laugh at him while he just rolls his eye, and you stick your tongue back out at him in return. You were really excited for this. Back to what you were good at, what you loved. Maybe get to fight a bit, hopefully. You haven’t gotten your hands dirty in so long.

The two of you go your separate ways and you head to see your sister since you didn’t get to see her that morning.

The first thing out of her mouth when she sees you is about your ‘NOT’ date, which makes you immediately groan before you fill her in on everything that happened. By the time you were done, your sister was laughing her ass off at the whole ordeal.

“It’s honestly not that funny.” You grumble crossing your arms. Your sister was laughing so hard it was bringing tears to her eyes, which she wiped away before settling down.

“It actually is considering you didn’t view it as a date at all and then he had such confidence to kiss you. It’s hilarious.”

At the very least, you were glad to bring a smile to her face even if it was at your expense. She was looking better and healthier, she even was feeling better according to her. Maybe she would be able to leave soon, you hoped.

“Anyways,” You start, making her lay back down “I actually have a mission to go on tomorrow with Team 7.”

“They’re sending those kids on such a dangerous mission it requires you to go?” She questions, a bit concerned.

“Nah, it's mainly a mission for me and Kakashi, they’re just coming with us because the old softy wants them to go to this festival.”

“Awh, he really is a sweet man” She compliments, and you snort.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It should be a fun easy mission though.”

“Good, I know you're ready to get back out instead of babysitting your big sister.”

“Don’t be silly, you always come before anything. You and me.” Your hand reaches out to hers, grasping her small fingers gently.

“You and me” She repeats back to you, using her other hand to pat yours, “I know.” Her smile is soft and gentle.

The two of you talked casually after that, about random things and whatnot until you had to leave. As you leave the hospital, you run into Kakashi.

“How’s she doing?” He asks as a greeting.

A smile sets on your features, your eyes softening with the thought of her “She’s doing really good actually, a lot better. I really think she could make it through this. Ya know, unlike our mom.” The smile on your face, wavering a bit.

“Well, she’s strong like you so I know she’ll be fine,” he says attempting to calm your thoughts, it’s as if he can hear the worried voice in the back of your head.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” You say, pausing to look at him, realizing you had never thanked him for looking after your sister while you were away. “Uhm, thanks by the way.”

He looked down at you confused, “For what?”

“Ya know, checking on my sister and everything while I was off on all those missions.” You say avoiding his gaze.

“Of course, the both of you mean a lot to me, “he says so casually as if that didn’t make you stop breathing for a second.

‘The both of you’.

If you meant so much to him, why did he leave you alone after your night together and then immediately avoid you? If you were going on this mission with him, you would have to ask him. It had been hanging in your thoughts for too long.

“Thanks anyways. Can we walk and talk?” You ask nervously, not knowing how you would be able to approach this.

“Uh, sure.” He says and you immediately turn and start walking in the direction of your house feet moving automatically. “What did you want to talk about?” Your behavior was confusing him because you’re not one to act so nervous, hands fumbling with a shruniken with your lips pursed in thought.

“I was just thinking” You start not knowing where to really go with the conversation. He can tell there is really something on your mind so he’s patient and allows you to get your thoughts together.

“Ya know this is our first mission together since before my sister's wedding.”

“It is” he commented, assuming where this conversation was going. He just thought you were going to let it go by the way you had been acting previously.

“And then my sister's wedding happened.” You continue, even though you brought up the topic it was as if you were avoiding the main point.

“it did” His gaze follows down to your face as you steel your nerves to proceed.

“And then what happened after.”

“And then what happened after.” He repeated back to you, making you stop in your tracks to face him. You finally look up to meet his gaze on you. His expression is unreadable, but you knew you had to continue regardless of your hesitations. What were you supposed to be afraid of?

“Why did you leave and then disappear on me?” You ask, looking him dead in the face hoping your voice sounded stronger than you felt. There was a long silence between the two of you. His face is still unreadable, and you hoped he couldn’t see the small panic you were feeling. Luckily for you, your expression was as unreadable as his to him. Eventually, he’s the first one to break eye contact with a sigh.

“Because afterward, I realized I was in love with my best friend,” he confessed, lifting his head back up to hold your gaze once again.

 It felt like your brain stopped working for a second. The gears in your head are completely unmoving.

“I’m sorry. What?” You ask, as your brain finally comes back online.

“I said,” He took a step forward, taking your face into his hand. The rough pads of his fingers move along your cheek. “That night I realized I was in love with you. That I had been in love with you for so long. And that terrified me because I didn’t want to lose you.”

You just stare up at him, eyes big as saucers blinking.

“You were in love with me?” You ask barely above a whisper. This was not what you expected.

“I am in love with you.” He corrected. ‘Am’ present tense.

taglist: @smarsd

[wwouldvecouldveshouldve]

warmth

what makes their heart warm?

[ ft. verlaine, dazai, atsushi, and kyoka. can be interpreted as platonic or romantic (kyoka is strictly platonic!) ]

Dazai isn't someone who easily trusts people, that's for sure. The only way to get to his heart is consistency and being genuine.

