#but getting into the rhythm of it so maybe the page will pick up a little

[kings-highway]

Okay I've seen enough AI discourse discussion today but there's one thing I absolutely have not seen anyone else talking about and I simply need to get my 2 cents in here

Writing is not about the end product. And no, I'm not going to say some philosophical nonsense about the passion or heart or humanity put into it, I'm sure most of you are already aware of the philosophical difference between AI and real writers. What I'm talking about is what, about storytelling and writing, makes a writer a writer.

If, theoretically, being a writer was JUST about conveying an idea, plot, or set of themes to the reader, AI wouldn't be that big of a deal. Because it truly would be just about the quickest way to get your idea into someone elses' head. But it's not that.

It's not that at all.

When I was 14 my father (a screenwriter) told me that his favourite part of writing was editing, and that, if I continued to be a writer, one day I'd probably feel the same way.

The amateur is enamoured with the creative process - the writer is enamoured with the craft.

Writing doesn't stop when the words are on the page.

My father was right.

Nowadays, a first draft is a tedious first step I need to climb the mountain of to get on with things. And, of course, I love this step! It's the creative heart of being a storyteller, playing with characters, exploring themes. And, yes, most of my fanfiction is a first draft, but thats because fanfiction is a different kind of craft to me. Also not something AI can replicate but that's a different story and not what this is about.

I've never let anyone read my first draft of original work. Ever. Because I hate my first drafts. I finish it, and immediately start thinking: "i need more scenes that make the twist villain sympathetic early on to increase the impact of the reveal" or "i should make sure that the main character is shown reaching for chocolate flavoured treats more often to tighten the character persona" or "i think the middle is too short, there's not enough time to build drama."

I start crafting the story. Picking apart how I want my readers to feel, adjusting minute details - or massive, large details - and playing with the rhythm of the story. Maybe a villain gets redeemed instead of killing them, maybe I switch up the order that characters meet in to change their dynamics, maybe I change their names to have greater symbolism and more cohesive identities. Editing is a difficult skill, but the process of getting my hands on each paragraph is intoxicating. Of being able to turn this story into the best version of itself.

I spent 4 minutes on one line, yesterday, changing the word "terrible" to "horrible," removing a comma and switching up the word choice in the dialogue. I played and I fiddled and I made sure that this one sentence had the exact right melody to it, the exact right feeling to it to make sure that my reader could feel it like goddamn music in their bones, the precise reading experience that I, the writer, wanted them to have. These 4 minutes are the most fun I ever have writing. These moments are my favourite part of being a writer, they're what makes me a writer. Not simply that I have put words on a page, but that I have put these words on a page, exactly as I want them.

So AI art is not art. Because art is not the end product. People who use AI to write are not writers, because writers are not merely idea generators. If you're satisfied using AI to generate your ideas, go ahead, but you were never a writer to begin with. I don't want my work to exist on the page if I don't get to enjoy the craft. If I don't get to sit and play with my words, adjust character details into oblivion, stare at the screen until the words are music, then I simply don't want it. If everything in the world becomes AI generated, I will still be sitting at my desk with my computer glowing and keyboard clicking away, writing stories, because that is what I love to do. The act of it, the physical act, not the end product.

"I'm just using AI to bring my ideas to life, I can edit and adjust it afterwards if I want!"

You've already missed the point.

I'll just be over here wasting hours upon hours deciding on the name of a fake city, because it is the most fun I could ever have.

[lovelymindescape]

Fuller , 1955 : Chapter 10 : The Things you leave behind

Summary: A forgotten object, a memory shared, and a conversation that leaves more questions than answers—Chapter 10 picks up where heartbreak left off. Determined to understand what happened, the reader begins to follow the thread back to where it all frayed. But the closer she gets to the truth, the heavier it begins to weigh.

Setting: Reader’s home, the library, the old trail behind the school – Texas, Early Fall 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader, Mrs. Grace, Reader's Mom

⚠️Content Warnings: emotional neglect, trauma, longing, partial confrontation, soft angst, emotional buildup

E’s Notes: This is a “she starts looking” chapter. There’s something so gut-wrenching about retracing old steps in the hope someone else still remembers the way too.

