#and then there is this man this good kind man and he THROWS AWAY his chance to finally be happy with his daughter THAT HE STILL HAS

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - v

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to "lovers." shower sex. cunnilingus. smut. manipulative soap. oysters as an aphrodisiac. unstable narrator. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

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You watch him over an open book.

It’s an old romance, something from the eighties. Classic bodice ripper, billowing sleeves, tight corsets, mullets and heaving bosoms and all. Naturally, it’s set on a pirate ship, the heroine as the unlucky spoils of a merchant ship raid and the hero a lusty captain able to pierce her virgin’s desire for sexual depravity.

It could only have been more pointed at you if it had been set in the North Atlantic—it isn’t—but you glare at Soap’s back anyway.

He must be able to feel it, because he stands straight at the wheel, shoulders thrown back, occasionally flexing.

The freak.

You’d realized the joke he’d been making, once your heartbeat had slowed. Hiding the pelt somewhere obvious enough for you to see it. You live in the age of the internet—you know what it’s supposed to mean.

And you kind of hate him for it. Now, post-coitus, you can’t shove it away into a box—he is the most attractive man you’ve ever encountered. Rugged and handsome, competent at everything you’ve seen him do, seemingly at home wherever he finds himself. Everything makes him smile. Nothing seems to disconcert him.

And a nice big cock he actually knows how to use. Certainly the best lay you’ve ever had.

What every woman traveling solo, you think, longs to encounter on a solo trip across the world, but will never acknowledge looking for. An answer to an unaddressed desire; proof that satisfaction is out there to find, if it’s searched for.

A lover with no conditions. Someone willing to strip your inhibitions away, knowing your protests are only token.

You had not been searching. You’d given up searching.

And now he mocks you—with every satisfied glance he throws over his shoulder.

“Good book?” he asks, all casual and pleased. “S’ one a’my favorites. Tell me when you get to the naval battle.”

You frown. “You haven’t read this.”

He gives a little huff of amusement. “Read all of ‘em, bonnie.”

No, this is where you draw the line. A good cook, a good fuck, and a romance reader? No. No, you absolutely will not take this.

“Sure you have, Johnny,” you grouse, “you read every single stupid book on that shelf. Sure. Hell, you’ve read books that aren’t on that shelf. You’ve read every new release from the last six months, even. Why not.”

He looks at you again over his shoulder, mouth curled. “Aye. Needed ideas, once a’knew you were comin.’”

He says it matter-of-factly, with only a little bit of pride. As if it was a natural step in the process of getting ready for your arrival—renovate the croft. Stock the fridge and pantry. Plan some island excursions.

Study the erotic mind of the average woman to divine how best to seduce her.

Your frown deepens, and you lift the book higher, making it a barrier between you and him. Loser. Couldn’t he just go to the mainland for a few days if he wanted pussy? Not like it would be hard to find, for him.

You resolve to ignore him for the rest of the trip. A petty endeavor, maybe, but it’s the only one you can make.

But six hours is six hours, and you can’t read the whole time. Periodically you have to get up to stretch your legs, and the windows wrapping around the bridge draw your attention to the sea outside.

Johnny drives the trawler at a remove along the coastline, keeping close enough to the islands for easy viewing. The denizens of the Hebrides are out en masse, enjoying the clear weather, joyfully populating the land- and seascape in the absence of human interlopers.

Porpoises, so much smaller than you might have expected, periodically catch the wake of the boat, swimming alongside, playful and curious. Gulls loop in the air above the dunes, fronds of grass fluttering in the breeze. Gannets, stark white, arrow down into the waves, wings folded back pin-straight as they spear their quarry—silvery fish that boil the surface of the water in their frenzy.

Some removed part of you enjoys their pleasure secondhand. The normally-grey ocean is vibrant in the sunlight, crystalline and sparkling and as blue as Johnny’s eyes.

He seems to be in a good mood, too, although that could just be because you let him fuck you. You feel his eyes on you even as you refuse to look at him, dancing along the curves of your body the same way his fingertips might.

At one point—“Bonnie, I know you’re sulking an’ all, but c’mere.”

He gestures you over to the cockpit, and—embarrassed at being called out—you join him. He brings a hand to the small of your back, stepping behind you and pointing over your shoulder.

A gray wall of passing cliffs, and crags of rock jutting up from the churn at their base. You see ten or twelve grey-and-white seals lounging across every available flat surface, some cuddled in groups of three or four, apparently unbothered by the periodic spray of breaking waves.

“No’ where I’d choose to have a kip, personally,” Johnny says, sounding amused.

You turn your head to look at him, hard. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and he tilts his head to kiss you, undeterred even when you flinch away from it.

His hand tightens across your back, fingers digging in. He sucks your bottom lip between his and caresses it with his tongue, as he edges beneath the hem of your shirt to spread his hand across the warming skin of your back.

“I’m mad for ya,” he murmurs when he pulls away, blush high on his cheeks.

“It’s been two days,” you deadpan.

He presses up behind you, open hand sliding around to press into the low part of your belly, right at the sensitive crest of your mons; you can’t help your gasp when, at the same time, his erection nestles into the cleft of your ass.

“No’ to this,” he purrs in your ear. “Feels like it’s been forever, for this.”

When his fingers start making their way beneath the waistband of your pants, you grab his hand and wrench it away, scoffing.

“You’re just a fucking horndog,” you sneer, betrayed by the heat spilling through your core.

“Aw, you break my heart, bonnie,” Johnny simpers, but there’s a mocking edge to it. As if he knows exactly what you’re hiding.

You step away from him, folding your arms across your chest and staring out at the basking seals instead. Then—

“There’s one in the water,” you say.

A few meters away from the rocks, a round head pokes up from the surface, bobbing with the rise and fall of the waves. Its eyes are slitted closed, nostrils dilating.

“Aw, he’s bottling,” Johnny says affectionately, when he comes over to look. “Look at his wee face.”

You remember suddenly your encounter of the previous day—another lone seal, resting apart from its fellows.

“I saw one on the beach,” you say, “yesterday, after you dropped me off. A big one. You didn’t say they might show up.”

“Male?” he asks, and you nod. “Peripheral male, then. I’m no’ surprised.”

You sigh. “And that is…”

As if magnetized, his hands find you again, this time settling on your waist. It seems that Johnny’s touch is something impossible to escape, in his vicinity. He drags them down over your hips and back up almost idly, as if he’s not even thinking about doing it.

“There’s dominant males, and then there’s the rest of ‘em. Only the dominant ones get to breed at the rookeries, see? And the rest of ‘em have to wait around for the females to leave to have their chance.”

He leans into you from behind, nose in your hair, and you hear him inhale as his hands tighten.

“Once a peripheral male finds a female alone, separated from the colony, ready to go back out to sea—well, that’s his chance to pounce.”

You frown, mostly to yourself. “No matter how the female feels about it.”

“We’ve been over this,” he chides.

He brings his lips to the curve of one ear, then the soft spot behind it. His nose finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, where the capillaries that he broke with his teeth still throb whenever you press your fingers to them. He inhales again, deeply.

“Why do you do that?” you grouse, unwilling to give him the win.

“Like how you smell,” he says, doing it again.

His tongue caresses the bruise before he closes his mouth over it—but he goes no further than to kiss your neck twice more before returning to the wheel. It leaves you reeling, half-dizzy with arousal, and when you stomp back to your seat with a frustrated growl, he only glances over at you, smirking, and laughs.

He finds a berth in the early evening to park the trawler, and at that point you’re thankful for any kind of solid ground to set your feet on, as well as enough open air to disperse whatever pheromones have saturated the enclosed space of the bridge.

You’ve been half-tempted the whole time to make him drop anchor and drag him belowdeck toward the nearest flat surface big enough for the two of you to share; as it is, you’ve simply stewed in your own juices instead, hot with angry arousal and ignoring the slick pooling in the gusset of your underwear.

Johnny steps out into the cooling air in his usual kilt and sweater, and you once again huddle in his jacket, aromatic with his musk, as he leads you onward. This time, unlike the last excursion, he insists upon holding your hand the whole way, callused fingers worming their way between yours, the captured air hot and humid between your palms.

Callanish turns out to be a henge of standing stones.

Meters-tall megaliths, squarish and narrow like broken teeth, surrounding a burial site and extending in two directions as if lining a road. Inevitably evocative of its cousin Stonehenge, with the notable exception that you are allowed to go up and touch the stones with your bare hands.

“They used ‘em for that TV show,” Johnny informs you as the two of you circuit the main ring. “Well, no’ these, they probably had styrofoam for that, but they got the idea from these.”

You lay your free hand on the nearest stone; it’s cold, and rough to the touch, a day’s worth of sunlight evidently not sufficient to warm it. Tiny spots of moss and lichen cling to the old stone, green and eggshell white.

“Why are we allowed to touch them?” you say. You think of bronze statues, rubbed to a golden gleam by millions of tourist hands.

“That’s Lewisian gneiss, bonnie,” says Johnny, laying his hand, much larger, next to yours. His thumb teases the side of your pinky. “Doubt you could make much of a mark on it. This rock here? Three billion years old.”

You look at him, seeing his profile. The expression on his face is soft—not unlike the way he looked at you earlier, on the way here. He spreads his fingers over the stone, tendons furrowing down the back of his sun-weathered hand.

“No’ just older than us,” he continues. “Older than what we used to be, a’fore we were us. Was there when we first made fire. Was there when we came down th’ trees. Was there all the way back when we left the ocean for the first time—”

He looks at you, then. The setting sun catches in the dips of his irises, setting jewel blue aflame.

“An’ it’ll be there, bonnie, when we go back.”

The wind curls around the stones with the chill of the oncoming night. Even despite the jacket, despite the walk up to the site—you feel it penetrate beneath your skin, deep into your bones.

You choose derision, to reject the shiver.

“And you have this all memorized,” you say.

Johnny doesn’t respond. He continues to stare at you, mouth in a relaxed, but inscrutable line.

You suddenly remember that you do not know this man; though he’s told you enough about himself to fill out his background—you don’t know him. You don’t know how he feels about most things, what’s important to him, why he may find one thing or another meaningful. Not the way you’d have to, in order to understand why the gaze he fixes on you feels so significant.

Whatever you’re supposed to understand in the way he looks at you now, you don’t have the ability to discern. The only thing that occurs to you is that, perhaps, you’ve finally managed to offend him.

It does not satisfy you as much as you might have imagined—

In fact, the thought drops through your belly like a rock.

Again. You did it again.

In the one place you thought you’d never have to face this—you did it again. Here is someone who seems to like even the worst of you, and you somehow found an even uglier side of yourself to show him, a squirming thing that cannot help but sling itself around with no heed for the damage it can cause.

But when you open your mouth to say something reparatory, something that certainly won’t fix what you’ve broken no matter what he might say, his expression softens into something thoughtful.

“Visited when I first came here,” he says. Completely unbothered. “After the discharge an’ all.”

You blink. Sharp heat and the numbness of cold, warring across your face.

“Why?” you ask.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, and lifts his hand from the stone, smiling ruefully. “I was a bastard back then. Didnae wan’ anything’ to do with anyone anymore. Mad at the world, a’was.”

Shucked like an oyster; scaled like a fish. Heat wins out, even in the growing chill. Tender skin scalding itself.

“And what,” you say, reflexively nasty, panic whirring up behind your breastbone, “you thought—you’d get some sort of, magical insight here?”

Johnny laughs. “Naw, a’was just pissing my money away, bonnie. Thought I’d come up here an’ try t’ knock one over.”

Tight chest. Can’t breathe. You step away from him, far away, hide it like you’re looking at another of the standing stones, but a stabbing pain spears upward through your diaphragm.

In—count—hold—out—

“Could you?” you ask, wringing something like a normal tone out of your voice.

“Nope. Paid for it later, though.”

He says it casually. He hasn’t noticed. You reach out to the new stone, drag your fingers overtop of the rough surface, imagine every little bump flipping the friction ridges of each print like pages of a book. Cold—the rock is cold. The wind is cold, and sharp with the smell of rain. The jacket is heavy on your shoulders.

The jacket smells like Johnny.

“I’m sure the park wardens weren’t happy,” you say, feeling your heart slow in your chest.

“No,” he says, and—with the silence of a lightning strike—“I drowned, afterwords, first time I went to sea.”

You look back at him. The wind picks up, ruffling the ends of his mohawk; on the horizon, a rind of darkness splits the clouds from the earth.

“You drowned?” you repeat.

The hem of his kilt flutters and dances. His gaze is intense—the angle of his brow unreadable.

“Aye, bonnie. I did.”

Your ears begin ringing—as you stare at him, you get the sense of dreaming. There’s a distinction to Johnny that contrasts the landscape framing him, a sharpness so focused that everything else lenses around him.

“Why—why are you here?” you find yourself asking, though you’re not entirely sure why. The question leaves you as if surfacing on its own power.

The corners of his mouth quirk—although for once, he doesn’t smirk at you, the way he always does.

“You tell me,” he murmurs.

He holds you in the tilt of his head; in the depths of his eyes, currents pulling you downward. You inhale, and expect, for some reason, water to pour into your lungs.

Then a gust of wind buffets the two of you. Johnny turns, surveying the sky. Breaking the spell, he says, “Come on, let’s get back. I don’ like the look a’that storm.”

Halfway back down the path, the front overtakes you; rain begins sheeting down, ice cold, needle-precise into your hair and down your collar. Johnny grabs your hand again even as you start worrying about slipping, and though the torrent veils the way, the both of you make it back to the trawler in one piece.

Back on the bridge, a red light blinks on the panel by the wheel. While Johnny attends to it, flipping a switch and bringing a microphone on a curly wire to his mouth, you squeeze your hair out over the sink nearby.

“This is Soap on the vessel Sea Ghost,” he says, and waits for a response.

“Soap. Drop anchor somewhere. Looks like a storm’s coming in,” a gruff voice comes in.

“Yeah, Cap, we noticed,” Johnny says with a laugh, turning and smiling at you. “We’re moored, dinna fash.”

“Good. Looks like it’s just for the night. Clear enough in the morning.”

“Barry. You got everything? Shops’ closed tomorrow.”

“Never will understand why. But yes.”

“It’s a holy day, Captain,” Johnny says pleasantly.

Price grumbles something about damn Catholics and their damn rules, which just makes Johnny laugh.

Then, “Gaz is here. Made it in after you left.”

Johnny’s posture shifts. Similar to a dog hearing the turning of a doorknob; amorphous attention coalescing, finding a target to point at. Anticipatory. Tail twitching, winding up to wag.

It’s a new reaction, to you—you’ve never seen it before.

Johnny lifts the transmitter to his mouth. He holds it there for a silent moment, before saying, “And Simon?”

No response from the other end of the line, pulled taut, as if snagged. Then Price responds “Haven’t heard yet.”

Something passes over Johnny’s face. Some flex of the muscle in his jaw. An expression held in check.

That’s—

That’s familiar.

“Alright. Back tomorrow then.”

“See you.”

He replaces the mic on its hook.

Thunder claps somewhere over the distant, open ocean. The trawler creaks and groans as the wind swirls around it. Yellow lamps illuminate the warm, wooden space, but are unable to penetrate the lowering blackness outside.

Tension—you can feel it drawing tight, see his shoulder blades shifting closer together. It aches in the muscles of your own back. He faces away from you, like you’re not there—

He turns to look at you. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t look quite real. As if he’s forcing the expression on his face.

“Poor bonnie,” he croons, looking you up and down. The tenor of his voice is saccharin-sweet and thick. “How’s a hot shower sound to warm up, hmm?”