It starts with noticing how he doesn't eat much, and you heard him mention how he likes canned crab. So you got him just that one day, and left it on his desk. He'd figure out who it's from easily, I mean, it's Dazai we're talking about. When he needs something, you'll be there. You respond to texts and calls on time, and get him thoughtful things from time to time. Not to say that you aren't firm with him. He's gotta do his work, he's gotta fill his share. Over time, you'll get to him- without a doubt. It'll take an ungodly amount of patience to get through with everything, but so long as you're both together in the end, that's okay.

Atsushi is precious, but that's obvious! Little things from the people he cares about make him so, so happy. You helped him finish some documents? RWIJBSWEWSILDEM. You made him lunch? YOU'RE TOO KIND! Every little thing people do for him makes him feel warm inside. Just knowing people care for him and will take time out of their schedule to do something for him makes him unimaginably happy. Still, sometimes you have to reassure him that he isn't a burden because you did that. You're doing this because you care about him, not because he's being any sort of a burden to you. You want to do that, especially because he isn't a burden at all. (Potentially just makes him cry more but it's happy tears, I swear)

Verlaine is not open to affection at first. Still, patience is a virtue, and you'll stick through it to pry open his heart a little. It starts with spending some time together, getting to know each other from an arm's length. You get to know him at least a little, and you see what you can do from their. He's fascinating, so of course you want to learn more. So you do, and since you know how to keep a promise, he tells you a little more. Next time you come, you think of a gift he'd like. It's a journal, so when you're not there to talk with him, he can at least empty his innermost thoughts onto the page. You dare not read it, it's not yours to read. It's a long time later when he tells you about his so-called lack of humanity. You laugh in the face of his bullshit- he's never been any less than human to you. Since he seemed to like using the diary, you come around more so he can have someone to talk to face-to-face. And so comes a dynasty of trust and late-night confessions.

[ strictly platonic! ]

The moment you heard Kyoka some of Kyoka's likes and dislikes, you knew exactly what to do. Some days a little rabbit plush would appear on her desk when she had a bad day, other times a plate of tofu when she forgot to eat lunch. You would chat with her on missions every once in a while. You looked out for her instead of looking to use her, so she returned the sentiment. She figured out who was doing the gifts so she began to do the same with you, so it was mutually helping each other out through without actually saying a word about who was doing it with the other. You two never even talked about the gifts, even though you two talked all the time with each other. You acted like siblings, which does entail talking about dumb things and doing even dumber competitions, but that's only to get each other's minds off of bad days. Just caring for her when she's vulnerable is heartwarming.

----------

And that's it for my first post. Sfw requests are open! I love you all and have an amazing day.

[sordidmusings]

Sweetly Scented Secrets - Intro (Reader x CYOE Various)

Summary: On a stop to a new island, you managed to find yourself at a witch's stall. Despite yourself, you actually bought some things. The purchase that vexes you is a perfume that could supposedly urge confessions out of those it targets.

Word Count: ~1.8k

A/N: this is some good ol’ Nonsense that came from this ridiculous video of a man spraying himself with perfume then seemingly being unable to keep divulging So Much so suddenly 💀 I have been told that he frequently dissociates into a state of info dumping. I will choose to believe the perfume compelled him. And thus it will compel the blorbos. Some will be sfw and some nsfw (and tagged accordingly of course). All will likely be goofy. I will play with which is which and who happens based on my fancy unless requested! This gets out first cuz it was p much done Forever Ago so all I had to do was fill it out and edit it and make a mood board then set it to come out on a Monday cuz Fuck Em

Warnings: gn! reader (I tend to write from afab perspective since that’s what I am so if something slips please let me know 🤍 this goes for all my gn!), a wild OC appears! Take her in all her cringy glory 👌🏻, I just always wanna write witches man, can’t decide if magic (largely in the modern western esoterica sense) being legitimate counts as canon divergence, if so then this is canon adjacent 🤷🏼‍♀️

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

A spiritual crisis was not how you wanted to start your morning.

You were stuck between the deep-rooted desire to believe in magic and every skeptic you’ve ever known talking down their nose at you. It felt like a very unbalanced war between the two. The weight of scorn had tamped down your wish for magic to be fact for years, but a wanting pit in your chest still clung to “what if”. That pit had begun to grow roots and stems as the Grand Line showed you places and life beyond the scope of your imagination. What explanation was there for Devil Fruits besides magic? Though, magic, it seems, was only for Gods to deal out. Earthly life must keep trying to use science to catch up or fight for what scraps the Gods toss their way.

You continued to stare dubiously at the carved stone bottle in your hand. Delicate, swooping letters decorated its soft pink label, spelling out “Affection’s Confession” in deep violet. Gold accents brought out their curves and matched the shimmering golden wax that sealed the bottle’s cork and dripped down to crawl on the translucent fluorite vessel. It sat heavy in your hand, each second passing with it in your palm adding another gram to it then another and another. You sighed and placed it back on your dresser to stare some more. The light dancing through the sloshing clear liquid, bouncing and glimmering through lines of blue and green and purple, only made it more enticing to you.

Your hesitation was exacerbated by the perfume’s seller. Well, maybe potion was a better word? Saying “potion” made you feel silly though, even if it was given to you by a witch. And that brings you back to the whole problem.

The last island you’d visited was known for its strange customs and belief in the arcane. Most weren’t living by the practice; just knew of its validity as yet another mundane fact of life. Finding the actual practitioners was much harder, or it was supposed to be.