You wake up before the sun. The air in your room is heavy, the kind that makes the bedsheets stick to your skin. But your mind isn’t on the heat—it’s on him.

Still. Always.

You sit up slowly, stretching the sleep from your bones, and glance at your nightstand. The unfinished letter is still there. The page crinkled at the corners where your hand trembled too long the night before. You don’t pick it up again.

You just… look at it.

Then turn away. You don’t know if you’re angry or tired or just stuck. Maybe all three.

Downstairs, your mother is already halfway through her first cup of coffee. She doesn’t look up when you walk in. The kitchen radio plays a slow country waltz that seems too cheerful for how your chest feels.

You pour yourself some orange juice, take one sip, then dump the rest into the sink.

“You’re going out?” she asks without inflection.

“Library,” you mutter. “Maybe the store.“

"You’re not spending more money on notebooks and pencils, are you?”

You don’t answer. You grab your bag and slip out the back door before the rhythm of her sigh can catch you.

The air outside is gray and quiet. The kind of morning that feels like it’s holding its breath. You take the long way into town. Past the broken fence along Miller Road, past the old barn with the boarded-up windows. You avoid looking at it. The silence of that place has a weight all its own now.

It’s just after ten when you push through the creaky front doors of the library. It’s mostly empty, save for the gentle hum of ceiling fans and the scent of worn paper.

Mrs. Grace is behind the desk, sorting through a pile of returned books. She looks up when she hears you.Her smile is small—but knowing.

“Back so soon?” she asks gently.

You nod, eyes down. You’re not sure how to say it—what you’re looking for. Not in books. Not really. She reaches beneath the counter and pulls something out: a folded piece of paper, slightly wrinkled.

She holds it between two fingers like it’s something fragile.

“He left this the day you were here. I didn’t know if I should keep it. But something told me you’d be back.”

You stare at it.

Your throat tightens.

Your hands tremble as you take it from her.It isn’t a note. Not really. It’s a sketch. The corner of your face—barely begun. The curve of your mouth, the arch of your neck. It’s unfinished, but unmistakable. The lines are soft, hesitant.

Delicate.

There’s no signature. Just faint graphite and the smudge of a thumbprint along the edge. Your chest aches.

“Did he note anything when he left it?”

Mrs. Grace hesitates. Then her voice lowers.

“Only that he didn’t mean to leave a mess. He looked like he was holding something heavy. Something bigger than what any boy should carry alone.”

You press the sketch to your chest, fingers curling around the edge. The silence stretches between you and the librarian like an open wound.

“He’s not bad,” you whisper, your voice cracking.

“He’s not what they say.”

Mrs. Grace nods slowly.

“I know.”

You leave the library just before noon. The sun has finally broken through the clouds, but it doesn’t make you feel any warmer. Instead of going straight home, you turn toward the back trail behind the school—the one you used to take when you needed air.

The path is mostly dirt, scattered with dry leaves and bits of trash from other kids sneaking cigarettes. You walk it alone now. It’s stupid, maybe. You know you won’t find him here. But you keep walking. Halfway down the trail, you stop.

There, half-buried beneath a cluster of wild grass, is the stub of a pencil. Broken. The kind Thomas always used. You crouch down, pick it up. The wood is splintered. The graphite dulled. It might not even be his.

But you slip it into your pocket anyway.Just in case.

When you finally get home in the late evening , your mother’s voice cuts through the screen door before you even step inside.

“You were gone for hours. I thought you said the library.”

“I was at the library.”

“And?”

“And I don’t have to check in every minute of my life.” She sighs—frustrated, tired. You don’t wait for more. You climb the stairs. Close your door. The sketch is still pressed between your hands. You smooth it out on your desk, place it beside your own unfinished letter.

Two incomplete things. Almost touching.

You sit at your desk, fingers tracing the faint lines of the sketch. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to make sense of it all. The boy you thought you knew… or at least the version you wanted to know. There’s a tenderness here you never saw at school.