Your belly pinches. “Sure.”

He leads you down a steep flight of stairs into the stomach of the boat, showing you into a single bedroom. The space is cramped, wedge-shaped—barely enough room for the double bed shoved into the middle of it, sheets and blankets gathered in rumples across the top. The unique musk of its occupant wars with the smell of lacquer; the walls are lined with orangey planks, evoking the sailing ships of old.

Directly to the left of the entrance, an open door leads into a small bathroom, into which Johnny guides you, hands on your hips.

“Go’ plenty a’ drinking water stored upstairs so take all the time you like,” he says. “Here, lemme show you how the taps work.”

You half-expect him, after the instruction, to stand there and watch, waiting until you undress. And he does hesitate for a moment, hovering in the threshold, before giving you a practiced grin, telling you to enjoy yourself, a closing the door behind him.

You stand in the middle of the tiny room for an uncertain heartbeat. Assumptions lurching. Almost—hoping.

His heavy footsteps climb back up the stairs.

So, you peel off your damp clothes and drop them into a pile on the floor, stepping naked into the shower. It’s far less mildewed than you might have worried of a single man living alone. Hot water chases cold out of your hair, streaming with pressure far superior to the cottage’s installment.

You realize your toiletries are still above deck, in your bag, beneath the two paperbacks Johnny packed that you haven’t gotten to just yet. You could step out after him—

You don’t do that anymore. You promised yourself.

The floor sways as the shifting sea rocks the trawler in its berth. You reach for the bar on the wall to steady yourself.

One version of yourself is sometimes able to fool the other. The truth is, you could have told him to stop at any time. Put your foot down, hard. Just because he owns the house you’re staying in doesn’t mean he gets to decide what your entire vacation is going to look like.

You scoff at yourself, without any humor. Vacation. Like you’d ever believed this was anything more than self-imposed exile.

The truth is, water takes the shape of the container it fills.

There’s a chill still present in your hair follicles. Impossible for you to identify until now; live with an ache long enough and it stops registering, until it’s balmed with a moment of relief. This is where the addicts begin; experiencing, for the first time, a complete absence of pain, as if it had never been there in the first place, and, once that pain is restored, the ruthless pursuit of its elimination.

Cold rain outside, warm rain within. You stand in the flow, listless. Steam rapidly clouds the empty spaces around you, gathering in droplets on the wall, drizzling down again.

That’s where the mistake is. Pain is never defeated—only deferred. Its panacea provides only diminishing returns, until it’s useless. Until you might as well be swallowing sugar pills or drinking seawater to assuage your thirst.

But you keep doing it. You remember too well how it felt. You chase it down because now you know how it feels.

At some point you have to understand that it always ends poorly.

The bathroom door opens again, and then the shower door, spilling yellow light into the shadowed recess—

Johnny.

The expression on his face is inscrutable; mysterious, as his gaze moves down your body, following the streaming water. Your arms curl around your chest in a perfunctory attempt to conceal yourself, even despite the futility of the effort.

He’s naked, and half-hard, a refrain on the previous night. One hand holds the travel-size soaps and gels that he must have dug out from your bag. He steps in behind you—enclosing the two of you in together.

“Sorry, bonnie,” he murmurs soothingly in your ear. “Had t’make sure we were tied up for the storm.”

The space is not even suggestive of being big enough for two people. You hear the squeak of the shower wall against his shifting back, hot skin slipping against yours as his hands draw you back against him by the hips.

“Dinnae want you t’slip an’ hit your head,” he murmurs, massaging the fat of your pelvis, as if there’s any reason to make excuses for what he’s doing.

Half-raised hackles petted down too easily. You relax into his touch, even as you disdain it. Your heart tremors in your chest.

“What’s going on tomorrow?” you finally ask. “Who’s Simon?”

Pathetic. A jealous lover, after less than forty-eight hours.

“Old task force,” he answers, kissing the back of your head. “Little reunion, food an’ beer, mostly.”

You half-expect him to go immediately for your breasts, or maybe your pussy. His cock is stiffening against the small of your back. But instead, he opens one of your bottles, squirts some pearly body wash into the palm of his hand. Rubbing a little to lather it, he puts his hands back on your hips, and begins massaging it into your skin.

Inward, up your stomach. Pressing into the soft parts of it, with the water slicking his way. His mouth touches the back of your neck—softly. Tenderly. With all of the languor you rejected the previous night, and not enough space for you to slap it away again.

His lips press inward, looking for the bite he left, which he lays his tongue on as if in contrition, licking it like a dog with a wound. The comfortable warmth of the shower swelters with his added body heat; the steam pulses in time with the heavy beats of your heart.

One hand slides up your body, fording your thoracic arch, the wedge of his hand ascending the length of your breastbone. He cups your jaw, bubbles between his fingers, one of your breasts nestling between his bicep and forearm.

He tilts your head to the side as he cranes his head further into your neck, lipping at the space behind your ear, kissing delicate, sensitive skin, as his other hand drags soap around your ribs, beneath and over both breasts, up into your pits and back down again.

A doll in his hands, bent along the shape of his will. He shifts his hips, frotting his erection against you.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “Johnny, this isn’t anything. This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Aye, bonnie,” he hums. “Whatever you say.”

He licks a hollow in your throat.

His other hand dips lower, sweeping down into the crease of one thigh to round the lower swell of your hip; then back up again, fingers spreading.

The stall compresses your arms close against you; the only space you have available to lay your useless hands is on his arms. The dark hair you find with your fingertips is coarse, wiry, plastered to hot skin with water. The spray seeps between the both of you, streams in the runnels of flesh pressed together.

Between your legs, your clitoris heats, awakening even though untouched. You give a small whine, and Johnny huffs a little chuckle in your ear, suckling your neck as his fingers make the descent back, rinsed in the falling water, teasing your pubic hair before nudging your folds apart.

He finds you slick and aching. He only dips lower briefly to wet his fingers, and then, as he settles a light touch over where you’re most desperate for it, relief razes through your nerves in a sudden wash.

You search for the back of his head, slotting your fingers into the ends of his mohawk at the nape of his neck. He hums against you, hand dropping down from your jaw to cup one breast in his palm, weighing it, thumb flicking around the pert nipple in the same tight circle he draws around your clitoris.

Orgasm, usually so obvious on approach, sneaks up on you, quick and quiet, but when it takes you it floods you, rather than knocking you down. You tremble all over, the follicles on your scalp standing on end, the nerves down your back and sides bending like dune grass to a wind.

Your long, breathy cry reverberates against the shower walls, and you lean heavily back against Johnny’s body, grip tightening where you have your hands on him.

He twitches against your back, but he makes no move to chase his own climax. He only turns you carefully, when you recover, and lays his hot, open mouth on yours, tugging your hips close enough to trap his cock against your belly. This time, the wall is cool at your back, the crown of your head moving against it as Johnny angles himself deeper, sliding his tongue between your lips.

“C’mon,” he says, when he finally pulls away. His pupils are huge, black dilation swallowing the blue. The spray fills the empty spaces between the strands of his mohawk, fluffing the hair a little as it courses down the shaved sides of his scalp. “Need to get my mouth on you again, bonnie.”

This time, when he eats you out, he does it at his leisure. Licking honey off a spoon. So lightly that you whine at him, find the energy to bitch at him to do it like he means it, but tonight he does not indulge you.

No—he mouths at you, eyes closed, curly lashes against his cheek as you lay belly-up on the rumpled sheets of his bed. The heat of his tongue in your cleft is the only source of warmth you have as the rain lashes at the outside of the trawler, but the hot shower still lingers in your skin—

Humid. Sticky. Sweat gathering beneath Johnny’s palms where he holds your thighs to his ears, as if mimicking the way your sex will clutch around him when he enters you. Slick and tight and viscous.

When he crawls up your body—nosing at your belly, your breasts, inhaling as if your musk is something he’s trying to get drunk on—he fucks you slow and deep. You stop being able to tell if it’s the storm rocking the boat, or the weight of his hips rolling against yours, one of his hands on the headboard for leverage and the other on your mons, pressing down with the heel of his hand to feel the head of his cock moving in you.

Tacky skin catching on the grind; heart speeding up as he grins at you from above, thumb tapping your clitoris. Enough to wind you up. You reach for his hips with your clawed hands, digging your nails into the meat of his ass—firm, muscle tensed, twitching every time he bottoms out.

“Johnny,” you finally beg, on the edge of a sob, “please, Johnny, please—”

Breath leaves him like a steam valve turned, pressure carrying an uninhibited moan. He ignores your plea, hips rolling slow, forcing you to feel every inch of him in and out of you, every ridge—every vein pulsing on the surface of his cock.

His eyes are closed still; when the widest part of him catches the rim of you around him again, his mouth drops open, lips pink and bitten.

Lost—he’s lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you around him, pulling him in. You watch his chest as it heaves, the flex of his stomach as it tightens—the twitch in the muscles of his arms as the impact of each thrust ripples up his body.

Look at me, you want to say. Look at me. I’m right here. Look at me.

“Again,” he groans, choked, restrained, hands gripping your hips. “Say it again, bonnie—”

“Please—” you whine, on the edge of a sob, “please, please, please—”

Thumb metronoming at a quick tempo where you need it—you seize, back arching, tightening around him so narrowly you could force him out—

He snarls, sharp and hard, thrusting into the resistance, hands falling to fist in the mattress. Breath coming rough and fast, sweat dripping from his forehead into the cups of your collarbones and down between your breasts. Hard and fast now, pushing in as far as your body will let him, and a final, long moan tears from his parted lips, liquid heat flooding you as Johnny goes rigid with a climax following only moments after your own.

Pelvis flush with your thighs. He doesn’t let a drop escape, pushing against you, lifting your hips from the bed.

“Tha’s right,” he slurs, eyes hazy when they open. “Tha’s right, that’s where it belongs.”

He collapses on top of you, almost crushing you with his weight, as he seeks your mouth out with his. He moves his hips against yours with shallow thrusts, whining in his throat.

“Didn’t you—” you pull your lips away, too hot, too cold, buzzing and exhausted, “didn’t you just finish?”

He tongues at your cheek instead, and then down your neck. “Doesnae matter, is no’ enough. C’mon, bonnie, wrap your legs aroun’ me, please…”

After he is finally spent—long after you’ve had enough energy to do more than lay beneath him and let him use you as he pleases—Johnny diverts briefly to the galley, bringing back with him a plate of oysters and a pry knife. It’s his bed, so you don’t complain about shell fragments, but you resolve to make him change the sheets anyway, shifting uncomfortably to find a spot that isn’t soaked.

“Was on this boat,” Johnny says, as if picking up the thread of a conversation only recently dropped. He picks up one of the oysters and shucks it open. “When I drowned.”

The way he says it, you’d think it was a casual thing, something he barely thought about anymore, but the line of his brow is low and serious.

He hands you one half; you bring the shell to your lips and tip it upward. Brine slides across your tongue, flesh smooth and buttery. Johnny watches you with soft eyes before having his own.

“Price was with me. I told him to fuck off, but he said he wasnae gonna let me take it out alone the first time ever. I was a bastard back then, I told ya. We went out in a storm, like this one, even though any eedjit could take a look outside and know it’d kill him.”

You flick at the edge of the shell with your fingernail, looking down at your hands. “Why’d you do it?”

“Dunno. Had somethin’ to prove, I guess.”

“That you could still do stuff like that?”

He doesn’t respond, so you look back up at him. He angles his gaze toward the mess of your hair—the new hickies he’s left on your neck—the bead of your nipples in the cold. The hard angles of his face soften.

“All my life,” he says, measuredly, “all I wanted to be was a soldier. An’ I couldnae anymore. Even though I was better. Hell, I was better than better. But I couldnae go back. That was it. It all wen’ on withou’ me.”

He breaks open more oysters as he talks, hands steady and deft around shells and knife. When he finishes, he slides the plate into your lap, and reclines to face you on his side, propping his head up with his hand.

“We wen’ out when the waves were as tall as a man, an’ us hangin’ onto the railing for dear fuckin’ life,” he continues. There’s a faraway quality to the tone of his voice. “Only life wasnae so fuckin’ dear, was it? I could’ve held on tighter, I think. I fell off.”

“And Price pulled you out?”

That feeling again, meeting his gaze; caught in the arms of a whirlpool, being dragged down. A vial in a centrifuge, constituent parts separating.

“No,” he says, “he didnae.”

“Then…”

“Eat, bonnie.”

There’s a stillness to him that feels unnatural. Johnny is a man who should be constantly in motion, gesturing with his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tapping any available surface with rolling fingertips. Instead, here in front of you, he’s still as a statue. Chest softly rising and falling, but otherwise completely placid.

He gazes steadily at you, down at the plate, and then back up. You sigh, and pick up another shell.

“I don’t remember exactly what happened. I remember getting pushed down deep, real deep, then getting forced up again, on a current or something. Not far enough to get any air, mind. I thought, I’m gonna die out here, an’ I didnae want to.”

He shifts then, a little forward toward you.

“That seemed important, you know? I didnae want to die. Dinna think the sea would’ve given me up f’ I did. It knows. Sometimes it doesnae care. But I guess that time, it did, ‘cause after I blacked out, next thing I know I’m wakin’ up on the shore.”

Something hard shifts in your belly.

“Cap found me a bit later, bringin’ the boat in. Gave him a real scare. Think it turned some of his hair gray overnight. After that…a’was no’ the same. How could y’be, after that?”

You—you don’t want to know any of this. You don’t care. You didn’t ask. His story drops expectation on your shoulders, heavy, custom-tailored, laden with understanding that sands your abraded nerves.

All of this is too much. The damp sheets beneath you, the food, the sex. The fact that you picked the last place in the world thought you could ever meet anyone, let alone someone who—

“And now you have a seal fetish,” you sneer.

Who understands.

Indulgent. This is indulgent, reckless, idiotic in the extreme.

Soap reaches out, and wraps a large, sun-brown hand around your wrist, the one still holding the oyster. Pulling it towards him, he opens his mouth and then tips the flesh from the shell. He slurps it down, noisily, mimicking the sound of his mouth and tongue on your pussy.

“Something like that,” he says, with a sharp, cocky grin.

He changes the sheets. Dims the lights. Plasters himself around you as the storm blows itself out, arm heavy over your waist, thigh and knee nested inside yours.

He’s warm at your back, musky with the mingling aroma of dried sex and sweat.

Sturdy. More real than anything that’s ever put its hands on you.

Johnny, who the sea loved so much it spat him back out. So treasured by the world that a bullet to the brain couldn’t even take him away from it.

Who, by the sound of it, means so much to the people in his life that they would follow him to the middle of nowhere just to keep an eye on him.

Bile churns in your stomach.

next chapter early access

a/n: two chapters left!

[higuchisora]

Did some thinking and I haven't seen an Alternate Transmigration AU of Shen Yuan as Yue Qingyuan.

I think it's mostly because people generally like whatever the hell is going on between him and Shen Jiu, and some might even like the double angst of that relationship + the added fact that Yue Qingyuan Does Not Know and will Never Know that Shen Jiu is gone forever (because if there's one thing YQY stans like, it's his pain lmfao). But I think we're really missing out on the potential angst AND crack factors of canon QiJiu Fuckery with Yue Qingyuan being replaced, and SHEN JIU being the one having to deal-by-not-dealing with Yue Qingyuan being gone.

Because it's possible that he'd recognize that something is off and IMMEDIATELY decide YQY is possessed, which in it's own right can be both a crack and angst premise. But imagine if he doesn't???