You would’ve had to have been blind or willfully, stubbornly ignorant to see that woman and think anything other than “witch”. Feathers and beads were tied in her dark hair, swaying in time with her vertebrae earrings on each turn of her head to watch passersby. You kept your eyes to them as you approached her, feeling unsettled and intrigued by the strange decorations. Shortly after you began heading towards her, her face snapped to you and she zeroed in, making you feel like a rabbit stalled before a fox. When she stood from her seat and sashayed over to greet you in front of her stall, you realized she was barefoot, sporting wood and leather anklets instead of shoes. The music they beat with each of her steps and the open smile that warmed her face eased you just a bit.

“Hello, sweet thing,” she greeted, the cheery tone of her voice ringing out the pet name. “I can help you find just what you need. The coven and I have built a stock to aid any situation, including yours.”

As she leaned forward in a semblance of a bow, you noticed her large necklace of braided bramble (Thorns still on? you noticed incredulously) hung low, holding dried roses in front of her cleavage. The languid way it followed her matched the nature of the scant drapings of deep red and dirty beige fabric, which hung on her in the vague shape of a summer dress. She held out her suntanned arms, palms up to ask for your hands. Having her this close nearly made you step back; something unnatural lived in the air around her and her tawny eyes saw right through doors and walls and words and skin. Feeling hesitant, you continued to meet her gaze and only offered a mumbled greeting.

“Come now, let me have your hands,” she encouraged gently. “They’ll tell me what you need.”

“How are they supposed to do that?” you asked curtly. “And I usually like knowing someone’s name before hand-holding.”

“Call me Pythia,” she chimed immediately, still holding her bent posture and asking hands. “I don’t have the time to explain the hands. I promise I won’t keep them though.” She giggled at her own… joke? You were hoping that was a joke. You eyed the peeks of death behind her (articulated bugs here, bones there, jarred creatures, hides, blood-) that made all the pretty wares around them seem tainted.

Watching her laugh was the first time you noticed the knack her loving smile had for curling into something more impish, cluing you in that she knew something you didn’t. Despite this making her feel even more dangerous to interact with, you put your hands in hers.

“Thank you, lovely,” Pythia said, voice heavy with a gratefulness that didn’t seem to fit the moment to you. While she cradled your hands, you took in the many carved rings and bangles of stone, leather, metal, and bone cautiously.

That caution had rooted itself to you and was very stubbornly sticking to your feelings about her wares. Besides the perfume, you had purchased an herbal pouch to hang over your bed, meant to aid with ease and depth of sleep. The first night, you noticed your mind was much calmer than its usual anxious whirring before bed. The second night, you listened to the first of her instructions and took ten deep breaths through your nose against the sigil-embroidered pouch. Your sleep came mere minutes after taking in the floral and earthy scent. It had you decide to try out the full instructions, adding on asking the herbs for good rest, placing a gentle kiss to the sigil, and sealing it with a long press of your forehead to the marking. You slept like the dead.

The success had you brainstorming on how to make it back to her in a few months, as she had warned you that the effects will fade with use. It has only been three weeks since your first full ritual with the pouch and you can already feel it start to wane just a bit. You mourned this morning when the sun through your window had actually managed to rouse you from sleep. When you were grumpily blinking at the bright light, you had noticed the perfume bottle still sitting untouched next to the beaming light.

If the pouch worked then shouldn’t this?

That hope was what led you to stare over the bottle as you were now, and try to convince yourself that it wouldn’t be so ridiculous to try out. After all, you had felt quite stupid speaking to your herb pouch and that feeling paled in comparison to the benefits it brought you. You took another minute to mull it over then steeled yourself with a deep breath to go through opening up the bottle.

You found and flipped open your pocket knife before settling on your bed with the bottle. As Pythia had instructed, you placed a kiss on each flat side of the blade before cutting around the rim of the bottle, right where the cork met glass. You thanked the blade and flipped it back closed. You twisted the cork out, took a deep breath filled with curiosity, and smelt… nothing?

Pulling the opening of the bottle to press on your upper lip, you took another long sniff. Yep. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You frowned at the bottle, wondering if the witch had actually managed to sell you snake oil. You sent your narrowed gaze to the herb pouch above your bed then back to the bottle in your grip, mulling over your trust in the liquid. Eventually, a mix of previous success and your burning curiosity got you to continue trying the perfume out. You were also pretty sure you saw actual snake oil in her shop, so that handed the witch a point for gumption and a deduction from trickery.

Her instructions were quite detailed for the perfume to be at its most potent. Things about the meanings associated with fingers and the places on the body and the importance of the order and all of it seemed to jumble together. When you asked if she had anything to write it down, she shrugged and told you what you remembered of the instructions was the act meant for you to take. Maddeningly unhelpful. So you sat on your bed and ran them through your memory until you were sure you recalled everything as clearly as possible. After a good while meditating on it, you were surprised by the detail that your mind let you recall of it. You were ready.

Blocking the small opening with your right ring finger, you overturned the bottle and flipped it back, leaving a drop of the substance on your fingertip. After repeating the process on the other side, you took to dabbing the prescribed spots with those fingers, making sure your right hand touched your left side and your left hand touched your right. You focused on following the list exactly - a dot on the front of each ankle, a dab on the center of the top of the thighs, one on each hip bone, a small swipe along each bottom rib. Each application was made with a whisper of “I can receive”.