The quiet carefulness of a hand that wants to create, not destroy. Your eyes drift back to your own letter, folded neatly but unread, folded with all the hopes you haven’t yet found the courage to speak aloud.

Your chest tightens.

You want to cry, but the tears don’t come.

Instead, you feel the sharp edge of confusion. If Thomas is more than the rumors, the whispers, the cruel jokes

why does he keep shutting you out?

Why the distance?

The silence?

You bite your lip and lean your forehead against the cold wood of your desk. You want to reach him. To fix it.nBut you don’t even know where to start.

The afternoon light slips through your window in slow golden beams, dust motes dancing like tiny ghosts. Your mind drifts back to Mrs. Grace’s words.

He looked like he was holding something heavy.

You know that weight well. You’ve felt it in your own heart. You wonder what it feels like to carry it alone. Maybe that’s why he pushes everyone away. Because the hurt is so big, it’s too much to share. Too much to explain.

The house feels too quiet. Too empty without answers. You wonder if Thomas feels the same, or if he’s already gone too far down the path you can’t follow yet.

You think about the pencil you found on the trail — a tiny, broken thing, but something you want to believe is a sign. A connection.

Something that means he’s still here, somewhere, needing you as much as you need him.

You push back your chair and stand.You need air. You need movement. You need to find something—anything—that might bring a sliver of clarity. Outside, the late afternoon sun is softening, the breeze cool enough to chase away the heat.

You decide to take the long route to the park. The place where you once talked about dreams and futures that now feel farther away than ever. The crunch of your shoes on the gravel is steady, grounding.But your thoughts race.

What if he’s slipping further from you?

What if the silence is something you can’t break?

At the park, the empty swings creak gently in the breeze. You sit on the bench, clutching the sketch. The sound of children’s laughter drifts from the other side of the playground—bright, careless, unaware.

Your heart twists painfully. You want to yell for Thomas. To call him back. To tell him you’re here. You’re not going anywhere. But the words get stuck in your throat.

Instead, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You’ll keep trying. Because some things are worth the waiting. Even if the waiting hurts.

You sit on the bench, watching the sky deepen into soft shades of pink and purple. The quiet wraps around you like a blanket, but your thoughts feel heavy. Just as you start to stand, footsteps crunch gently on the gravel nearby.

You glance up and see Thomas standing a few feet away, his eyes searching yours with an uncertain, almost vulnerable look. The bandana still wrapped tightly around his head, his sketchbook hugged close to his side. He doesn’t speak—he can’t—but his gaze says everything. Hesitation, regret, longing.

Slowly, he takes a step closer.

His fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach out but unsure if you’ll let him. You hold your breath, your own hand rising just a little. Then, carefully, Thomas extends his hand towards yours, palm open and trembling slightly.

You close the small distance between you, letting your fingers brush over his. His hand tightens around yours—a quiet but powerful promise. He pulls out a pencil from his pocket and, with careful strokes, quickly sketches a small heart in the air between you, then points to your hand where it rests in his.

His eyes shine with unspoken words.No need for speech—this silent moment holds everything. As the sky darkens, you squeeze his hand gently, a soft smile breaking through. Slowly, the fragile barrier between you begins to crumble.

TBC : Chapter 11

Taglist: @iloved1lfs0 @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler @night-shadowblood-writes2 @richietoziers-world @oliposca @decojellyfish

[tgirl-autumn]

oh hi wow it’s 1:30 am how did i. I was figuring out drum beats and I blinked and it’s 1:30 what. I have a morning shift i need to go to bed. anyways 3 or so years after trying to get it down for the first time I finally got the night running drum beat kinda down. I’m making really good progress on understanding where everything moves when im playing it i’m happy with it. I got proper rhythm down too and I got too close really well down. I think tomorrow I need to figure out the other song and then I also want to finish night running, and look into playing rain and petra or pastel rain again. i’m excited i’m excited it’s been a while since i’ve rocked out on drums i forgot how fun it is to sit down with a song and just own the drum part. even if right now im just air drumming it still transfers over to the actual drumkit really well actually. i cant wait to hop on a mediocre drumkit tmrw and play it out to my hearts content.