His self-loathing and his hatred towards YQY (and the good memories he DOES still have of him) would make the perfect concoction of reasons to doubt himself and YQY's actions. He's already so hostile to him, constantly pushing him away, wanting but not wanting him to fuck off forever. Shen Yuan being yeeted into Yue Qingyuan's body and probably doing exactly that for the first month or two? Shen Jiu would be SEETHING. How dare this man take all the verbal, visual, and physical cues I've given, and actually take the hint and leave??? How dare he give me space when I throw things at his head and threaten his life??? Clearly all that kindness from the past few decades was just an act, just like he thought! He's stabbing a pillow with Yue Qingyuan's face on it.

And when "Yue Qingyuan" starts showing up at the peak again- to speak to that fucking orphan brat???? The same kid Yue Qingyuan almost took into his own peak??? The same little runt that's all talented and special and has all that fucking potential in him???

Binghe would NOT be the one committing the attack on Cang Qiong Mountain this time.

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy VII

a yandere art professor Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) ->chapter map

VII.

-Later that night you’re outside Matt’s apartment with that familiar feeling that you’re doing something that maybe you shouldn’t be doing. You were afraid he’d take it the wrong way, if you invited him over to your place. But now you’re not sure this is any better. 

Just chill out, you scold yourself. He’s a sweet boy. He’s going to finish his drawing, and then you’re going to leave. No funny business.

Right. 

Your ovaries have other ideas, but you’re usually successful at thwarting their evil schemes, if with anything your pure talent for saying the wrong thing.   

You can hear the music coming through the door before you even knock. There are several voices on the other side. Loud, excited, adolescently boyish. It doesn’t really help the unease inside you, but before you can change your mind the door is jerked open, answered by a skinny guy in faded black denim. “What’s up?” You think you recognize him from the band.

“Hi…is Matt here?” 

His eyes light up, a smirk pulling his narrow features. “Ohhhhh, you’re the chick from his drawing class!” Then he bellows loud enough for the whole building to hear, “Matt!! Your stripper’s here!” 

Mortified, you are on the verge of turning on your heel and leaving when suddenly Matt appears in the door, maybe as flustered as you are. “Jesus, Layne, shut up.” He pushes his friend away, filling the doorway with his broad-shouldered form. He’s in a white t-shirt, and blue jeans, and if you’re being honest…he looks good enough to eat. “Hey. Sorry about him, he’s an asshole.” 

He runs his fingers through his soft hair nervously, and you feel the sparks as the wires cross in your brain. 

“It’s ok…” It’s not, but what the fuck else can you say?

You follow him into the apartment, which smells of stale beer and weed and unwashed man-children. His friends are watching tv, a cold pizza open on the coffee table. Everything is filthy, and a part of you wants to turn and go again. 

“Aw, don’t hog the girl,” says another one of Matt’s friends. He is big, the mismatched thrift-store chair he sits in clearly on the verge of breaking under his burly weight. When he looks at you you have the unnerving feeling that he is looking through you. “Come hang out.”

“Can’t, Samson. Got a project.”

“Work on it out here!” 

“Yeah, Matt, it’s just art.” They all look at you wolfishly, and it is so completely the opposite vibe of the drawing studio that a part of you wants to bolt like a rabbit. 

“Fuck off, assholes,” Matt says with no real feeling, taking your hand to pull you towards his room. You let him, because you’re not sure what else to do. You feel their gazes between your shoulder blades, a creeping feeling prickling uncomfortably all over your skin. 

“Sorry about them,” he says once he has you inside his tiny bedroom. You can’t help but notice he flips the lock. His friends continue to jeer from the other side, going so far as to throw something heavy at the door. He rifles around to set up his drawing stuff. When he realizes you haven’t moved he asks, “Shit, are you ok?”

The answer is not really, but you shrug it off. “Fine. Where should I sit?” 

His room is messy, but not dirty like the common living area. He moves a pile of clothes and makes a place for you, setting up a desk lamp to mimic the lighting from the drawing studio. “This should do. It’s really cool of you to help me out.” 

“Not a big deal.” You went through the grind before. You know how important it is to do well this first year. The 100 classes are kind of boring, but they really do set the foundation for everything else. 

There’s only one thing left to do. 

You’re not sure why it didn’t occur to you until just now, how charged it would be, to undress while alone in a bedroom with this handsome young man. It doesn’t help that he’s biting his full lower lip, looking at you like a drowning man. 

“Alright. You have to close your eyes.” 

He laughs, those dark orbs sparkling. “What?” 

“Go on. I’ll tell you when you can open them.” 

He doesn’t fight you, doing as you ask and turning his back besides. The difference between him and his friends is such a yawning chasm, you wonder what the hell he’s doing with guys like that. You suppose that sometimes proximity makes strange bedfellows. 

You take off your clothes and arrange yourself. “Ok, you can look.” 

He turns, gazing at you with a softness that tugs all your heartstrings and ties them in knots besides. He glances down at his drawing, then back at you. “Can you move your hand to the left just a hair?” 

You do, and with plenty of tension in the air but no further fuss, he gets to work.

-You stay for three more hours, and the result was worth it. Matt’s drawing takes your breath away, and despite your joke earlier, it’s not vanity. It’s his marks on the paper, the curves and lines and highlights and shadows. It’s beautiful, and you’re very proud of him. 

“I can’t fathom John won’t like this,” you say. Matt makes a face at just hearing his Professor’s name. 

“We’ll see. That dude has it out for me.”

“I think…he just sees you have potential.”

Matt gives you a look, tilting his head so that beautiful hair falls down in a wave. “Are you kidding me?”

“Well…”

“I'm not sure you've noticed this, but I think he likes you.”

You roll your eyes. Maybe that used to be true, but you're pretty sure you ruined it. He was downright distant last class, so cordial it hurt. “I think you're imagining things.”

“Sure, y/n.” Clearly, he's not convinced. “You…want to hang out?” He shoots you a puppy dog look from behind his hair that is hard to resist. 

You smile regretfully. “I have to get going.” You're not just a spoilsport; you really are exhausted.

“Ok, I'll walk you out.” It's settled down outside, and it feels like it's safe to leave. Yet as the two of you are walking past the kitchen the one called Samson blocks your way. 

“Where ya goin? It's early. You should stay.” He fills the whole hallway, impossibly large and seemingly impassable. Every hair raises on your body.

“Sorry…I can't,” you manage to get out, every cell in your body feeling threatened. Of course, your pepper spray is buried deep in the bottom of your purse where you could never get to it in time. 

“Aww. You're no fun.” He reaches up to touch your hair, and you have this sudden sickly feeling like you might die if he lays a hand on you. 

“Dude, chill out.” Matt comes to the rescue, pushing his friend aside like one might an overly friendly Saint Bernard. But you know that even if big dogs seem dumb…they have teeth, and sometimes, they don’t know their own strength. 

“Sorry about him,” he says again as you step outside. Again, you can't help but think that he is waaay too nice to be hanging with these creeps.

“Matt…you're a really nice guy,” you say as you get to your car, wanting to ask him what the deal is with his unsavory company but not sure how. 

“Yeah?” He lights up at hearing this, inching in a little closer with that sideways smile. “Then how come you won't let me kiss you?”

Why do you feel more embarrassed now than fifteen minutes ago when you were sitting in his room with no clothes on? 

“I didn't say I wouldn't…”

This emboldens him enough to step the rest of the way into you, touching his pillow-soft lips to yours gently. He lights up your world, and when you don't pull away his big hands find your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin as he moans against your mouth. 

“You sure you gotta go?” he asks sheepishly, his forehead pressed to yours. His hair is every bit as soft as it looks, you find out, as it curtains your face.

You manage a shaky, “Yeah.” 

Only because you can't stand his roommates. You've decided you will never set foot in that apartment with them there again.

“Bummer.” 

The understatement of the century. You laugh, at your own luck as much as him, smoothing your hands over his muscled chest before patting his cheek lightly. Good lord, what a specimen. “Goodnight, Matt.”

“See you, y/n.”

You drive off, sad to be leaving him. Something about that boy makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, and fight anyone who so much as gives him a sideways look.

That is something to be wary of too, you suppose.

You have no idea that you were being watched by someone from the shadows, snogging your student under the yellow glow of the street light.

----

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

You better make it soon before you break my heart (Sam Winchester x female reader)

You and Sam get drunk together and Dean plays cupid.

Find it on AO3

Rated T. 3.3k words. Drunk Sam. Margaritas. Crushes. Flirting. Drunk dancing. Dean being a good brother. First kiss.

“What do you think would happen if we started adding margaritas into this?” you ask, already struggling with the word margarita.

“I think—I think that we would probably die,” Sam says.

“Pff,” you say. “Don’t be a baby, Winchester. You can’t live life one foot in, one foot out.”

You’re not totally sure what you mean, but it sounds good. Sam blinks at you, narrows his eyes, making him look more drunk that he already does, with those slightly flushed cheeks and the way his usually so controlled movements are now all over the place.

He looks so good that it almost sobers you up, so you take another big sip of your drink to make sure that doesn’t happen.

You make a face at the strong whiskey taste. You want something nicer, something sweeter. Like Sam? your brain, the mischievous asshole, adds.

Yes, like Sam. Exactly like Sam.

He speaks, breaking you out of your little daydream. “If we drink margaritas now, the only thing we’ll be half foot in is the emergency room.”

It takes you a second and then you chuckle. It’s clever. Sam’s clever.

You lean forward on the table and maybe stare at him a little too intently. He catches your eye, and then looks away quickly. “You’re funny, Sam,” you say, still looking at him. He has the audacity to blush a little, shrugs those big, broad man shoulders of his.

You want to say more. You want to say that he’s beautiful and kind and sweet and so smart and that sometimes he makes you feel like you’re floating, like a cartoon character that’s smelling a pie.

Luckily just then, the waitress comes over. “Can I get you two anything else?” she says, and you throw Sam a look, wiggle your eyebrows.

He sighs, defeated, and orders two margaritas.

Dean finds you about an hour later. You and Sam aren’t sloppy drunk but definitely giggly drunk. You are holding on to your half empty glass and leaning to the side because Sam has said something so adorable and goofy that you are now laughing so hard it hurts your ribs.

Sam is laughing too, a little bashful but then it’s turning into real, actual laughter and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world. It’s so rare to hear him like that. Too rare.

Dean walks up to the table like an annoyed parent who has to pick up his kid from a sleepover because they ate too much candy and then barfed everywhere.

Sam sees him a second later, nods at him, but even though you both sort of recover you’re still giggling.

“How’d it go?” Sam asks, and he’s definitely slurring a little bit, the grin on his face wide.

You want to kiss it. The face and the grin.

Dean sits down, eyeing you both a little suspiciously.  “It was fine,” he says, “but the county sheriff is pretty useless. I think he’s a drunk. But then,” he makes a sarcastic face, “looks like he’s not alone in that.”

You know he’s just trying to be a reasonable but you don’t need this buzz kill right now. You can already see Sam starting to feel bad that he was out having fun while Dean was working, but that only happened because Sam finished his research so fast and Dean was slow, because he was busy flirting with that one witness at the station.

No, you’re not gonna let him suck the fun out of tonight.

“Boooh,” you say then push your glass towards him. “Drink and be merry, Dean,” you say and Sam chuckles.

Dean looks down at the drink, a little disgusted. “It has a salted rim,” you say to him, cocking your head. “You loooove that.”

Sam bursts out laughing. You’re not even sure what you said and then you realize the double meaning. Oopsie. But Sam’s laugh is so infectious that you just go along with it.

Dean rolls his eyes pointedly. To make up for it, you raise your arm, wave over the waitress. She joins you, Dean turning around to give her an appreciative look.

“Hi there,” you say, as if you are talking to her for the first time tonight. “Could you please get my friend here the most boring, adult drink you have, please?” you ask her.

Dean smiles at her, already flirting. “Whiskey neat is fine. And I wouldn't mind getting your number as well.”

You look over at Sam, who widens his eyes, looks at you. You’re both used to Dean flirting shamelessly, but that’s fast, even for him.

The waitress returns the smile, checks him out a little. “Coming up,” she says, walks away, looking back to make sure Dean is looking after her. He is, of course.

“Jeez,” you mumble, “get a room.” Dean turns back, looks at you.

“Look who’s talking,” he says and you can feel the violent blush in your face. You hope it’s not as visible under the dimmed light of the bar as it feels, but you can’t be sure.

Dean is kind enough to change the topic, starts talking more about the sheriff and the lack of information he found. You take your drink back from him, taking a big sip and chance a look at Sam. It looks like he didn’t notice. Thank God.

Dean doesn’t officially know about your crush on Sam, but he’s not an idiot, as much as he might sometimes act like one. He doesn’t miss the longing looks you throw his younger brother, how you react like you’re stung by a jellyfish every time Sam touches you, or how once, when a witness was throwing herself at him and Sam didn’t seem totally disinterested, you might have snuck to the bathroom to sniffle a little.

Sam on the other hand seems completely oblivious, which is good and bad at the same time. Good because you’re pretty sure if he were to find out and not feel the same way about you the embarrassment would kill you on the spot. Bad because on the off chance that he does like you that way, he sure as hell isn’t going to be making the first step, not if he’s not absolutely sure you like him back. And you would never tell him because, well, all of the above. Which means it’s unlikely that anything will come of it.

So you drink and talk and geek together, sharing secrets and talking about things you’ve never talked to anyone else about, and you’re pretty sure neither has Sam. And you don’t cuddle or kiss or touch or do any of the other things you would like to do with Sam. No, sir.

You all finish your drinks, Dean scores the waitress’s number and then you’re stepping out into the warm summer evening.

You get into the Impala, you climb into the back without breaking your neck, and Dean starts driving you back to the motel.

Sam plays around with the radio until he finds a station, while you roll down one of the back windows.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Dean asks, glaring at you in the rearview mirror.

“Noo, just like the air, air’s nice,” you say, leaning your head so the night air is hitting your face. It feels amazing, and just when you think you probably can’t feel any better, the station Sam found starts playing Fleetwood Mac.

“Hell yeah,” you say, raising both hands over your head, crossing them there. You hum along, watch the dark country roads go by.

After a minute you look forward again, just to see Sam’s head turning away quickly. Did you just catch him look at you? No, surely not?

You sink a little deeper into the seat.

It doesn’t take long after that to arrive at the motel. You get out, swaying a little. The three of you start walking towards your room, when Dean suddenly stops in his tracks. He licks his lip, then half turns back to the car.

“Actually, I think I left that waitress's number at the bar,” he says. No, he didn’t. You saw him pocket it when you walked out.

You’re about to say exactly that, when he throws Sam the room keys in a high arch. Sam doesn’t catch them, has to bend down to pick them up, and for a second you think he’ll topple. You lay a hand on his arm, which is probably not very helpful, but it’s an excuse to touch him.

“Gotta go back,” Dean says, shrugging, a bit of a grin on his face.

“Dean,” you start, then hiccup a little, and continue. “I’m sure you’ll score another number in the next town.”

But Dean’s already on his way back to the Impala. He turns around as he's about to get in, and now he's full on grinning. "Yeah," he says, "but she could be the one. Gotta be sure. You have to be brave to find love." And then he winks at you and a second later, you and Sam are standing in a whirl of dust left behind by the Impala. 

Sam waves his hand in front of his face, coughing a little. Meanwhile you are trying not to scream.

What the hell did Dean mean by that? Brave to find love? You turn to Sam, the internal screaming momentarily under control.