Refreshing the liquid on your fingers, this time your pinky fingers, you continued to the next section. You placed a dab at the center of each clavicle, a swipe on the back ends of the jaw, and a circle on each temple, this time muttering “I can hear” with each touch. The liquid placed on each middle finger was rubbed into the opposite wrist to the words “I can unlock”. Lastly, you used your index fingers to draw a star on your third eye. This time right stayed with right and left with left when you flicked the bottom points to aim at your irises (“I can see”) and the side points to follow your brow (“I can know“). Your fingers joined together to draw the final point directly towards the crown of your head. With finality, you voiced a solid and steady “I can understand”.

Once you had finished applying, you noticed a sweet smell start to emanate from your skin. It was quite delicate at first, luring you to lean closer and seek it out. That pull only increased as you also sought more of the pleasant sensation warming your mind with each lungful of the scent. After a good thirty seconds, it leveled out, leaving you feeling boneless and content like you’d woken from a nap basking in the sun. The face of your love smiling down on you during a lazy summer afternoon flashed in your mind with the feeling.

Okay, maybe this will make them confess to me.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Whose confession do you seek?

(list of who I have ideas for in no particular order) Law, Ace, Sanji, Nami, Robin, Koby, Luffy, Buggy, Mihawk

Other names are not unwelcome, just the juices weren't flowing for others vibing immediately with the energy of this prompt but tbh sometimes the challenge of that makes better fics. If you do want to request, please include sfw or nsfw and whether you want gn, afab, amab, fem, or masc. If you don't then my personal default is afab (female physiology, avoided or they/them pronouns for gender). I'm a bit nervous about writing transfem and transmasc properly, but so long as you're okay giving it a once over and pointing if I've made mistakes so I can correct them then I'm happy to try!

Also I had to fight the urge to start this with a dumbass joke hard lol the other first lines were "There are two wolves within you. Both of them are telling you this is likely a crock of shit."

[bubblegumspacebxtch]

You Shouldn't

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Joel knows you shouldn't love him and if hurting you is the only way for you to stop, then so be it.

Warnings || angst, injury (stab wound), mentions of smut, Joel is a bit mean here, reader is called sweetheart, use of Y/N only once

A/N: lt's been a hot minute since I wrote anything on here but I really wanted to write Joel Miller angst so here's that. I have fallen down the TLOU rabbit hole and am currently obsessed with this grumpy old man I call daddy. Will write a part two for this one shot because though I love me good angst, I'm a sucker for happy endings. Enjoy!!

--------------------

Joel swore time stood still the moment those words left your lips. Suddenly the room felt stuffy, every muscle in his body aching to just run and avoid having the inevitable conversation before him.

"Because I love you, Joel..."

Joel looked away but you wouldn't break eye contact, even if it was just the side of his face. You knew the timing of your confession couldn't have been worse, but your heart needed to get it out now.

You and Joel had spent the last three years together, and for the last few months, you both crossed a line by sleeping with each other. It was supposed to be just sex, a way to meet a basic human need that, for the longest time, felt like a luxury. The set boundaries were clear.

"This is just for us to both feel good, alright sweetheart?"

You were adults who understood what the arrangement was, but no matter what state of mind you tried to keep, your heart simply could not be taught. When the three of you had settled in Jackson, it had became even harder to deny the want that kept simmering inside you.

As your found family fell into a rhythm the longer you stayed within the walls of the community, your fantasies of having an actual life with Joel and Ellie grew too. The last years have been about surviving, but now you felt like you could finally start to build a life with the only two people left in the world you'd give anything and everything up for.

It was normal for you to wait up for Joel when he was out on patrol. Despite his insistence that it wasn't necessary, your worries would not let you sleep a wink without knowing he was safe. The sound of the clock felt louder every second you stared at the front door from where you sat on the couch. Ellie offered to keep you company, but as her yawns became more frequent, it didn't take much convincing for her to retire to her own room after she had bid you goodnight.

Your eyelids were starting to feel heavy too, having spent the whole day in the garden harvesting the produce. A few more minutes pass and the sounds of footsteps on the porch made the clouds of sleep in your head clear. Before the door was even open, you were already walking to greet Joel.

The slump of his shoulders and heavy steps were enough to tell you it hadn't been the easiest patrol shift, but it was the dark patch of dried blood on his shirt that had caught your attention. The sight caused your stomach to twist, mind filling with worry over his obvious injury.

"Joel... what happened?"

At the sound of your voice, it was instinct for Joel to always find where it was coming from. Looking up at you, your eyes were soft, but the small frown marring your features told Joel your thoughts were running a mile a minute already.

"It's nothing."

The tall man tried his hardest to walk straight to the kitchen, fighting the urge to clutch his aching side. The pads of your feet against the floor meant you were close behind and Joel braced himself for he knew you were not about to let the coming conversation go.

"Joel, it's not nothing. You're bleeding. Let me take-"

"Sweetheart, I'm telling you, it's just a cut. I can handle it."

You offered nothing in reply but to let out a disappointed sigh before opening the cabinet with the medical supplies. Joel watched you move around, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile as he took in your small frame dwarfed by the old shirt of his you wore.

"Joel, sit down. Please."

You gestured to the dining room chairs and Joel still had some fight left in him, but the pleading look you sent his way kept him quiet. Joel would do anything for you, something the both of you knew for sure.