[minkieater]

u already know what i really want

sitting on seonghwas face… his nose…

his nose … THAT nose … oh man

you didn’t think someone’s nose could be so… appetizing.

appetizing wasn’t the word, no. provoking? arousing? stimulating? maybe appetizing, too, maybe you’d lick every inch of it after you used it as a seat. sitting next to him on the couch as he read a book, glasses sitting on the bridge of that perfect nose, his lips pressed into a line as his eyebrows slightly knitted in focus. he looked like a dream, so innocent, so unprovoking you wondered how the sight of him had you so worked up.

you crawled over to him, taking his book from his hands, bending the page to mark before throwing it to the side, replacing yourself in his hold instead. he looked up to you in surprise as you pulled the frames from his temples, tossing them to the side, too.

he didn’t ask any questions— he didn’t want to, didn’t need to because of that look in your eye. like you wanted to eat him whole, as if he was your last meal, as if you were starved. he shifted his body down, let his long, slender fingers wrap around your hips, and accepted your lips on his own.

wet and messy, you danced together, tongues slipping into a rhythm you both knew all too well, hips shifting and grinding as if you’ve been making passes at each other for the last few hours. seonghwa loved you like this, needy and debauched, taking him for what you wanted, what you needed.

your hips grinded into him harshly, making him suck in a sharp breath, looking up at you through his long, dark lashes. you barely fed him a smile as you breathed out, “need you.”

he let his head fall back, watching you grind against him with darkened eyes, clouded with arousal and admiration. his lips lifted in the smallest smirk, “take whatever you need, baby. ‘m all yours.”

you pulled your shirt over your head, unclipped your bra from behind you, letting them both fall to the ground where you stood, slipping off your sweatpants right after. “lay down,” you ordered with a soft voice, a plea, a prayer.

he shifted down, his long body taking up the entirety of the couch, book and glasses be damned. you crawled on top of him with purpose, hips hanging over his cheeks, fingers pushing his long black locks away from his face. “want your mouth, wanna feel your nose against me.”

“my nose?” he repeated out of curiosity before his eyes fluttered shut, his hands coming up behind your thighs, hooking around them and pulling down, fuck getting an answer to his own question.

you moaned out in relief as his tongue met your center, head tipping back, a hand still in his hair, the other holding onto the back of the couch for leverage. you let him lick into you, tongue sloppily drawing circles over your clit, sucking on it, your eyes watching as he gained his own pleasure from eating you out.

“so fucking good,” you moaned out and the sound was all relieving, the answer to all your prayers, gratitude lining your words like a song.

you rocked your hips against him, your clit bumping into his nose, all cartilage and bone hitting your bundle of nerves just right— the sound that left you was guttural, completely debauched, it sounded as sinful as it felt to stare at him with that nose deep inside his book.

he groaned into you, his tongue finding your core, letting it slip inside as you rocked against his nose again. the feeling was everything you thought it’d be, as stimulating as it looked, harsh against your clit in the best way. combined with his tongue fucking into you, you could feel the bubble of pleasure forming in your gut, a burning heat that was quickly traveling through every nerve ending.

his fingers tightened onto the plush of your thighs as you picked up the pace, chasing your high, and he kept up with you, his tongue moving in tandem with each thrust of your hips against his nose. his expression was relaxed, eyebrows laying loose on his forehead, not a shred of tension in sight, only pleasure, ease, as he coaxed you to orgasm.

you gasped as your pleasure came to its peak, seonghwa rocking your hips against him as your body stiffened with pleasure, legs shaking around his head, high pitched, broken moans escaping your lips as you came undone.

you leaned back after riding out your orgasm, staring down at seonghwa who was soaked from his nose to his chin. his lips lifted in a lazy grin, tongue poking out to lick his lips, eyes still lidded in a haze. your gaze flew to his nose, shining with your release, and you tilted your head to the side in thought, chest still heaving from the rush he just gave you.

maybe seonghwa’s nose was appetizing, indeed.