Sam looks down at you. He has the cutest little pout on him. "Inside?" he asks, like it's a full sentence. You nod. Inside.

The walk to the room is short but it allows you to think about what Dean was insinuating. 

It would be cruel, what he's suggesting, if he doesn't at least think there's a chance that Sam likes you back, and Dean is many things, but he is not cruel. At least not normally. That means that he knows something, or suspects something. 

Your head is spinning and it's not just from the alcohol. Suddenly you're terrified. 

You make it to the room, and Sam unlocks it. It only takes him three tries. He's so graceful. 

You are leaning against the door frame while he wrangles the door. When it swings open, he looks at you, all proud smiles. Despite your nervousness, you smile back, slap his arm. 

"You are, like, a master at opening doors. Amazing form. Ten points."

He nods. "I do unlock a lot of doors," he says, and then holds his arm out to signal for you to go in before him.

You do, walk in, and then, because suddenly you don't know what to do and you're hyper aware of the situation, you just kind of stand there in the middle of the room. 

Sam walk in behind you, throwing closed the door behind him and plops down on the bed, face first.

You turn to him and it gives you too good of a view of his body, so you mumble "gotta use the bathroom," and rush off.

You close the door behind you and sit on the closed toilet seat. Okay. Breath.

There's no reason to be nervous. You are alone with Sam, which you have been a million times. You are drunk with Sam, alone, and it's not a big deal.

Except that Dean said that stuff about having to be brave to find love. Did he mean you need to be brave to find love? Did he mean with Sam? Or was he just talking out of his ass and your drunk brain is cooking something up that's not really there?

You sigh. Goddamn, this is really killing your buzz. It's fine. It's better to not do anything you might regret. Tomorrow, when you're sobered up and hungover, you can go back to interpreting Dean's cryptic messages. But tonight you just want to have fun, just for a little longer.

You walk out and Sam's still lying on the bed. You think he might be passed out for a second, but then he raises one hand where it's lying on the bed next to him, giving a thumbs up. "All good," he says, not opening his eyes. "Jus' resting my face."

You can't help but chuckle at that and all the lovey dovey feelings come rushing back, replacing your anxiety. You just want to have a fun drunk night with Sam. If nothing else ever comes of it, you're still damn lucky.

So, to rally the troops, you take out your phone, turn the sound all the way up, and start playing the song you heard in the car, "Everywhere". It starts with that weird tingly noise, and you use that time to walk over to Sam, kicking off your shoes without any major mishaps, and then lean on his back with both arms, and shake him a little.

He makes a noise that's a mixture of a grunt and something you've only ever heard donkeys make.

"No shaking, please," he says, frowning. 

"Then get up," you say. "You get up, and no more shaking." 

The song starts properly now and you start dancing a little, because it's just too good. Sam finally gets up, kind of. He turns around, leaning up on one elbow.

"Come on, Sam," you say. "Let's dance the drunk out."

He laughs, even though he still looks sleepy. And then he watches you for a moment, and his face becomes incredibly serious. 

You stop your dancing. "What?" you ask, and you think he's going to say something horrible. 

"Nothin'," he says, and his voice is kind of quiet. "You're just pretty."

A not entirely unpleasant shock goes through you. Pretty.

You try to recover, wave him off. "You're very drunk, Sam," you say and then, because you think if he looks at you for a second longer you'll burst into flames, you jump on the bed without warning.

He ducks his head, scoots out of the way so he doesn't get trampled. You start bouncing on the bed to the beat of the music, doing something with your arms, you're not even sure what. 

You sing along loudly to the "I want to be with you everywhere," and the meaning of the words doesn't really reach your brain, because you point at Sam while singing them. It's just your entertainer persona, or what some people would call very limited dance moves, that makes you point at him. 

You pull your arm back immediately. Yikes. To cover, you pretend you were just trying to get Sam to dance. "Come on, get up, we are not losing to margaritas! We're stronger than that!"

Sam actually gets up then, and while what he does can't really be called dancing, he is at least moving his body.

You woohoo in his direction, and pick up your own dancing again. Then you make the mistake of trying to take a step to the side, forgetting that you are not on solid ground, but on a cheap motel bed. You foot gets tangled in the thin comforter.

You're gonna fall off this bed and break your neck, you just know it.

But you don't, because there's Sam. He's stepped closer to the bed and is holding you by the waist. You don't fall. You don't die.

You're on the bed and he's standing on the floor, so you're half a head taller than him currently. You're also really, really close to him, and oh yeah, there's the whole hands-on-waist thing.

You swallow. "Thanks," you say, but it comes out quiet and a little cracked. Sam smiles up at you, a little unsure. He could let you go now, but he doesn't. He keeps holding you.

Your brain is desperately trying to find something to say, something to make this not awkward, something to make you stop thinking about Sam's lips so close to yours, the beauty mark next to his nose that you want to touch, his smell, his big hands on you.

What you come up with is this: "Gee, I really get this whole being tall thing now. It's nice." It's one of the more stupid things you've said, but Sam still smiles at it.

"Has its advantages," he says, and then he's looking into your eyes and you're looking into his.

Sam's breathing a little harder. You lean in a little closer because he is so damn magnetic. Somewhere far away the song is starting over.

He clears his throat. "I really want to kiss you," he says.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and David Bowie. 

"I want you to want to kiss me," you reply, and you have just enough working brain cells left to correct yourself. "I want you to kiss me."

He nods. Then suddenly he looks unsure. "But," he says, and you think no, no buts, no buts please, I will start an anti-buts movement, before he continues: "I don't want it to, you know, be like this, I think. I don't want us to regret it in the morning. Or forget it."

"I won't regret it," you say, maybe a little too fast. "And I don't think I'll forget it, either." Because how could you? How could you forget something like that?

Sam nods again, still looking into your eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Super sure," you say, nodding as well. And then, because sometimes your brain does come up with good ideas, you add: "Plus, we could just kiss again tomorrow. That way we won't forget what it's like."

Now Sam is grinning, and from this close it's even better, even more breathtaking. It shows off his dimples and because you're already in too deep, you move your hands up, one landing on his shoulder, one on his cheek, your thumb close to that little valley in his face that shows up when he's happy.

"Okay," Sam says, and you say it as well.

And then he is pulling you in, very, very slowly, like he's expecting you to change your mind halfway in. 

You lick your lips, just a little, because you realize your mouth has gone incredibly dry. 

And then you're kissing Sam. His eyes close and so do yours. His lips are soft and there's still a hint of salt on them from the drinks. It's perfect.

Your heart is beating so hard than you're sure he must hear it. His one hand leaves your waist, and his arm goes around you, holds you there. 

You take your one hand off his shoulder and cup his face with that one as well, because you've never gotten to touch his face like that before.

Sam breaks the kiss, eventually. Your eyes stay closed and it's a good thing he's holding you. You might fall off the bed otherwise anyway, margaritas or no margaritas.

You can tell he's looking at you, so you blink your eyes open. He has a slight smile on his face.

"Can I kiss you again?" he asks. You don't bother saying yes. You pull his face close to yours and do it.

This kiss is a little different. Where the first one was soft and sweet and careful, this one feels a little more raunchy. Sam's breathing out through his nose as if to contain himself, and it's so goddamn sexy. He's pulling you closer and you're pulling him closer, and then suddenly your tongues are meeting and you actually moan a little. You can feel him smile at that. Yeah, you won't forget that.

And then you can hear the Impala pulling up outside. Looks like Dean struck out.

Sam unleashes your lips and you lean down, lay your forehead against his. His hand goes up and strokes your cheek. 

"Tomorrow?" he asks, and you nod against him. "Tomorrow." 

You're not sure what it means, but it's a promise. A promise you're happy to keep.

I want to be with you everywhere, Christine McVie sings and you couldn't agree more.

[sorchathered]

My Forever Valentine- Bradley Bradshaw x reader

A/N- happy belated valentines my angels! This is just a little something I’ve been working on for @roosterforme, hope you all love it!

Pairing- Bradley Bradshaw x female reader

Warnings- a little angst, a little smut, language.

“Honestly I never thought we’d get here. No really, anyone who knows Bradley knows he isn’t the Casanova he likes to think he is. How you roped her into marrying your dumb ass is a miracle in my book. I love you both and I’m so glad you are taking over my job of keeping him alive; good luck girl it’s a tough gig!”

Everyone is nearly in tears from laughter as Bradley rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a chuckle. Choosing Natasha Trace to be his best (wo)man was a no-brainer until he realized she was going to get to give a speech, or as she called it “her roasting of the chicken boy”. Honestly he thought she’d be more ruthless but blessedly she had been kind because it was after all his wedding day. She wasn’t wrong though; it really was a miracle he’d managed to not only find you but also convince you he was the man you should spend the rest of your life with. He’d been full of anger for years over Mav pulling his papers, despite the fact that he’d made it in the navy and been incredibly successful in his career. You’d seen right through his carefree aloha persona, broke down his walls and finally got him to self reflect and realize that the past wasn’t who he was; he’d made it through hell despite the roadblocks and that was what he should focus on instead. He had been stubborn, trying his damndest to push you away when you pushed him to make amends and heal, but you’d stayed. You’d made him better, made his life have meaning, and now he would spend the rest of his life showing you how much you meant to him and making a beautiful life for you.

He remembered the day he met you vividly. You’d been out at the hard deck with a group of friends, it shouldn’t have been any different than any other night out but when he heard your laugh and saw your face he knew. It was like everything in his life had come into focus and he couldn’t stop himself from getting up mid conversation to cross the bar and talk to you. You’d been watching him too, the easy carefree way he seemed to move through the crowd was mesmerizing and the two of you had hit it off like a house on fire. You both fell in love hard and fast, but it hadn’t been without its struggles. Bradley’s line of work was extremely taxing, gone for weeks- sometimes months a time with little to no contact. You’d been lonely but he’d been worth every minute apart, and when he made it back to you after a particularly difficult mission a misunderstanding had nearly torn you both apart.

-6 months ago-

It had been a non-stop carousel of tag chasers from the minute he’d entered his beloved bar, the squad had demanded they throw him a welcome home party for the ages but you’d never thought it would be a wall to wall frat party. Women staring for a little too long, buying him drinks, at one point some girl actually tried to kiss him! Bradley had been polite as always, sending all of them packing and letting them know he was taken, but by the time he’d sat himself at the piano to sing he had gathered himself quite a fan club of single girls, and you didn’t have the patience to look at it anymore. Especially when one of those girls was his ex, she just never quite seemed to understand the word no, and forget about the notion that he had moved on; she didn’t believe for one second that anyone would turn his head from her and despite being the one that left him she just wouldn’t let an opportunity pass to get him back out of her grasp. You knew his heart, and that he had professed that you were his future, but it wasn’t enough. Not when these girls didn’t seem to get his polite hints and kept coming back for more. You knew he liked the attention and that was the worst part; he could tell you all day long that he wanted a family with you but when you took a backseat to his fan club you couldn’t help but convince yourself that he was all talk and nothing more.

“Baby, come on you know it’s not like that! I don’t want anyone but you! Just come back inside, we’ll play some pool with Phoenix and Coyote and then we can head home, just us. I don’t want you going home by yourself.” He pouted and tried to pull you close and damn it you almost let him, but the gnawing feeling of inadequacy wouldn’t let you give in.

You nearly walked away that night, but he wouldn’t have it. If he was going to lose you it wouldn’t be over some stupid girl in a bar, the two of you were meant to be and he was ready to put his heart on the line. He grabbed your hand and pulled you into his arms, you wiggled in his hold but he didn’t budge; tilting your chin up to look at him as he leaned in close to place a searing kiss to your lips. He felt your body go lax in his arms, sighing into his mouth as he ran his tongue along the seam of your lips. The two of you stayed like that for a while, locked in an embrace as he kissed you breathless, you were sure this was the kind of kiss that caused women to swoon in old movies, drunk on the feeling of his body pressed to yours making you weak in the knees. When he finally pulled away from you a whine breached your throat and he chuckled as he tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I want you to hear me when I say this sweetheart, and really take it to heart ok? There’s nothing I want more in this world than you. Not flying, not another woman, not a single thing could matter more to me than you. You’re my first thought when I open my eyes and every night I’m honored to be the one to hold you when you finally find rest. I will always choose you, and if I’ve ever made you question that I will do anything to make it right. I want you forever. I want to have a house full of feral children that look like you that I coach softball for on the weekends, I want to take care of you when you’re sick and think you’re gross, I want to sit on our porch 50 years from now and watch the sun go down on a perfect life we’ve made, hell baby I want to pass first because I don’t know that I could go on another day if you weren’t here. That’s how much you mean to me, and if you’ll say yes I’ll love you until the day I die.”

You were fully ugly crying in his arms as he pulled a beautiful ring and slid it on your finger, nodding furiously before you pulled his face to yours.

Now in the fading sunset he watched you dancing along to the band, the quiet beach wedding had been everything you both dreamed it would be, surrounded by loved ones and Bradley can’t help but feel overwhelmed by it all. You were everything he’d ever dreamed up but somehow better, the figment in his mind could never come close to the real thing. His hands itched to hold you, need flooding his senses as he crossed the makeshift dance floor to sweep you into his embrace. You grinned up at him and he melted a little more inside, he peppered your face with kisses as your laughter rang out against the crashing of the waves. “I need to monopolize the bride for a little while, think you could find a way for us to escape for a bit?” He whispered in your ear and you couldn’t help but laugh until you felt him pressing against the satiny fabric of your gown. He swallowed the moan that escapes your lips, it was entirely indecent the way you two were pressed together in this public of a setting but he couldn’t bring himself to care. You were his wife, his wife. Surely he could be excused for his behavior just this once right? He turned you in his arms and began guiding you towards the beloved bar where the two of you first met. Penny was bringing out more champagne as you burst in the door, a chuckle and shake of her head as the two of you nearly collided with her. “No breaking anything in my bar, I’ll keep everyone out of your hair for a few minutes.” Bradley nodded with wide eyes as you erupted in laughter, ushering you towards the stock room with a playful slap to your ass as you tried to catch your breath between giggle fits.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” He said as he placed you on top of the massive deep freeze in the corner of the stock room, mascara was smudging the corners of your eyes from the tears brought on by your glee at getting caught, eyes shining with anticipation at what was to come. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep it in his pants until we made it to the honeymoon suite Mr. Bradshaw” he didn’t deny it, he just couldn’t help himself with how beautiful you looked, it would be a crime to wait 2 more hours before he could fuck his wife.

“You know, you’re my wife now. Mrs. Bradshaw.” He was running his lips and mustache along your cleavage, the sensation sent a shiver up your spine, along with his declaration. “Oh god- we really are married now aren’t we?” You panted as he hiked your dress up above your thighs, running a long finger up the seam of your barely there underwear, reveling in the look on your face as you sucked in a sharp gasp. He couldn’t help but kiss you, licking into your mouth as he continued to rub circles against your covered clit. You were trembling in his hold, whining and bucking into his hand and he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Tease. Two could play that game. Sliding your palms down his shirt jacket you made quick work of unbuttoning his dress pants, slipping your hand down into his briefs to grasp his cock. He hissed into the open air, knowing you had the upper hand now.

“Thought you said you needed to fuck me Bradley? We don’t have all night, give it to me baby boy.” He couldn’t push his clothes off fast enough, sliding your underwear to the side as he slammed into you mercilessly. Sweet saccharine moans fell from your lips and he brought you to your high, your nails clawing at his back as he sucked a dark mark behind your ear. It didn’t take much more for you both to topple over the edge, a mess of sweaty limbs tangled together as you reached euphoria. Giggles and soft kisses followed as you tried to piece each others outfits back together, startling at a loud knock rapping the old wooden door.