The walk to the dining area was short but Joel's discomfort was obvious. The quiet grunt he let out as he sat didn't get passed you. Lifting his shirt, your gasp was instantaneous as you stared at an obvious stab wound. You fought the urge to tell Joel off for passing the puncture as a simple cut as you grabbed disinfectant to clean the tear in his skin.

Joel let you work on his wound in peace. He knew you were worried, but you weren't above nagging him for being stubborn and always denying help. He looked at you like how he always has, with all the love and adoration he thinks he can no longer really give.

"Joel, you can't keep downplaying situations like this. You're hurt and this is a serious injury. I-I know you don't want me to worry, but I want to help you..."

The frustration in your words was palpable. Tension begun to set in between you two. It was becoming clear that this issue was something that needed to be discussed. Joel always had to appear like he couldn't get hurt, that he could hold his own and that he didn't need anyone. You on the other hand would bend over backwards for him. You desperately needed to show him how he didn't have to do everything alone, he has you.

But Joel was many things, one of them being stubborn as a mule. He knew you cared for him, but he refused to acknowledge what that meant. The hardened man would not entertain even the slightest idea that your concern for him may come from a place of love.

"I don't really know why you care so much, sweetheart. I've told you a hundred times, I can handle myself. Don't have to get so worked up over me."

"Because I love you, Joel..."

You couldn't love him. You shouldn't. He was old and Joel believed he was a reflection of everything wrong with the world. You, however, are a beacon of hope. Joel had watched you lighten the heart of everyone you had met, especially Ellie.

You were young and vibrant, despite having grown up in apocalyptic times. You too had lost everything, but unlike Joel, you always found the means to go on. Ellie and him loved your spirit. The younger girl had once jokingly said you were the sun itself, and Joel immediately understood what she meant. You were warmth in every sense of the word.

He didn't deserve you. Joel knew he couldn't have you, and even if you wanted him, he shouldn't. Joel was convinced he'd ruin you, let you down and loose you. It was easier to pretend he could no longer love like he once had. But you wouldn't let him.

For the past years you've been together, you wouldn't allow Joel to believe he didn't deserve good things. You'd try your hardest to show him you would not have anyone else but him, that you'd offer your heart for his a million times over.

The silence had caused a lump to form in your throat. You knew Joel took his time with processing emotions, but his lack of a response hurt you nonetheless. Before you knew it, he was pulling away.

He pushed backwards the chair he sat on, causing the legs to screech against the floor. The sound had made you visibly cringe and your mind was scrambling for a way to diffuse the situation.

"I know we agreed there shouldn't be any feelings involved but-"

"Exactly. We agreed that we were just hooking up. You can't go dumping your feelings on me like that."

"Joel, I-I have loved you almost as long as I've known you. Long before this arrangement even began. I-"

"Yeah... well you shouldn't. Don't be stupid, Y/N."

Joel abruptly stood up to leave before making his way to the front door. He could feel your stare as he paused in front of the door. Like a real glutton for punishment, he turned to look back at you. The tears had already began to run down your cheeks. Joel felt like his chest would implode seeing you so distraught, but his heart could not stop his mind nor his mouth.

"I can't be here right now."

And just like that, he's out the door and on to the street, making his way to Tommy's. As if hurting you wasn't punishment enough, your cries were the last thing he hears before closing the door and leaving.

[twelvegods]

brutal. kageyama tobio

the sour collective; ❝where's my fucking teenage dream?❞

pairing/s; kageyama tobio x fem!reader

warning/s; none

word count; 815

summary; confess, they said. date the king, they said. he’d treat you better, they said. but no one told you it was going to be this brutal.

a/n; this one’s pretty short since i’m coming back from a very long hiatus and am v v rusty and didn’t really know where i should take this so i stuck as close to the premise as i could and found myself here. let me know ur thoughts!!

“listen to this shit someone tagged me in; ‘isn’t it practically confirmed that [y/l/n] actually got to play for the red rabbits by slutting it up with kageyama?’” amanai kanoka read out loud some tweet on her phone.

the hikari pharmaceutical red rabbits were all gathered in the locker room at five in the morning to prepare for this morning’s training session and you’d just clocked in after a tiny squabble with your boyfriend over breakfast. amanai looked up at your scowling expression as you changed out of your attire and into the team uniform.

“can’t believe you’re still getting hate, hasn’t it been a few months already?” she took a few sips from her water bottle.

“if i knew this would happen, i wouldn’t have talked tobio into going public.” you sighed, clicking your locker closed.

hirugami shoko glanced over amanai’s shoulder to peer at the screen of her phone, frowning. “they clearly don’t know what they’re talking about, [y/n]. don’t listen to them.”

that was easier said than done.

you wanted to say you expected this, that you knew what you were signing up for when you and kageyama mutually agreed to go public after dating for some odd three years. prior to that, you pined after one another in high school, but ultimately thought it best to avoid a steady relationship, keeping in mind that you both wanted to put your careers first.

but you hadn’t anticipated the onslaught of hate and complete carnage when that stupid post took to the internet, not knowing your little instagram story had the biggest snowball effect.

it suddenly felt like you were placed under a microscope and that the public assumed the right to pick you, and your relationship, apart. at first, you couldn’t give two shits about what they were saying online, that it only mattered that you and kageyama were happy and not at the expense of anyone else's happiness. but as the months went by, all those comments were starting to get to you and doubts began to arise.

it didn’t help that kageyama didn’t seem to care, he had never even bothered to bring it up after that first month of announcing your relationship. you have never felt smaller in your life, thinking that he found your relationship insignificant.