[tinytownn]

road rage – pt. i

joel miller x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

summary: on a drive home after a late night shift, a tailgating truck hits you, sending you off the road. the driver—his looks catching you by surprise—offers you a ride home.

content: enemies(?? for like two pages) to lovers??, age gap, minor car crash??, subtle flirting, a lotttt of joel using sweetheart, joel trying not to be a creep lol, temptationnn, no use of y/n, pretty slow first chapter ngl

a/n: hello!! this is my first post on this account and on tumblr in general. i'm still getting used to everything, but i've just recently gotten back into writing after a few years so i'm just excited to be doing this again!! i am planning to make this a short series with maybe 3-5 parts?? this first chapter is pretty slow with just a little flirting, but things will definitely pick up as the story progresses. (also i pictured in game joel in this fic but obv it doesn't matter)

pt. ii pt. iii pt. iv pt. v

—

The cool air blowing through the vents did little to keep you awake, so you reached down to turn up the music. The seat gently vibrated in sync with the bass, almost lulling you to sleep instead of keeping you alert.

You shook your head. Only twenty more minutes.

Trees blurred in your peripheral vision, and the oncoming headlights cut through the thick night fog, almost blinding you. Silently cursing, you squinted as the combination of bright lights and loud music gave you a headache. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but as the people-pleaser you were, you had agreed to cover a shift for a friend. Which normally wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t the worst shift possible– 3 PM to 11 PM.

Spending the entire day under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office had been miserable, but at least you avoided rush-hour traffic. Now, the highway was deserted, the pavement stretching endlessly ahead, and you took full advantage. The speedometer ticked upward—eighty, ninety—until it settled on a bold 100 mph. You straightened your back, gripping the wheel tighter.

This was the only good part of your night.

You, the open road, and the music moving in sync. Your foot pressed the gas pedal to the beat, the car swaying slightly as you danced along to the rhythm. For a brief moment, freedom rushed through your veins.

Then, your joy was cut short.

Blinding LED headlights filled your rearview mirror.

Despite your already reckless speed, the approaching truck was closing the distance fast, its lights growing brighter by the second. With a frustrated sigh, you flipped the switch on your mirror to dim the glare, but the relief was minimal. You pressed the gas just enough to hold a steady 90 mph, hoping the driver would back off.

They didn’t.

The truck inched closer, practically kissing your bumper. Your patience thinned.

"Where do you have to be right now?" you yelled, throwing your hands in the air before slamming them back onto the wheel.

You refused to speed up any further. You were already pushing legal limits, and there was an entirely open lane to your right. Why isn’t he just going around me? A quick glance in the mirror confirmed your suspicions—a middle-aged man, his expression unreadable.

"Go around me if you're that impatient, grandpa!"

But he didn’t. He just stayed there.

Your jaw tightened as the truck loomed behind you, headlights flooding the interior of your car. And then—just when you thought his lights couldn’t get any more obnoxious—they flickered.

Your irritation flared. Is he seriously flashing his brights at me?

Normally, you avoided road rage. You knew better than to test angry strangers in metal death machines. But today had been a day.

Burning coffee spilled on your chest that morning. The dreadful realization that you had to work this godforsaken shift. The mind-numbing hours spent under soul-sucking office lights. And now, this asshole riding your bumper.

Your nerves snapped.

On the third flicker of his brights, your foot slammed on the brake.

The jolt wasn’t enough to stop the car entirely, just a warning. A signal.

But the truck didn’t back off.

Instead, his brights stayed on—permanently.

Your car felt like the inside of a lightbulb, and the overwhelming glare made it hard to see the road. Your speed dropped slightly as you struggled to focus.

You have got to be kidding me…

This time, your foot hesitated over the brake. You weren’t sure how close he really was. The last thing you needed was an accident.

But fate had other plans.

A deafening horn blast rattled through the night.

The sudden noise startled you, and before you could stop yourself, your foot slammed down—

—on the brake.

Everything happened in an instant.