“Ok sluts, you can make a baby another time! Everyone is looking for the happy couple and we know what y’all are getting up to! Wrap it up and come join the party!” Natasha cackles as she hears you two shuffling behind the door, hastily stepping out with tousled hair and kiss swollen lips. “Can you blame me Phoenix? She’s perfection.” Bradley says with a laugh as you all step back out into the party, a roar of cheers and whoops echoing out as you do. This was just the beginning of a lifetime of memories, and Bradley couldn’t wait to spend them all with you.

Tagging- @roosterforme @attapullman @sunsetsimpsblog @seitmai @ryebecca @mynameismckenziemae @heavenssins @tenderclio @sio-ina-bottle @shanimallina87 @jessicab1991 @trickphotography2 @sometimesanalice @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @saltsicklover @kissmecaitie @callsigns-haze

[lynnieverse]

like real people do // rafe cameron

oneshot

drew stakery x popstar!reader

synopsis: after a little slip up in an interview where you accidentally reveal your celebrity crush, things get a little complicated when someone starts meddling.

4.2k words

You knew doing the interview was going to bite you in the ass. Nothing good ever came from distracting you with puppies and asking personal questions. So, when the interviewer innocently asked your celebrity crush, you didn’t hesitate to say Drew Starkey. It didn’t hit you until afterward, sitting in the back of your car, debriefing with your assistant. 

“I can’t believe you said your celebrity crush though,” she said, eyebrows raised. Your heart stutters a bit and you quickly whip your head towards her. 

“No I didn’t.” 

“Um…yeah, you did.” Panic spiked through your veins, sweat beading on your brow. 

“Oh shit. Oh shit! Amara, tell me I didn’t say who I’m thinking of,” you grip her arm tightly, eyes pleading. Amara winces and looks at you with what could only be pity. “No!” 

Madelyn was going to kill you. 

You met Madelyn Cline a few months ago at the People’s Choice Awards when you were presenting. You’d instantly clicked and made plans to hang out the next week. Everything was going really great, and you were doing a good job at keeping your little crush a secret. Now, it’ll come out, be circulated everywhere online, and Madelyn’s going to think you’re some crazy stalker. How would she react to you having a crush on her co-star? Definitely not well. 

Amara places a comforting hand on your shoulder, smiling sympathetically. “It’s okay, Y/N, it’s just a silly interview. Nobody will take it seriously.” 

“Everyone will take it seriously! I don’t know why I started fraternizing with actors, I need to stick to my lane.” 

“Hey, why don’t you write a song about it? It might help.” You thought about it for a moment, feeling the familiar bubble of lyrics tickling the back of your mind. Writing always helps you calm down, maybe putting the feelings on paper would make them go away. 

As the car stopped in front of your hotel, flashes from the paparazzi’s cameras were bright even through the tinted windows. You sigh and grab a jacket, wrapping it around your head like a shield, and wait for security to open the door. You ignore the loud shouting as you dash inside, closely followed by Amara and the rest of the crew. Inside isn’t much better, but at least the other guests have the decency to leave you alone for now. 

You sometimes feel bad, often making it up later by signing a bunch of autographs outside, but right now you’re exhausted and embarrassed. The interview threw off your whole day, and you just want to lay in bed and watch trashy reality television. 

Your security escorts you to the elevator, and then does a sweep of your room before eventually leaving. Finally alone, you put on your rattiest and comfiest pajamas, take off all your makeup, and throw your hair up before jumping in bed. You reach for the remote to start your aforementioned binge, but hesitate over the little purple notebook you carry everywhere. Sighing, you know you won’t be able to relax without getting it all out. You dig through your bag and find a glittery pink pen, uncapping it with your teeth and getting to work. 

You’ve never met Drew, not once, but something about him just had you giggling like a schoolgirl. Witnessing his kindness through your constant internet stalking quickly proved to be a bad idea, because now you have a big fat crush on the man and he doesn’t even know you exist. 

Well that’s not true. Everyone knows you exist, but he would never think of you that way. Dating as a popular musician was not as easy as one might think, it’s often too much for people. The words start flowing with ease, filling up the cream pages in no time. 

Gleaming

Twinkling

Eyes like sinking ships

On waters so inviting

I almost jump in

His eyes really are beautiful. So blue, so warm. But the feelings you have aren’t logical, and they’re so exhausting. 

But I don't like a gold rush, gold rush

I don't like anticipating my face in a red flush

I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch

Everybody wants you

Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you

He’s the internet's boyfriend right now, edits flying around like crazy. You know dozens of people back home who are definitely salivating over this man. Something about him…you can’t put your finger on it. 

What must it be like

To grow up that beautiful?

With your hair falling into place like dominos

Every silly thought you’d ever had poured out onto the page. By the time you were finished you knew it was a hit. Grabbing your guitar you make a split second decision to tease your fans a bit. Unlocking your phone, you quickly open Instagram and go live before you can stop yourself. Your face pops up on the screen, thousands of people already in and commenting. 

“Hey guys! I just finished a new song and wanted to play a little for you if that’s alright?” You smirk, knowing the answer already. Of course, everyone starts freaking out and flooding the comments with different affirmations and emojis. You laugh, loving every second of it, before strumming the beginning chords on your guitar. 

As you start singing you let your eyes close, feeling each note in your soul, pressing every callus on your worn fingertips. The pacing is a little rough, still getting the hang of the new melody, but you know as soon as you finish that you killed it. So many fans are expressing their love for the song, already asking for it to be out on streaming platforms. Others are curious as to who your muse is, throwing out the wildest guesses you’d ever seen. 

“Chace Crawford?!” you exclaim, face contorted in surprise. “Y’all have a distorted sense of my ability to pull these men,” you laugh in disbelief. Your heart skips a beat when a couple comments actually guess correctly, but don’t react, knowing every single microexpression is analyzed. 

“Alright guys, I think I’m going to eat myself into a sugar coma while watching Love Island, but thank you for listening! I’m glad you enjoyed the song,” you wink to the camera before waving and closing the app. Covering your face with your hands, you fall backwards on the bed, letting your guitar rest beside you. You don’t even want to check social media, already knowing screen recordings of the live will be everywhere. 

Sometimes it’s crazy to think this many people care about your day to day life. The art you create touches lives across the globe. It’s both amazing and terrifying at the same time. 

Not wanting to start an existential crisis on a random Tuesday night, you quickly turn on your show and cuddle up under the duvet. 

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By the weekend the interview was everywhere. You’ve stayed out of it, going pretty much radio silent in response. Many are asking if you’re secretly dating, if you were going to write a song for the new season of Outer Banks, if Drew felt the same way…it’s insane. 

You’d purposely put off talking to Madelyn out of sheer embarrassment. That man was like her brother and you admitted to liking him. Still, it’s time to address the issue head on, so you dial her number shakily. The phone rings three times before she answers, a sweet greeting sounding through the speakers. 

“Y/N?” You clear your throat, reluctant to speak. 

“Hey…” You wince at how rough your voice sounds, facepalming at your own awkwardness. 

“What’s up, girl?” Madelyn sounds normal, but you know she has to be weirded out by you. 

“Um, nothing much, just wanted to talk to you about something I may have said recently.” 

“Is this about the puppy interview?” 

“Yes?” Your voice comes out squeaky, nose scrunched. But Madelyn just starts laughing. You stare at your phone in confusion. What the hell?

“I can’t believe you finally admitted it, and during an interview? That was ballsy as hell!” You slowly start to regain your breath, brain processing her words. 

“You’re not mad?” 

“Why would I be mad?” she snorts.

“I didn’t want you to think I was using you to get to him.”

“Are you?” 

“No! Of course not!” 

“Okay then, there’s no problem.” A breath of relief escapes, and you put a hand on your chest. She’s not mad. 

“Thank you so much for understanding, I really love our friendship.” 

“Me too,” Mads says sincerely. “Now we just have to figure out how to get you two together!” 

Your eyes widen. “What? Absolutely not. This was not an invitation for you to play matchmaker, Mads.”

“Aw man, why not? I could literally get you both in the same room tonight.” Your heart starts beating out of your chest, feeling more anxiety talking about this than being on any stage.

“He’s probably seen the interview by now, it’s so embarrassing!” 

“It’s not embarrassing, Y/N. You’re attracted to the man, it’s not that crazy of a concept! Just give me a chance, please?” 

“Nope. I don’t want to bother him or weird him out. Let’s just do something me and you; are you in L.A.?” 

“Ugh, fine. Yes I’m here, just come over whenever.” You can feel her annoyance across the line, but ignore it. You’re not going to let her meddle. 

“See you then!” Mads ends the call, sending you back into your shame spiral. Every little thing you do is always picked apart and ridiculed in the media, and you’re usually a lot more careful with what you say. The interview slip up is going to keep you up at night for the rest of your life. 

Hours pass waiting for the appropriate time to head over to Madelyn’s house. You decide to dress comfortably, but have your makeup done on the off chance pictures are taken. The drive over is quiet, save for the initial crowd outside your house. How it’s legal for celebrities' addresses to be available on the internet, is something you’ll never understand. 

When you pull up you notice a Jeep in her driveway and shake your head. That girl is always spending money. Your phone pings with yet another Twitter update and you roll your eyes. How can this be the most popular thing in the world right now? You glance at the notification and see it’s Drew’s name that’s trending. Huh. Interesting. 

You decide to follow your instincts and ignore it, wanting to focus on girls night with Mads. As you approach the porch you find yourself nervous; even though she wasn’t mad, you still feel bad for causing such an uproar around her co-star. 

Three knocks later you're waiting outside her front door in anticipation. You find yourself shifting from foot to foot, tracing the cracks in the stonework with your eyes. When the door opens you look up with a smile, expecting Madelyn’s smiling face, only to be met with the very man that had haunted you the past week. You gasp, words catching in your throat as you stare. 

Drew was wearing a black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair looked freshly cut into a soft mullet, and he looked just as surprised as you do. You can’t seem to close your gaping mouth, a pained sound escaping without realizing. 

“Uh, hi,” Drew says sheepishly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Eyes wide, you turn on your heel and speed walk away, leaving him alone in the doorway. You’re fumbling with your keys, cursing under your breath, when you hear a shout from behind you. 

“Y/N!” 

You almost make it inside your car when an iron grip latches onto your upper arm, yanking you back. 

“Hey!” you protest, almost losing your balance as you’re dragged back to Mads’ house. 

“Oh no you don’t, you’re not getting away that easily.” 

“Madelyn Renee Cline, let me go!” You struggle against her grip, but only cause her nails to dig in deeper. 

“You’re not leaving, Y/N, I won’t let you.” She finally stops when you’re once again at the door, but she doesn’t let go. Drew must’ve gone back inside, thank God, but Madelyn is glaring at you. 

“Don’t look at me like that! How could you do this to me?” You give her your most withering look. She rolls her eyes at you, only pissing you off more. 

“Just talk to him. I promise he doesn’t think you’re weird, or whatever you’ve concocted.”

“Well he might now!” 

“That’s your own fault, I can’t believe you ran away,” she snickers, pulling you inside and closing the door. When she finally lets go of your arm, you rub the crescent indentions with a wince. The girl has some nails. 

“Fine. Let’s go.” Mads looks taken aback, freezing in place. 

“Really?!” You give her a pointed look. “Right, be cool. Okay come on follow me, he went back to the living room.” Reluctantly, you do just that, trailing closely behind her. You’re a ball of nerves, and can already feel your stomach twisting to knots. 

Madelyn was right, he was lounging on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone. When he hears you two approach, his head shoots up and his back immediately straightens.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice smooth and melodic. Your cheeks warm, and you avoid eye contact as much as possible. 

“Um, yeah. I just–you know.” You jab your thumb back awkwardly, not even you know what you’re trying to say. But Drew cracks a smile, looking at you fondly and nodding along, as if you make perfect sense. 

Madelyn’s eyes flit between you with a wide smile on her face. Not knowing what else to do, you sit down on the couch, as far away from him as possible, and stare straight ahead. Silence ensues, and you have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Thankfully, Madelyn breaks the silence. 

“So…want to watch a movie?” 

“Yes!” You and Drew speak at the same time, causing you to stare at each other shyly. Madelyn smirks and comes around the couch, forcefully sitting between you and the arm rest. You shoot her a what the fuck look and she simply shrugs. 

“I like the armrest! Scooch.” Begrudgingly, you inch closer to Drew, who pretends not to notice the entire exchange. As soon as you're settled you sit pin straight, not wanting to breach the confines of your cushion. Drew’s left ankle is resting comfortably on his knee, arm thrown over the side of the couch in what seems to be a very relaxing position. Mads rolls her eyes and pulls out an ottoman, giving you something to stretch your feet out on so you can lean back. 

It takes forever to pick a movie, suspiciously so, but it’s Madelyn’s house and you’re not going to say anything. Once she finally picks Avatar, she dims the lights from her phone and the three of you settle in for what’s going to be a weird couple hours. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Everything was going fine, until suddenly Madelyn got tired at nine and decided to go to bed…leaving you and Drew alone. You mentally cursed your friend for putting you in this position, obviously not listening to the blanket “no matchmaking” statement from before. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye and find him already looking at you. He quickly looked away and started tapping his fingers on his knee nervously. The movie had long since been forgotten and no words had been exchanged. 

“So…” you manage, turning to face him slowly. He smiles at you, running a hand through his hair and making his bicep flex. Your stomach does a little flip flop and your face reddens at where your mind went. Drew smirks like he knows exactly what just happened, but doesn’t comment. 

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” His voice, oh my God. “I’m Drew, it’s nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand to shake, and you clumsily take it, feeling the warmth envelop your palm immediately. 

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you too,” you smile, swallowing the anxiety. 

“I’m a fan of your work, actually, you’re really good.” 

Your eyes almost bulge out of your head. “You listen to my songs?” Drew laughs and shakes his head, shooting you a look you don’t quite understand. 

“Are you being serious?” he leans forward a bit, surprise evident on his face. You scrunch your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re easily the most popular musician of our generation and you don’t think I listen to your music?” You find yourself blushing, and a little flustered. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say the most popular…I have quite a few fans, sure, but not everyone vibes with all types of music. I don’t really know what you listen to, and I didn't want to assume anything.” Drew looks you up and down, seeming to size you up. 

“You’re not at all what I expected, Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“And what did you expect, Drew Starkey?” 

“Well, I don’t know to be honest, but you’re surprisingly humble for someone as successful as you.” You had actually gotten that a lot, although you didn’t think it was being humble so much as being a decent person. You’re still just the girl who grew up in a perfectly normal town, with normal loving parents and a wonderful home. Just because you make popular music doesn’t mean you’ve changed at all. Plus, you know it could all go away with the snap of your fingers. 

“I don’t know what to say, I’m just like everyone else,” you shrug. 

“I beg to differ. You’re…extraordinary. You have to know that?” There goes that damn stomach flip again. 

“Thank you,” you look down at your lap. “I could say the same for you. I love your projects.” His eyes light up at the mention of his work, making you smile in turn. 

“Thank you! I love everything I’ve been a part of, especially OBX. I met my second family on that set, you know?” You didn’t know, actually. Being on the road all the time meant limited options for friendships, and no time for the ones you did manage to keep. Mads is the first girlfriend other than Amara–who you employ–you’ve had in years. 