“you have to say something!” you pushed, your arms tight around your torso. “you wanted to go public and they’re degrading me, tobio!”

he rubbed the bridge of his nose, putting down his chopsticks as he calmly assessed the dinner you pushed away. “it’ll die down in a few days, you know they always find something else to talk about eventually. don’t take it to heart, [y/n].”

“and you’re not even going to bother defending me?” you scoffed, pushing back your chair as you didn’t have it in you to finish the rest of your meal.

“why should i defend you towards people that don’t matter?” his cold blue eyes flicked up to meet yours as you retreated from the dining area.

you had to avert your eyes. “god, why don’t you get it, tobio?”

“stop being so sensitive, [y/n].”

and just like that, he picked up his chopsticks and resumed his dinner, the conversation over.

these days you couldn’t help but think that your love for one another was dwindling, because even the one you thought would be by your side was also picking apart each and everything you did with a touch of hostility. and so that night as you lay in bed with your back turned towards your lover, you gave in to temptation and opened twitter, beginning to scroll through your feed and mentions.

‘kageyama deserves better than some fame whore’

‘pretty sure [y/l/n]’s only after his money’

‘he doesn’t even look happy when they’re together? #freekageyama’

‘this is just another pr stunt! they’ll break up sooner or later after [y/l/n] leeches enough of his money’

apparently, not only was there a hashtag trending due to the public being completely against your relationship, but not even a single tweet was in your favor. before you knew it, tears had welled up in your eyes as insecurity gripped your heart.

you turned to face the love of your life, tracing whatever of his features you could see in the dim lighting of your shared bedroom.

“hey, tobio?” you whispered, not sure if you were really expecting, or wanted, a response. “do you hate me?”

the silence seemed to stretch on forever.

his eyes remained closed shut, an ethereal look on his face as he went on sleeping, not knowing you were falling apart right next to him. you choked on your tears, turning towards the ceiling and willing yourself to rest, allowing your breathing to calm down and labor out, before finally feeling yourself begin to drift away.

but not before kageyama muttered something under his breath that you had no energy to decipher. “...you.”

what am i even doing here? you thought, just before a dreamless sleep held you in a comforting grip.

tags; @hanayanetwork @planetonet @anime-central-archived @hqintheclub @tahonet

[vera-deville]

Hi! Could you please write Luka Couffaine x fem. reader who has trouble talking about their feelings? Writes him letters, love poems or plays the drums for him because it's easier for her to show her feelings like that? Sorry for my English it is not my first language.

02/28/2023 - 03/29/2023

Pairing: Luka Couffaine x Reader

Word Count: 867

Warnings: Nothing that I can think of!

Gender: AFAB

In which Luka has a significant other who has a hard time expressing her feelings.

Luka Couffaine absolutely adored Y/N. The girl had captured his heart, mind, and soul, and he had no trouble expressing it. However, the same could not be said the other way around.

Other people labeled Y/N as someone cold and uncaring, but only a select few knew of her true nature - she simply could not express herself in the ways others would. And Luka understood completely.

Y/N had a small group of friends (most of whom had never even met each other, but knew the existence of). She wasn't one to stick to one particular friend group after all. A good friend was a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

And two of her very good friends were Juleka and Rose. Originally, Y/N had only Juleka (since she went to the same school as Luka), but quickly became acquainted with Rose as well. And for that, Y/N thanked whatever lucky stars she had.

The whole process of confessing to Luka was already gut-wrenchingly terrifying, seeing as she had no idea how to go about it, whether Luka would return her affections (even though Juleka said he would), and if she was actually dateable material.

But after the confession, a lot of her worries were put to rest. Luka was the sweetest boyfriend she could have asked for, and she was extremely grateful for having met him.

Luka was someone who was fairly affectionate (not like some of the couples she's seen walking in Paris being overly lovey-dovey), but he also never shied away from letting her know what was on his mind.

If there was a particular moment where Y/N was caught up doing something and was quite focused on it (such as homework), Luka would find himself simply staring at the girl, absolutely in awe of the work of art he had the honor of calling his girlfriend. (Yes, he's tried sneaking some photos of her when she wasn't looking).

And when he was caught, Y/N would ask, "what're you staring at?"

Only to be met with, "just caught up in the ethereal masterpiece in front me."

To which Y/N would feel her face heat up and a warm sort of buzz envelope her whole being. She'd become a little flustered and brush off his oh so charming and teasing self, but looking at him once more, she realizes every time that Luka wasn't teasing at that moment. He meant every word.

So when others meet her and find out she's in a relationship with Luka, they wonder how on Earth the relationship works. Luka was pretty well known and well-liked. But Y/N wasn't like that. She stayed to herself for the most part, and she'd never initiate any sort of PDA with her boyfriend.

And some of these people would take to whispering about this behind (or so they thought) Y/N's back.

She'd feel bad about it, but not to the point where she'd find herself spiraling down a rabbit hole of self-hate and whatnot. But that didn't stop her from wanting to improve. And what better way to improve than by asking two of her best friends?