“Yeah, I love Mads already. I can’t imagine how fun it must be getting to work with your best friends every day…” your voice trails off. Drew seems to notice your shift in mood and decides to change the subject. 

“Hey, why don’t you play me something?” 

You immediately freeze. “What?” Drew smiles and stands up, searching for something. He disappears in the hallway before emerging a minute later with a beautiful acoustic guitar in his hands. You immediately feel a pull to grab it and start playing, but are still confused. 

“Here,” he hands it to you. “I want you to play me something…something nobody has heard yet.” You immediately start racking your brain and decide to take a leap and play something that could get you in trouble. 

“Um…okay. This is something I was actually working on today. It’s not finished but I can play a little.” You nervously pick up the guitar, but immediately relax when you feel the rough strings beneath your fingers. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and try to forget the gorgeous man in front of you. 

In the middle of the night, when I'm in this dream

It's like a million little stars spelling out your name

You gotta come on, come on

Say that we'll be together

Come on, come on

Little taste of heaven

You manage to take a peek at him while you strum, catching him totally entranced by the sound of your voice. A little confidence boost flows through you as you continue the song. 

But you're untouchable, burning brighter than the sun

And now that you're close I feel like coming undone

In the middle of the night, we can form this dream

I wanna feel you by my side, standing next to me

You gotta come on, come on

Say that we'll be together

Come on, come on

Little taste of heaven

You strum a few more chords before stopping, silently waiting for his reaction. He’s staring at you, mouth parted slightly. 

“Another,” he whispers. Surprised, you do what he asks, pulling another unfinished song from the vault in your mind. This one wasn’t about him, not like the last one, but it still applies. 

I will not ask you where you came from

I will not ask you, neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

We should just kiss like real people do

You hum for a little longer, this song actually being one of your favorites. Drew is starstruck, an unknown look on his face the whole time. He seems to snap out of it and clears his throat. 

“Wow, Y/N. You’re amazing…those were amazing. Were they about anyone in particular?” You internally panic, because duh. But you don’t want to weird him out. 

“Um, the first one was,” you whisper, avoiding eye contact. You feel the couch move, and look up to find Drew right beside you. His leg was flush with yours, and he was so close you could see each and every freckle splashed across his cheeks. You also notice his eyes crinkle at the corners slightly when he smiles. 

“Can I confess something?” he says softly. You don’t trust your voice, so you nod once. “I saw your interview.” Immediately, the embarrassment causes your face to turn into a tomato. 

“Uh–about that…I–” You don’t really have an explanation, but you scramble for one anyway. Drew chuckles and grabs your hand, effectively stopping your rambling and making you redder at the same time. 

“Y/N you don’t have to be embarrassed. Did you see my interview?” What interview?

“No? I didn’t know you did one. Should I have?” He squeezes your hand gently and his eyes bore into yours. 

“It would’ve made this a lot easier,” he jokes. “They asked for my response to being your celebrity crush.” Fuck. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause drama for you.” 

“You didn’t, I promise. But do you know what my response was?” You shake your head. He hesitates for a moment before grinning, almost shy. “I said that’s a crazy coincidence because you’re my celebrity crush.” Hold the fucking phone, did he just say what you think he said?

“What?” 

“I think you’re beautiful, talented, kind, and I’ve always wanted to spend time with you. I didn’t think it was even in my realm of possibilities. Then you befriended Mads, and I thought maybe I had a chance…” Your brain must be short circuiting, because no way in hell Drew Starkey just said the feelings are mutual.

“Oh,” is all you can manage.

“Oh? That’s it?” he smiles, intertwining your fingers. 

“I’m honestly so surprised right now, I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say you don’t think I’m a weirdo.”

“I don’t think you’re a weirdo,” you shake your head. 

“Say you’ll go out with me?” his pitch rises with uncertainty, looking nervous for your response. 

“I will definitely go out with you.” Relief floods his features and he tugs you closer, pulling your legs on top of his. 

“That was terrifying,” he says, massaging your calf. 

“I still cannot believe this is happening right now,” you tell him honestly. 

He smirks, leaning in close. “Believe it, baby.” Your heart skips a beat, mind going blank momentarily. 

“I think I owe Mads a thank you,” you giggle. 

“Fuck that, I’m sending her a damn gift basket.” 

“You’re so right, she’s getting an album dedication from me,” you joke, causing Drew to poke you in the ribs. 

“Hey, no fair. She’s going to like that so much more!” he whines. You can already see yourself falling head over heels in love with this man, and that scares you more than anything. 

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” you hold your hands up in defense while Drew rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, let’s just watch another movie.” 

“Sounds like a plan!” you hear from behind the couch. The two of you immediately jump, scared out of your minds, until you realize it’s just Madelyn creeping in the hallway. 

“What the fuck?!” Drew yells, clutching his heart dramatically. 

“You were supposed to be asleep!” You cross your arms, glaring at your blonde counterpart. She sucks her teeth and shrugs, walking over and plopping down on the couch.

“What can I say, somebody had to get you two together.” You share a look with Drew, both of you simultaneously not surprised, but exasperated by her little games. 

“You’re insane,” Drew tells her, taking his spot back on the couch and throwing a pillow at her head.

“It worked didn’t it?” 

Yeah. You thought. It really did. 

[punksyeet]

- Lovesick ❥

Plot: When a sickness bug ruins his Valentine’s Day plans, Jimmy makes it his mission to help his lady feel special regardless.

Warning: Mature language & fluff! <3

A/N: happy belated v-day friends! please excuse how late i am to the party, as the flu has been kicking my ass for over a week now. also, don’t mind any errors or lack of attention to detail in some parts. this sickness took away any attention span i had left in me. 🥲

anywho, i hope you all enjoy this one. she’s a tiny one compared to my others, but we love her regardless! 💌

—————————————————————————————————

“Well Miss Gianna,” my doctor begins, walking back into the room after leaving to run a few tests. Covid, strep, and flu to be exact. “It turns out your instincts were correct. Your flu test came back positive.”

My heart drops at those last six words.

Positive? For the flu? On Valentine’s Day?

I let out a deep sigh, running a hand through my hair.

“I know the timing isn’t ideal,” he continues, intertwining his fingers in front of him. “But please understand that your health comes first.”

I nod slightly, my eyes fluttering closed. “I understand, Doc. Would you be able to send some medication over?”

“Absolutely,” he responds. “It’ll be ready at your pharmacy as soon as tomorrow morning.”

I nod again. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he replies sweetly. “Take care, alright?”

And with that, he’s out the door.

I sit there for a minute in disbelief of my bad luck, before climbing off of the examination chair and putting my jacket back on.

When I reach my car, I immediately FaceTime Jon.

When he answers and pops up on the screen, he’s sat at a table taping something, a gorgeous smile on his face.

J: Hey, beautiful.

I smile at the compliment, pulling out of my parking spot.

G: Hi, my love. What are you up to?

J: Not much, just helping twin decorate his place for T before she gets home. Where you headed?

G: Aw, that’s sweet. She’s gonna love it. I’m headed home now.

J: Gotchu. Where you coming from?

My smile fades and I take a deep breath.

Get a grip, Gi. It’s not your fault. He’ll understand.

G: Urgent care.

He raises an eyebrow and a concerned look comes over his face.

J: Urgent care? What you was there for? Baby, you alright?

I shake my head, biting my lower lip.

G: Relax, Jon. It’s nothing too serious. I tested positive for the flu.

He just kind of sits there for a second, disbelief written all over his face.

J: You’re fuckin’ joking, right? You messin’ with me?

G: I wish. I felt like shit when I got up this morning and ran right to the doctor, knowing how much shit is going around. I called you as soon as I left.

J: Fuck, man.

He throws his head back and runs a hand over his face.

G: I know, babe. I’m sorry.

J: Nah, baby, don’t apologize. You ain’t get sick on purpose. The timing is just…

His voice trails off and I nod in agreement, resting my head back on the headrest when I reach a red light.

G: I know. That’s what I said.

He sighs and strokes his beard.

J: Aight. I guess we’re gonna have to work with what we got.

I pop my neck back, giving him a mean mug.

G: Boy, are you insane? You’re not coming anywhere near me.

J: Like hell I ain’t. Bae, you’re sick. I gotta take care of you. Do right by the woman I love.

G: Jonathan-

J: Nah, I don’t wanna hear allat. Lemme finish up here and I’ll be home in a bit, okay?

I sigh, running a hand through my curls, knowing that as hard as I try, I’m not winning this argument.

G: Okay. Fine.

J: Aight. Love you, mama. I’ll see you soon.

G: Okay. Love you too.

And with that, he hangs up.

I let out a deep sigh as the streetlight turns green, allowing me to turn onto the highway.

** Jimmy’s POV **

“Was that sis?” Josh asks, walking back to the island from the bathroom and taking a seat. “Everything good?”

I nod, licking my lower lip. “Yeah, man. She’s got the flu.”

His jaw drops in shock. “Fuck, man. You serious?”

I sigh, nodding. “Yup. She’s driving home from the doctor now.”

“Damn uce,” he replies, his attention turning to a banner. “Whatchu gonna do about tonight now?”

I shrug, shaking my head. “No idea. I had dinner reservations set and everything.”

He sucks his teeth. “I’m sorry, bro. Maybe you can rain check?”

I narrow my eyes, shaking my head. “Nah, I still gotta do right by her. I’ll come up with something.”

He nods, nudging my arm. “Whatever you need uce, I gotchu. Just let me know.”

I smile, nodding slightly. “Preciate you, man.”

Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my head and I turn back to my twin with a smirk.

He looks up at me and his expression immediately fades. “The hell you lookin’ at me like that for?”

“Big Jim has an ideaaa!” I sing, hopping out of my chair at the island.

Josh groans in response, placing his head in his hands. “Five words the world fears most.”

** Gianna’s POV **

“Guess he’s not home yet,” I mutter to myself, pulling up to Jon and I’s place and seeing an empty driveway.

After pulling in, I shut off my car, grab my things from the passenger side, and head up the pathway to our home.

With one swift motion, the front door flies open and so do my eyes.

There’s balloons and flowers everywhere.

Soft music echoing throughout the house.

The deep and warm scent of vanilla takes over whatever’s left of my sense of smell.

“J-Jon?” I call out, closing the door behind me and stepping further into the house.

“Welcome home m’lady,” he replies in an awful French accent, suddenly appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

I chuckle in reaction to his goofiness and look around. “Babe, what is all this?”

He walks over and taking my stuff. “I refuse to let some stupid ass sickness ruin our night, baby. Today is all about love. Lemme show you how much I love you.”

I dramatically stick out my bottom lip as he pulls me into an embrace, rocking us back and forth and kissing my hair.

“Jon please,” I plead, stepping back. “I don’t want you to get si-“

“Shh,” he interrupts, pulling me back in. “You’re ruining the moment.”

I playfully roll my eyes and he chuckles, cupping my face and kissing me.

I wrap my arms around his waist and kiss back, my worries fading away the second we make contact.

“Cmon mama,” he orders, taking my hand and placing my stuff down on the couch. “Dinner will be ready soon.

“You go ahead,” I assure him, letting go of his hand and heading upstairs. “I’ll be right back.”

He nods and heads into the kitchen.

The dress I bought while shopping with T last week is too pretty to go to waste.

And if I can’t leave the house, it’s time to play dress up I guess.

I freshen up with a quick shower and slip into the silk, followed by a little makeup and hair action.

“Goddamn,” Jon coos when he sees me, after looking up from what looks like pasta sauce cooking on the stove. “Look at my girl.”

He lifts my hand and twirls me, a gorgeous smile on his face as he admires my body.

“This dress was originally for our date but,” I reply, soothing out the torso part. “I figured why let it go to waste when you’ve worked so hard on this too?”

He smiles and takes me into his arms, pulling me in by my waist.

“I love you so much, you know that?” he asks in between kisses to my jaw.

I giggle and lift my head, his beard tickling my skin. “I know, I know. And I love you too, baby. So much.”

I hold either side of his dreamy face and pull his lips to mine, softly smiling in the kiss.

He pulls away with a “mwuah” sound and takes my hand, leading me over to the dining table.

The rest of the night includes a candle light homemade dinner featuring our favorite wine, a steaming hot bath with rose petals, and gift giving on both sides.

Me to him, a silver chain to go with his favorite bracelet.

Him to me, a Cartier love ring that I’ve been eye-ing for months.

—————————————————————————————————

The next morning, I wake up to a bright ray of sunshine peeking in through our curtains.

With a groan, I turn over and nuzzle my face into Jon’s neck.

He responds with a pair of big muscular arms wrapped around me extra tight and a kiss on my temple.

“Mmm morning,” I greet him as best I can, before placing a light kiss on his jaw.

“Mornin’ ba-“ he’s interrupted by a fit of coughs.

Flemmy, raspy coughs.

My eyes fly open and I sit up, an amused expression on my face.

He glares up at me, shaking his head. “Don’t say it.”

I pucker my lips to the side with a smirk before laying back down to whisper in his ear. “I told you so.”

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[heartsriki]

OUR WHITE GARDEN ⌇ 정원

FLIRT ALERT! series⌇ Sunghoon | Next

pairing ᝰ sunghoon x fem!reader | word count: 4k+

⌇ … warnings & genre ↺ love at first sight (?), fluff, there really is no warnings…

synopsis — On Valentine’s Day, you discover a serene white garden where you meet Sunghoon, a quiet stranger who appears to visit often. As you talk amidst the flowers, a silent connection forms between you two, leaving you both intrigued and wondering if your paths were meant to cross.

lee's ₊˚⊹ ᰔ comment ┊sorrryyy guys ive been working but I finally finished it! Love a good love at first sight kind of trope, anyways sunoo is next!

Valentine’s Day had always been a little too loud for your liking. The city was filled with red and pink decorations, couples exchanging gifts on every street corner, and the overwhelming scent of roses spilling from shop windows. It wasn’t that you disliked the holiday—it just wasn’t for you. So, instead of watching the festival unfold around you, you wandered.

That was how you found the garden.

It was hidden behind a narrow, ivy-covered archway at the edge of the park, almost as if it didn’t want to be found. Pushing past the gate, you stepped inside and felt the world grow quiet.

Everything was white.

Delicate camellias, full-bloomed roses, clusters of baby’s breath—the entire garden was bathed in soft, pale hues, untouched by the reds and pinks of the world outside. A thin stone path wound through the space, disappearing into the sea of flowers. The scent in the air was light and fresh, nothing overwhelming, just a whisper of jasmine and earth.

For a moment, you simply stood there, taking it in.

Then you noticed you weren’t alone.

A man stood near the center of the garden, dressed in a cream-colored sweater and dark slacks. His dark hair fell over his forehead slightly, and his posture was casual, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He wasn’t admiring the flowers or looking around—he just stood there, as if lost in thought.

You hadn’t made a sound, but somehow, he sensed you. His head lifted, and sharp eyes locked onto yours.

The moment stretched between you, tense and unreadable.

“Who are you?” His voice was cool, but wary.

You blinked. “What?”

He exhaled, glancing away. “This isn’t a public garden.”

You frowned, glancing around. There had been no signs saying it was private. “Then why was the gate open?…. And why are you here?”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his attention back to the flowers at his feet, dismissing you without another word.

Something about his attitude rubbed you the wrong way. If no one was supposed to be in here, why was he standing in the middle of it like he owned it.

Still, you weren’t in the mood to argue. The garden was peaceful, and he didn’t seem like he was going to physically throw you out, so you took a slow step forward.