"Aww, it's so cute that you want to be more lovey-dovey with Luka!" Rose gushed. Juleka had a slight smile on her face, finding the situation slightly humorous. The involved parties were her brother and one of her closest friends. How could she not be entertained? Especially when said close friend was going on a tirade vaguely reminiscent of Marinette's tirades about Adrien.

Rose suggested making a perfume for Luka, and Y/N thought that it was such a good idea that she'd probably do that for his birthday. "What if you write him a letter?" Juleka asked. Pondering over the idea, Y/N decided that it indeed was a good idea.

But what to write?

And so some amount of days passed, and Y/N finally ended up finishing her letter to Luka. It wasn't anything elegant or pretty or anything of the sort. It was goofy, filled with her typical sarcasm, and most importantly, it was heartfelt. Now, the only thing left was to actually give the letter to Luka.

Which was still quite hard surprisingly.

Y/N assumed that once the letter was finished, she'd just hand it over to the turquoise-haired boy and bada-bing bada-boom, romance!

Apparently it doesn't work like that.

Apparently you pour your heart out into the letter, but then you feel nervous to actually give the letter to your oh so accepting boyfriend.

But somehow Y/N pushed down her anxiety and gave the letter to Luka when they sat down after getting their ice cream. Opening it, Luka's face gradually morphed into one of extreme joy (and if Y/N didn't know any better, smugness), before he pressed a chaste kiss onto Y/N's cheek.

And from that day onwards, Y/N would (every once in a while) gift Luka letters, love poems, and even play the drums for him as means of physically showing her affection for him. It was their own little dynamic and some may have found it odd, but to them, it was perfect.

Author's Note: Once again, I'm really sorry for taking so long to complete this fic. I hope you enjoy it (if not, feel free to request again, since I honestly don't feel like I did my very best with this one).

I'm still in the middle of trying to find a specific fic format to stick to. I've tried looking at a bunch of other fanfic writers' profiles and the format they use to write their fics, but I'm still not 100% sure if what I'm doing right now is what I want to continue doing.

[deusvervewrites]

Oh, boy, new ask game! And I caught it so soon this time, nice!

I have many AUs to propose, my first one is this:

Not Your Usual Rattatouille AU: The reason that Mei barely knows how to act like a human is because she is actually a pink rat-rabbit-thingy with a super intelligence quirk piloting a mecha suit shaped like a human girl. Izuku accidentally discovers this while trying to confess a crush on her sometime after the Sports Festival. Also, she is Nedzu’s granddaughter.

Midoriya was very impressed with Hatsume's Support Gear and her paying attention when he was going on Quirk tangents at the Sports Festival and eventually started hanging out with her in the Support Lab.

At some point between Internships and the End of Term Exams, he worked up the courage to ask her out... only to walk in on her in the Support Labs while she's getting some fresh air outside of her robot. There's like ten straight seconds of processing before she freaks out.

Here's the deal: Nedzu is always keeping an ear out for any programs like what he went through or even just suspected sightings of Quirked animals. It was through these connections that he found Hatsume as a tiny kit(?) and adopted her as a granddaughter.

Midoriya promises that he'll help keep this a secret, completely forgetting about what he was originally doing there (and/or finding it too awkward to bring it up since it feels exploitative). He's already hiding One For All, how hard could this be?

It would probably be much easier if it wasn't for the small problem that Midoriya isn't the only one that Hatsume impressed during the Sports Festival.

I must confess I struggled a bit with the fifth point of this AU. The logical next steps from my perspective were either the Jitsu Wa Watashi Wa approach (Midoriya learns a whole bunch of secrets like this and the gang has to balance them all, hilarity ensues) or that other people were romantically interested in Hatsume. Both of these ideas have serious overlap with existing AUs.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Can i request for Kwak jihan dating hc or oneshot?

like the reader is just the most adorable, lovable and the cutest human to ever exist and a non-fighter. She can't kick asses and is jihan's classmate who fell in love with him from the moment she saw him and has been annoying and chasing after him ever since. Soaon he soften ups to her cause she is just adorable.

He saved her from bullies/assaulters and admitted that he cares for her and they began going out! He is really protective of her as well

And bonus point if his brothers get protective of his s/o after he introduced them and maybe the grandpa too, maybe he gets threats from them often as well? Who knows.

Thank you for your precious time and effort writer-nim❣️

–🐇

Thanks for the ask 🐇! Fun fact, I'm actually super allergic to rabbits irl. And I feel so pathetic cos they ARE SO CUTE

Anyway, I have a confession to make. I didn't actually care for the Kwaks too much until ch440. Jichang is cool, but I was just too hyped with Allied and the fight scenes lol sorry don't come at me 😭😭 slight change with my HC and I... I don't know what the below is lol so sorry in advance

Kwak Jihan X Reader: Strangers to Lovers hc

Moving to this podunk town really pissed Jihan off. There was nothing to do, nothing to keep his interest

Jibeom already did all the dirty work to capture the area

Why work harder when you can work smarter. After defeating Jibeom, Jihan became No.1 in no time at all

So yep, this place is boring as shit. Until he met you

You're pretty cute but above all else, annoying. He figures for some reason, you've taken him under your wing as the new kid at school and now he can't get any peace

You follow him like a shadow, making sure he's ok with settling in, with classes and lunch. You expressed your worry over Jihan's lack of friends but he was unconcerned

The first and only time you attempted to see what he was doing after class without asking, you saw him and his brother bathing in questionable tubs of snakes and herbs, all scarred and frankly covered in blood.

You screamed and gave him some distance after that

You're good and straight laced. And maybe a little naive too. You don't get mixed up with that sort of stuff no matter how much you found yourself drawn to Jihan

And he definitely didn't need the aggro of dealing with you

But the days just felt a bit lonelier for him, the silence a little too loud until one day he saw some guys harassing you outside of school

No hesitation, Jihan saves you by beating them up. He's not one for words, he prefers action

You definitely prefer words though, and after seeing how shaken you are by the whole ordeal, he apologises for scaring you and promises to be a little bit calmer around you

True to his word, he was a little nicer

Over time, things between you began to change. Jihan seeks you out as much as you seek him out

You still teased him for his obnoxious manspreading, and he just called you annoying

Everytime you nagged him about schoolwork, he would ruffle your hair

Whenever you moaned about him being conceited, he would flick your forehead

Imagine then, your surprise when Jihan invites you to properly meet his brothers and Jichang and Jibeom refer to you as his girlfriend

Jihan doesn't refute them. You just sit there with your eyes wide trying to process what they said

When it's finally the two of you on your own, you needed to set the story straight

"Why did your brother's call me your girlfriend?"

"Do you not want to be?"

That wasn't the response you expected, but you see the sly grin on his face. He likes to take the path of least resistance and this was no exception

Why makes things harder for himself?

"I... I guess I wouldn't mind being your girlfriend,"

"Thought so"

You're beet red, but Jihan is unruffled as ever

"Fuck why are you so cute," he pulls you close, and gives you another flick on the forehead

[brooklynisher]

People are asking about it so here it is!

The Spine Hc Angst Relating to Peter Walter I

This sorta turns into borderline a full backstory but aa who cares

Zer0 was abandoned and Rabbit was literally killed by Peter Walter I. I refuse to believe The Spine was such a perfect robot that Peter just left him alone.

I like to believe that after the success of Rabbit’s invention, Peter held The Spine to a much greater standard. So much greater to the point where he wasn’t being realistic. He knew he had the capabilities to program The Spine to be exactly what he wanted The Spine to be.

Two conflicting traits he gave were curiosity and maturity. Though curiosity isn’t inherently childish, you could only ask so many questions before people would assume you were born yesterday.

Because he expects The Spine to be mature, he doesn’t allow The Spine to indulge in any “childish“ activities.

One thing is that Rabbit thinks Peter prefers The Spine because he’s dedicated so much time into perfecting him, but The Spine thinks Peter prefers Rabbit because he seems like he actually likes her and she has many more permissions than he does.

Sometimes Peter will read stories to Rabbit to help her power down, but when The Spine asks to be read stories, he says no since The Spine is supposed to be, “More mature than Rabbit, and he doesn’t need them”. Rabbit might read The Spine stories in secret on occasion.

The Spine was not allowed to play with toys. If he was ever caught with a toy of any kind, they would be given away or destroyed depending on the quality of the toy.

The Spine was never allowed to read children books or watch children shows. He would have his siblings update him on any of his interests in media made for children if he had any.

He’s not allowed to play with his siblings, but instead, he’s expected to supervise.

Overall, he was expected to be “The best robot”. Whenever he wasn’t, he’d get adjusted, which he hated because he never knew what parts of him Peter was going to change. Most of the time he wouldn’t know what he did wrong. Which if he couldn’t figure out what he did wrong, the adjusting process would take 10x longer. The Spine would find himself overthinking everything he did wrong when he couldn’t be the perfect robot. This is part of the reason why he cares so much about the public perception of him.

During moments where he broke, he felt embarrassed and guilty. Peter would never tell him that his system failures were his fault, but he’d complain a lot whenever he had to fix them, making The Spine feel as if it was his fault for all the times he was broken. Like he was Wired Wrong.

Eventually, he’d start repairing himself. Which he got praise for, but if he ever made a mistake, boy did he feel like a failure. He’d be terrified of admitting to Peter Walter that he broke himself, but he would confess when he needed to because Peter would only get madder if he tried to hide it. Still, he was yelled at every time he made a mistake in fixing himself. The Spine would still keep trying though because he’d breakdown less when he attended to himself. His biggest issue is that he can get a bit too good at fixing himself and ends up overdoing it. Hence, over attenuated hydraulics.

Of course, after Delilah’s death, Peter was a lot more strict and critical with The Spine. There were times where The Spine was treated poorly due to Peter’s grief alone, but because he didn’t understand grief, he thought that his existence was the problem. He’d end up being hyper-aware of every little thing he did. Thinking that there was some sort of special way to behave around Peter in order to avoid setting him off. He was cautious of everything. His walk, his voice, the sound of the steam leaving his body, the glow of his eyes. He didn’t know what it was that would hurt Peter Walter I, but he always thought it was himself.

When Peter I died, the pressure to be the perfect robot only got stronger, so it ended up becoming a core aspect of his personality. To be the most mature, well maintained, and to keep his siblings in check.

It wasn’t until Peter Walter VI where he’d start to embrace his inner child. After seeing how well he responded to the rest of his siblings’ changes. He finally felt more comfortable with being himself. A tall robot dork.