“I didn’t know this place existed,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “It’s… nice.”

He didn’t respond.

You watched as his fingers absently brushed against a white rose, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t outright hostile, but there was a quiet, closed-off nature about him—like someone who didn’t want to be bothered but had accepted that he had been.

“Do you come here a lot?” you asked, filling the silence.

This time, he glanced at you again, his gaze measured. “Yeah.”

You waited, expecting him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“…Right,” you muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Another gust of wind blew through the garden, rustling the petals. You weren’t sure why you didn’t leave right then—why you stood there, letting the silence stretch between you and a man who clearly didn’t want company. But something about this place, made you hesitate.

Instead of walking away, you moved to the edge of the path and knelt beside a patch of baby’s breath, running your fingers lightly over the tiny white blossoms.

“I can see why you come here,” you said quietly. “It feels… separate from everything else.”

He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but still distant.

“Yes, it’s peaceful.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And though he didn’t say another word, though his posture remained guarded and his gaze unreadable, you had the strange feeling that you’d just stepped into something that you weren’t meant to find.

Something that, despite his indifference, he wasn’t desperate to push you out of just yet.

The next day, you found yourself standing in front of the ivy-covered archway again.

You told yourself you weren’t intentionally seeking it out. Maybe your feet had simply led you here, drawn by the memory of quiet solitude, of a world untouched by the chaos of the city. But as your fingers brushed over the wrought-iron gate, slightly colder than yesterday, you knew that wasn’t entirely true.

You were curious.

Curious about the garden, about the strange serenity it carried, but more than anything—curious about him.

Pushing the gate open, you stepped inside.

The air was just as crisp as before, carrying the same light scent of camellias and jasmine. The flowers remained undisturbed, their pale petals swaying gently in the breeze, as if they hadn’t noticed the time that had passed. Everything was the same.

Except this time, he wasn’t standing in the center.

For a moment, you thought he wasn’t here at all. But then, just as you took another step forward, you caught movement near the trellis. He was there, half-hidden by the white roses climbing the frame, his back partially turned to you.

You hesitated, wondering if you should say something—or if he’d even acknowledge you at all. Yesterday, he hadn’t exactly been welcoming. And yet, here you were again.

Before you could decide, he spoke.

“You came back.”

His voice was quiet, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip, just slightly.

You tilted your head. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, but close. “It’s just surprising.”

You took a slow step forward, watching the way his shoulders tensed slightly before relaxing. “Why?”

This time, he turned his head, his dark eyes meeting yours beneath the cool light of the afternoon.

“Most people don’t come back.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t neutral either. There was something heavier beneath those words, something unspoken.

You let them settle between you for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe I’m not most people?”

His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. Then, to your surprise, the corner of his lips twitched—so slight you almost thought you imagined it.

“we’ll see,” he murmured.

Something about that single word sent warmth curling in your chest.

You let the silence stretch between you again, but this time, it wasn’t as tense. It was filled with quiet curiosity, an awareness that hadn’t been there the day before. His posture remained guarded, but he wasn’t ignoring you. In fact, you could feel his attention on you even when he wasn’t looking directly at you.

It was strange, the way you were drawn to him—someone who had barely spoken to you, who had made no effort to be welcoming. And yet, here you were, standing amidst the sea of white flowers, feeling like you had been let in on something secret.

Slowly, you knelt down near a patch of camellias, running your fingers lightly over the petals. “Do you have a favorite?”

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, his voice came, quieter than before.

“White roses.”

You glanced up at him. “Why?”

His gaze flickered toward the trellis, where they climbed in thick, elegant clusters. He didn’t answer right away, as if debating whether to share the thought aloud. Then, finally—

“They don’t need anything else to stand out. They’re just… enough.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch.

You swallowed, looking back at the flower in your hand. “I think I get that.”

He hummed, almost like he was testing whether or not to believe you. And though he still held himself at a distance, though his words were few and his expression carefully guarded, you couldn’t ignore the feeling settling between you.

A quiet pull.

A breeze drifted through the garden, carrying the scent of roses and something unspoken between you. The silence stretched, not awkward, but charged—like the moment before a storm, where the air thickens and waits.

Sunghoon hadn’t moved from his place near the trellis, but his presence felt closer now, as if the space between you was shrinking without either of you stepping forward.

You let your fingers trail along the petal of the camellia in your grasp, watching the way his eyes flickered toward the motion.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What about me?”

“Your favorite.” His gaze stayed on you this time, steady and unreadable.

You hesitated, glancing around at the sea of pale flowers surrounding you. “I don’t know.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe you. “You don’t have one?”

You bit your lip. “I guess… I like the ones that surprise me.”

His brows drew together. “Surprise you?”

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. The ones you don’t expect to like, but then suddenly, they’re all you notice.”

The second the words left your lips, you realized how they sounded. Your breath hitched slightly as his expression shifted—just barely, but enough. A slow understanding passed through his gaze, and for the first time, you saw something crack in that carefully held distance of his.

“Are we still talking about flowers?” His voice was quieter now, a little bit teasing, like a thread pulling tight between you.

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

The weight of the admission hung between you both, heavy and electrified. Sunghoon held your gaze for a long moment, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. For the first time, he looked almost uncertain—like he wasn’t used to being the one caught off guard.

But he recovered quickly.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, more deliberate. “Saying things like that causes trouble.”

You tilted your head, heat creeping up your neck. “And why’s that?”

He exhaled slowly, as if debating how much he wanted to give away. Then—so subtle you almost missed it—his gaze flickered to your lips.

It was brief, barely a second, but it sent something rushing through you—like standing too close to a fire, feeling the heat prickle at your skin but not moving away. He noticed your reaction, the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, and something in his expression shifted.

Not distant. Not indifferent.

Curious.

You swore you saw his fingers twitch again, like he had thought about reaching for you but held himself back.

And then—finally, after what felt like forever—Sunghoon took a slow step closer.

It wasn’t much, barely enough to bridge the space between you, but you felt it in your bones. The weight of it. The quiet choice in it.

And somehow, that silence between you spoke the loudest of all.

Then, his voice, quieter than before.

“Were you alone yesterday?”

The question caught you off guard.

You blinked, searching his face. “On Valentine’s Day?”

He didn’t answer, but the way his eyes held yours said enough.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Why do you ask?”

Sunghoon didn’t react right away. If anything, he seemed to catch himself—like he hadn’t meant to ask, like he was realizing too late that the words had already left his mouth.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Just wondering.”

Your smile grew. “Mm. Just wondering?”

He exhaled sharply, turning his gaze away for a moment as if debating whether or not to continue this conversation. You weren’t letting him off that easily.

“So,” you mused, fingers absentmindedly brushing over the petals of a nearby rose. “Were you hoping I’d say yes?”

His gaze snapped back to yours, sharp and unreadable. “What?”

You tilted your head playfully. “That I was alone.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately, but something flickered in his expression, something caught between irritation and amusement—like he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed by your teasing or intrigued by it.

“…I just asked a question,” he muttered.

“You did,” you agreed, eyes glinting. “And I’m answering it.”

His stare didn’t waver, but you swore you saw the tiniest shift—the way his lips pressed together like he was holding back something, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Finally, after a long pause, he sighed. “You’re annoying.”

You grinned. “I’ve heard.”

Another breeze passed between you, rustling the petals around your feet, but neither of you moved. The air between you had changed—no longer distant, no longer uncertain. There was something beneath the surface now, something neither of you were saying but both of you felt.

“Okay,” you said finally, giving in just a little. “If you must know, yes. I was alone on valentine’s day.”

Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change right away, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly, as if some part of him had been waiting for that answer.

“Hm.” He exhaled, tilting his head. “You don’t seem bothered by it.”

“I wasn’t.” You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Besides, I wasn’t completely alone, was I?”

His breath caught just slightly. It was so subtle, so quiet, that you almost thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Sunghoon studied you for a long moment, something lingering in his gaze. Then, slowly—so subtly you almost missed it—his lips twitched.

Not quite a smile. But close.

And, that was enough.

Days passed. Then weeks.

And somehow, without either of you explicitly saying so, the garden became yours.

You never made plans to meet there, never acknowledged that you both kept coming back, but every time you pushed open the ivy-covered gate, Sunghoon was there. Some days he arrived before you, leaning against the trellis with his hands in his pockets, eyes trailing lazily over the petals like they held secrets only he could understand. Other times, you were the first to step into the quiet sanctuary, and minutes later, you’d hear the soft crunch of his footsteps against the stone path, like clockwork.

It became something unspoken between you—a delicate, wordless understanding.

At first, he was still reserved. You’d greet him, and he’d respond with a short nod, eyes flickering toward you in acknowledgment but never lingering too long. Conversations started slow, hesitant, like a dance neither of you quite knew the steps to. But over time, the silences between you stopped feeling distant. They became comfortable, filled with quiet gestures—a shared glance when the wind knocked petals from the trellis, a subtle shift in his stance when he stood a little closer than before.

And then, one day, something changed.

You were sitting on the stone bench near the roses, absentmindedly tracing shapes against the cool surface, when Sunghoon spoke.

“You talk a lot.”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He stood a few feet away, hands still tucked in his pockets, but there was something different about his expression today—something lighter. Amused, even.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “For someone who claims to like quiet places, you fill the silence pretty fast.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually contributed to the conversation.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, barely audible, but you caught it. Your eyes widened slightly, more out of shock than anything else.

“Wait.” You leaned forward. “Did you just laugh?”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No.”

“You did.” A grin spread across your face. “I can’t believe it. Sunghoon, Mr. Nonchalant, actually laughed at something I said.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bench beside you, careful to leave some space but not too much. His presence was warmer than before, his posture more at ease, and for the first time since you’d met him, it felt like he wasn’t holding something back.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the soft rustling of petals filling the air. Then, after a moment, he spoke again—quieter this time.

“…Why do you keep coming back here?”

You glanced at him, slightly surprised by the question. His gaze was fixed on the flowers in front of you, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet your eyes.

“I like it here,” you said simply.

He hummed, but there was something thoughtful in his expression, like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“And,” you added after a beat, nudging his knee lightly with yours, “I guess I like bothering you too.”

This time, when his lips twitched, he didn’t try to hide it.

It wasn’t a full smile. But it was closer than before.

The air felt heavier today.

Not in a stifling way, but in a way that made every movement feel more deliberate—every glance heavier, every breath more noticeable. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trellis, casting golden streaks between the climbing roses, and yet, all you could focus on was him.

Sunghoon was close. Closer than he had ever been.

You weren’t sure when it had started happening—when the spaces between you had gradually shrunk, when standing on opposite ends of the garden no longer felt natural. Lately, you found yourselves gravitating toward the same spots, lingering just a little longer when your shoulders brushed, your fingers nearly touching in the space between petals.

And today was no different.

You sat side by side on the bench, shoulders barely apart, the silence between you filled with something thick and unspoken. Sunghoon had been quieter than usual—not distant, but observant, like he was trying to figure something out without asking. His eyes flickered toward you every so often, and each time, you felt it settle in your bones.

You turned to face him fully, breaking the moment first. “What?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “What?”

You huffed. “You keep looking at me.”

A small pause. Then—so subtle, so quiet—you swore you saw his lips twitch.

“And?”

Your breath caught slightly. It wasn’t just his words—it was the way he said them, the way his voice dipped slightly lower, deliberate, like he knew what he was doing.

You swallowed. “It’s distracting.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, and for the first time since you met him, there was something playful in his expression—something teasing.

“Oh?” He leaned in just slightly, barely enough to be noticeable, but enough to make your pulse quicken. “I’m distracting you?”

Your fingers curled against the stone bench. This wasn’t fair.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, turning away, but you knew he caught the way your ears burned.

Sunghoon hummed, and you could feel his smirk even if you didn’t look at him. “So I talk too little, but when I do talk, I’m annoying?”

You scoffed. “Exactly.”

Another chuckle. This one quieter, but undeniably there. He wasn’t supposed to be like this—this comfortable, this close. But here he was, sitting beside you like the weight of the past weeks had finally settled into something… heavier. More real.

And then—

A gust of wind suddenly rushed through the garden, sending petals swirling into the air, and just as you lifted your hand to shield your face, you felt it.

His fingers.

Light at first, barely a brush against your wrist, but then steady, firm. His hand wrapped around yours instinctively, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, holding you in place as the petals danced around you.

The world around you blurred.

You looked at him, heart pounding, and for the first time, he didn’t look away.

Sunghoon’s fingers curled slightly around yours, his grip warm against your skin. His eyes flickered down—just briefly, just for a second—but enough to make your breath hitch.

And then—

A sharp chime cut through the air.

You both froze.

Sunghoon blinked, as if the moment had just snapped, and immediately, his hand withdrew. The warmth disappeared.

Your phone screen lit up in your lap, vibrating once before the sound rang out again. The caller ID glowed in the fading light.

Sunghoon leaned back slightly, gaze flickering toward the phone for a split second before he exhaled, his expression unreadable once more.

“You should get that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, more distant.

The shift was immediate.

The tension, the closeness, the almost something—gone, like the petals carried away by the wind.

And you hated that you already missed it.

The garden looked different.

Maybe it was the way the afternoon light stretched longer with the coming of spring, or maybe it was the quiet anticipation humming in your chest. Either way, something about the air felt charged—like the world was waiting for something to happen.

And then, you saw him.

Sunghoon stood in the center of the garden, hands in his pockets, looking entirely out of place yet somehow exactly where he was meant to be. But it wasn’t just his presence that made you stop in your tracks.

It was what surrounded him.

On the stone bench where you always sat together, a small collection of carefully placed gifts rested—a bouquet of white roses, a neatly wrapped box, and something else tucked underneath, barely visible.

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, you stepped forward. “What is this?”

Sunghoon didn’t meet your gaze immediately. Instead, he exhaled, glancing at the flowers as if debating whether this was a good idea after all. “It’s for you.”

Your chest tightened. “But Valentine’s Day was weeks ago.”

“I know.” His voice was steady, but there was something almost shy beneath it, something careful. “I just… didn’t get the chance before.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. Sunghoon had never been one for grand gestures—he was the type to show his care in quiet ways, in fleeting glances and the space he let you fill. And yet, here he was, standing in a garden that had become yours, holding onto a moment that should have passed.

Gently, you reached for the bouquet, fingers brushing against the soft petals. “Why all of this? For me?”

Sunghoon finally met your eyes then, and something about his gaze made your breath catch.

“I didn’t want you to get nothing on valentine’s day, well I guess i’m a little late.”

The words settled between you, soft but certain.

Carefully, you lifted the lid of the small box, revealing a delicate silver bracelet inside—simple, elegant, something he must have put more thought into than he’d ever admit. Beneath it, tucked into the wrapping, was a folded note.

You looked at him questioningly, but he only shrugged. “Read it later.”

A slow warmth spread through your chest. This wasn’t just a late Valentine’s gift. It was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud.

You smiled, holding the bouquet close. “You know,” you teased, tilting your head, “this is almost romantic.”

Sunghoon scoffed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, but the tips of his ears turned pink. “Don’t make it weird.”

You laughed softly, stepping closer—close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to reach for his sleeve, letting your fingers brush against the fabric.

“I won’t,” you murmured. “But are you sure you’re not asking me out?”

His gaze lingered on yours, something unspoken passing between you. Then, slowly—so subtly you almost missed it—his lips curved into the smallest, softest smile.

“I can’t stand you.”

— bonus

Later that night, long after the sun had set and the world outside had gone quiet, you sat on the edge of your bed, the small folded note resting in your hands.

You had been staring at it for a while now, running your fingers along the creases, tracing the edges as if the paper itself held some kind of secret.

It wasn’t that you were scared to read it.

It was that you already knew whatever was inside would change things.

With a deep breath, you carefully unfolded the note.

The handwriting was neat but slightly uneven, like he had rewritten the words more times than he wanted to admit.

And then, you read:

I don’t know when it started.

Maybe the first time you showed up here, walking in like you already belonged. Maybe the first time you teased me and didn’t care that I barely responded. Or maybe it was when I realized that I started waiting for you to come back.

Either way, it happened.

And now, I think about what it would’ve been like if I never met you. If I kept coming to this place alone, never knowing what it was like to have someone sit beside me and make the silence feel less heavy.

I think it would’ve been quieter. Simpler.

But I don’t think I would have liked it as much.

I don’t know what this means yet. I just know that I didn’t want to let this feeling pass without saying something. Even if it’s late.

- Sunghoon

Your fingers tightened slightly around the paper, your heart swelling and twisting all at once.

He had felt it too.

The shift, the weight of it all, the way the space between you had become something fragile and electric at the same time.

He had known.

And now, so did you.

A slow smile pulled at your lips as you carefully folded the note and placed it back into the box.

You would see him tomorrow.

And this time, you wouldn’t leave anything unspoken.

Series Taglist — next • prev

@saphiranishimurashan @elairah @baribaaari @m1kkso @letwiiparkjay @jellyluv4eva @manuosorioh @moontyun @mbsnow @taesanoreohair @tiny-shiny @glimmerinaaa @e-r-i-15 @starbyeol1512 @seyoungiesleeps @vrusha01

[aste-te05]

Would you fall in love with me again?

A Optimus Prime x Human! Reader fic

Chapter 2: Problems Follow You

"Well this was a pretty positive outcome I'd say, I was pretty sure it was going to be a bit more..." he begins towards you pausing as you look at him and cock a brow. This man is really starting to get on your nerves, maybe if you get on Optimus' good side you can even have him banned from the base.

"Poorly?" you add. He looks at you and gives you an affirmative nod, shrugging as he does so.

You shake your head, not amused at the situation and choosing from now on, to just let whatever this agent- or general- say go in one ear and through the next. His poor choice of throwing you into the metaphorical deep end of the pool before letting you acclimate to the water is going to bite him in the ass later.

"So what now agent Fowler? Do I need to do a 'Welcome To The Team!' Quiz?" You say sarcastically, Optimus, whether it be his own choice, or him not wanting to leave you alone since if you ever got the chance you'd rip Fowler's head off his shoulders. Has been standing next to the two of you, watching the shit show unfold slowly as he continues to keep an eye on your already seemingly shaken frame, which more or less, kind of freaks you out.

"I think the next step is to get you introduced to the base and the rest of the team. You'll be staying with them until your house is done so it's best to get used to your new... housemates." Oh if he wasn't on thin ice before he is now,

He gives you a slight look, guiding you to what you assumed is the "hangout spot" or "main room" of the base. Optimus continues to linger in the area as he watches your eyes trace the ladders and platforms of your new place of residency. He watches in mild amusement every time you give Fowler a small scowl, or look of disgust. Between all the humans he's met in his lifetime you stood out to him. Continuing to monitor you both, he begins to remember the conversation he had earlier with Agent Fowler, it replays through his head loud and clear.

"She's one in a billion Prime, are you sure you want her on your team? I swear up and down there was steam coming up out of her ears when she saw what happened to her house. Thought she'd have to be restrained even." Whether it was Fowler exaggerating or just giving him the plain truth, Optimus gave no care for it. Fowler has been briefing him here and there ever since the incident. He can't help but feel guilty in a small sense. He was there, He saw what happened to your house, more so who happened.

It was suppose to be a recon mission, an energon mine has been sensed nearby and he took it upon himself and Bulkhead to investigate and do a perimeter check. Upon searching for the mine he found your house, a three story monstrosity, surrounded by open fields that seemed to go on for miles on end . He couldn't help but be charmed by your yard work with the vibrant flowers you planted all those years ago, the fairy lights you strung on your back patio, furnished with pieces of furniture and what he thought was a fireplace. It was a humble piece of work and he couldn't help but take it all in, he admired humans and their creativity he more so lacked himself. Turning away he looked at Bulkhead who seemed to be staring at his tracking device that sat in his hand rather worriedly.

"Seems like we got some special guests." They both looked at the sky to hear the sudden sound of jets flying ahead of them, he knew those weren't human jets, the way they moved, the way they glided like they owned the skies. He was all too familiar with the sight of Starscream and his Armada. In a flash the flying jets transformed mid air, landing in the soft grass behind where he and Bulkhead stood.

"Keep them away from the humans home Bulkhead, we must leave with no evidence that we were here." Optimus ordered, moving into something similar to a battle stance as Bulkhead did the same, nodding as he took note of Prime's order. Optimus knew how clumsy Bulkhead could be, how he doesn't monitor his surroundings as well. He vowed that this would be a battle fought swiftly and cleanly.

"You really think you'll leave without any fresh marks Prime!? How foolish of you both." The seekers shrill voice played through his head, it rung and pounded him like a hammer.

"I will see to it myself Starscream, that the only one leaving with fresh marks, is you." He draws out his energy blaster, ready for the offense attack.

----

"You okay Prime? Lost in your own bot fantasies or something?" Fowlers voice rang through the Primes mind as he snapped back to reality. He stayed standing confused as he looked at the pair. Only to see you yourself lost in thought as well, all the while glaring at the agent beside you. A sight that made Optimus smile to himself every so slyly.

"Sorry to interrupt, we were just about to take a look at the weapons room, care to join? so you can keep an eye on her?" The special agent remarks, giving you an odd look. Optimus can only nod silently as he continues to follow the two earthlings fairly close behind, keeping his eyes on the back of the females head, watching and waiting. Almost like he was scared she'd suddenly disappear after he just promised no harm would come onto the small human. Like something was just going to swallow her from the ground and take her away from here.

----

As you listen to Fowlers tour of the base you can't help but grow bored of the mans many speeches. Since when did you need a tutorial on how to survive a robot playground? Last you heard there wasn't such a thing. You take notes of the many towering doors your group passes, maybe they're the robots bedrooms, best to stay out of those. Not that you'd even run around here without supervision, this wasn't your home so you'll stay in one place majority of your stay. As you continue to walk the long winding hallway, you find your legs growing tired, a yawn escapes your already sleep deprived body, as you shoot Fowler a quick apology and cover your mouth you glance back at Optimus. your shocked to find him already staring back at you.

Has he been doing that the entire time?

You smile and give him a slight wave, turning your attention back to the tour, relief washing over you as you find yourselves back in the main room, seeming that the halls were just a simple long loop. Thank god.

"Alright well I'll be off then, base called and they said they need my assistance else where." You shoot the man another mean look. He seems to almost shrink under your gaze.

After everything that's happened he's going to leave you?? Just like that?? what an absolute asshole of a guy.

After a few awkward seconds Fowler continues to let out a small chuckle quickly rushing towards the elevator, and hurriedly gets inside, as he presses the button to the top, he gives a stern salute to you and Optimus before the pair of doors close on him.

As the sound of the elevator fades, you can't help but sway where you stood, like a little kid swishing their arms around as they wait for their mom to stop talking to the cashier at the register. You continue to sweat, looking around to say something, ANYTHING to keep this conversation between you and the big boss bot going. Finding nothing to say, you sigh before you turn to look up at him.

"So uh Optimus, I don't assume you have a bed I could possibly stay in for the duration of my time here? I'm sorry if it's rude to ask or if this is against your rules of hospitality but-" You pause momentarily, not wanting to get caught in a long rant you just sigh. "-I'm sorry that was rude, I just need to rest if that's okay." you admit, the lack of sleep hit you like a bus since you found your home in ruins. You had to rely to sleeping in your Jeep of all things, a bed was all you could really ask for in this case.

Optimus seems to be in deep thought, looking around the base searching for somewhere comfortable he could keep you, somewhere where he wouldn't have to worry about. It was this, that made you realize he did not in fact have a place for you to stay. Not a bed nor anything comfortable for you to rest on.

"It seems that Special Agent Fowler has not yet informed me that you would be in need of furniture to rest. If you need, I'll call him to let him know of the complication and we'll soon get it figured out. My apologies." He proceeded to put his finger to what you assumed was a com link of sorts. Not wanting to hear the complaints of the man of many words himself you tell him there's no need to bother him at this time so soon, that you'll easily find a place to lay.

The giant seems almost unsure, as he gives you a short apology. you reassure him and allow yourself to walk around in search of somewhere to safely snooze.

God this is gonna be the worst few months of my life.

__________________________________________

GOT ANY ONE SHOT IDEAS OR THOUGHTS YOU’D LIKE TO SHARE ON THE STORY!? My inbox is open feel free to ask or say anything I’m all ears! Everyone’s Welcome!

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT, After every saga I will be making an animatic based off of the story so once this ends feel free to look out for it <3 links will be posted at appropriate times

!!STORY IS ONGOING PLEASE BE PATIENT!!

-Jen

[buriedwithit]

"who said anything about a babysitter, either?" ezra tuts, shaking his head. "you're full of assumptions tonight, aren't you? must be the booze." inwardly, he thinks a little differently of her. she hadn't needed alcohol to bite back at him the last time they'd met, when she'd sent that screwdriver right through his thigh. there had been fight in here then, stone cold sober. there had been fear then, too. the booze hasn't seemed to take either away in its entirety. "i'm doing you a favor. making sure you don't hit your head on the way back in, and making sure you're not drinking by yourself." he pours himself more wine, throws it back with the same enthusiasm. it takes a lot to get him drunk these days, but that's just fine by him. he knows where to go when he really needs it. this is just playtime. "nothing sadder than dropping dead off a bender. easier than you might think, too." ezra has the audacity to smile at her. she would be quite good at pretending, he thinks, if he just didn't know better... "well, i'm more than just a thief, for starters. you're not just your job, are you? let's see. i was born and raised in new ireland, came all the way from across the sea to be here. rough trip, let me tell you. and what do i get out of it?" he sighs, but it's the humorous kind. he's not worried. "trouble, mostly. for you, actually. funnily enough, our little meeting had some unintended consequences.... but that's all business, you don't care about that. i can read the writing on the wall." he's quick to pour himself yet another glass of wine. "i've got two brothers. shits, the both of them. you think i'm bad? sheesh. followed me all the way here just to ruffle my feathers. but that's family, innit?" it wouldn't be a sharing session without a few, maybe more than a few, lies tossed in. "i'm a man of faith, i bet you wouldn't have guessed that," he continues, puling his necklace from behind his shirt, a small charm of the star of david. "the big man and me, we've got a good relationship. but i gather you're not very interested in that, either. should we just go back to talking about your habits, as it were?"

Valeria clenches her jaw as he pulls the chair closer, the scrape of wood against the floor grating against her already raw nerves. She barely keeps herself from flinching when he flexes his power—just enough to push her into the seat with that casual cruelty of his. A show, a warning, a reminder.

Her fingers curl into fists on her lap. She hates this. Hates that he’s here, that he’s talking to her like this, that he’s acting like he has any right to be in her space, controlling the pace of the conversation like it's all just some game to him. “I don’t need a babysitter,” she says, voice steady despite the bitter edge to it. “I don’t need you.”

Her eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him, searching for something—some crack in his smug self-assurance, some tell beneath that amusement that might let her figure out what exactly he wants from her. If he wants something from her, or if this is just another night of entertainment at her expense. She exhales sharply, leaning back in the chair like she’s comfortable, like she’s not tightly wound and ready to bolt at the first opportunity. “But since you’re so concerned about my drinking habits, go ahead, Ezra. Enlighten me. What exactly do you think I should know about you?”

[lyxchen]

DO YOU THINK MAYBE IN-HO REALLY WANTED GI-HUN TO LEAVE AND GO VISIT GA-YEONG NOT JUST TO HAVE HIM AWAY FROM THE GAMES BUT ALSO BECAUSE IN-HO CAN NEVER HAVE WHAT GI-HUN STILL DOES?? A CHILD?!! DO YOU THINK IN-HO TOLD GI-HUN TO BOARD THAT PLANE BECAUSE IF HIS WIFE AND CHILD HAD SURVIVED IN-HO WOULD HAVE BOARDED!! THAT!! PLANE?!!?!!!!! DO YOU- DO YOU THNIK HHHHHHHhhhh

[genericdragon]

Noah fence but if you can't handle thinking about the actual story of Mouthwashing and you just want to imagine silly found family scenarios with the crew on the Tulpar then maybe you shouldn't be engaging with HORROR media...... just a thought.

[lesbiansanemi]

I am so fucking sick of living with my roommate and his fuck ass boyfriend. Also watching my roommate burn every single one of his (already rather minimal, I might add) bridges for this guy is also kind of painful but also his relationship with me is one of said bridges so I'm almost past the point of even feeling bad for him lmao

[mochinon-yah]

I think i'm just full of repressed aggression, and it's all slowly seeping out every time i interact with the world

[randomnameless]

The more I think about it, the more I realize Supreme Leader really has an anti-immigrant/xenophobic streak. Her racism towards the Nabateans is rooted in that they're "different" from humans, and thinks it's their fault for everything that happened (even though the Agarthans are right there but they probably twisted the narrative). She suspects Claude and thinks he's from a different country and because of where he's from, thinks she doesn't have "sufficient knowledge" about Fodlan. I know people will bring up her Almyra speech during her paralogue but that's just talking, when push comes to shove she displays a much different attitude.

Hm,

I wouldn't go that far tbh.

However, Supreme Leader is an imperialist - remember the off-shoots? - which means that Adrestia will always be superior, in one way or another, to the country/states/territories she invades.

I don't think her line to Claude about having "sufficient knowledge" refered to his background, but more to hers : he doesn't know "Willy's Sekrit History" or Nabateans/Agarthans exist and aren't humans (not yet at least lol).

Still, if you think about it, this is a Supreme argument : no matter what Claude would have learnt (hell his paralogue is about meeting Macuil!) even if by some mistake he hears about Willy's Sekrit History, to Supreme Leader he would never have had enough knowledge because, well, he isn't her.

Bear in mind that in Nopes, she accepts his "alliance" after imparting him the "knowledge" she has (curiously we will never see what was in that letter she gave him save for Rhea'n'Seteth not being who they seem to be...) so I wonder if any kind of intel he could have gotten on his own would, at one point, be rewarded by Supreme Leader as acknowledgment that he has "enough" knowledge... or it still wouldn't be "enough", because it doesn't come from her?

You mentionned her Almyra convo in her own paralogue...

Who demonstrates her lack of "knowledge" here? lol

As if the Church of Seiros or religion was the reason why Almyra does its monday raids! Talking with them because they aren't religious or don't follow the Church of Seiros creed? Gonerils don't follow it either, and yet they've been fighting for their lives for centuries against raiders!

"When pushes come to shove" : do you mean Brigid? Because that is also another country that doesn't follow the Seiros religion... and we see how "reasonably" Adrestia treated them through the ages, hell, in non-CF routes, Brigid is still a vassal of Adrestia during the war so...

[myhyperfixationisback]

Sony please release your cruel and un-creative grip on my autism creature game series. I beg of you. Let them at least start naming the series innuendos again… PLEASE. I’m sorry the Future series ever even got released at this point PLEASE go back to the old ways I beg you‼️