Your forehead hit the steering wheel, only to be snapped backward by the force of the deploying airbag. The nylon burned against your skin, suffocating and blinding you. Your tires screamed against the pavement as the car spun out of control. Your body strained against the seatbelt as you felt the car dip into the median. A sharp pain shot through your neck as your head slammed against the headrest.

"Fuck..." you groaned.

It was a minor crash, all things considered. But your car? Completely totaled.

The front bumper was crushed into the median railing. The back was crumpled—rammed in by the truck.

The truck.

Adrenaline masked the pain as you forced yourself to move. The car was a mess—your tote bag had spilled across the seats, its contents scattered. You fumbled with your seatbelt, fingers shaking, until—

Click.

You were free.

You sprang into action, anger seizing complete control. The car door slammed behind you as you stomped toward the man’s driver-side door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have killed us!”

You didn’t care that his door was closed—he was going to hear you.

To your surprise, the man opened the door, unbuckling his seatbelt as if nothing had happened. His truck sat parked on the shoulder, barely touched. A few scratches on the front bumper. No airbags deployed.

Meanwhile, your car was wrecked.

The stark contrast sent a fresh wave of rage through you. Your fist slammed against the hood of his truck—not even a dent.

“You could have just moved over.” 

His voice was calm. Unbothered.

The indifference made you freeze.

Eyes wide, you finally looked at him—really looked at him. He was older—dark hair streaked with gray, hands calloused and worn. His lips pressed into a firm line, tired eyes set deep beneath a hardened expression. He had an air of intimidation about him, the kind that came with experience rather than effort. And despite everything—despite the wreck, the rage still simmering in your chest—he was handsome. If you weren’t so pissed off, the way his unwavering gaze dragged over you might’ve made you falter—hell, maybe even blush.

You scoffed at his southern drawl, unimpressed. His voice carried the charm of a gentleman, but his actions were anything but.

“I was there first. You should have moved over.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s called the fast lane, sweetheart. And I was the faster one.”

You clenched your jaw. “I was going twenty over. Is that not fast enough for you, old man?”

His expression hardened. His eyes dragged over you, then flicked to your totaled car.

“What, you just get your license a month ago? A little speed too much for ya?”

“I’ve been driving for over ten years, and I’ve never met anyone as obnoxious as you.”

“Double that and get back to me, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your eye twitch. The condescension, the complete lack of remorse—it was infuriating. The minutes ticked by, the night stretching darker as the two of you bickered on the side of the empty highway.

Finally, you yanked your phone from your back pocket, the glow illuminating your face as you scrolled to contacts. Turning the screen to him, you snapped, “Put your number in here. I’m getting my insurance card.”

With a grunt, the man took the phone, holding it at an absurd distance from his face. He extended a middle finger, jabbing the screen at a snail’s pace.

You crossed your arms. “Christ, you’re old…”

With the last of your patience slipping away, you turned to your car, lips pressing into a thin line as you took in the damage—worse than you remembered. You yanked open the glove box, rummaging through the mess before pulling out a small booklet of insurance papers.

The crash, the argument, the adrenaline—it had all faded, leaving behind a dull ache stretching from your neck to the back of your head. Each step back to the truck felt heavier than the last.

Joel handed your phone back without a word. He sat in the driver’s seat now, feet propped on the step bar, door wide open. Peering past him, you took in the state of his truck—well-worn, maybe just as old as him. The glove box hung open, spilling out crumpled papers, loose receipts, and junk strewn across the seats. Dirt encrusted the floors, stains lined the fabric, and the entire cab smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust. A typical work truck.

Glancing at your phone screen, you found his name entered stiffly, all caps, on the first line only.

JOEL MILLER.

A small grin tugged at your lips as you fixed the spacing before saving the contact. You sent him a message—just your name—and watched as his phone lit up in confirmation. 

Joel cleared his throat. “D’ya got anybody to get you home?”

Your eyes met his. The frustration still simmered, but his question forced you to acknowledge what you’d been avoiding.

His gaze flicked to your wrecked car. “That thing ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, and it’s not safe for a girl like you to be out here this late.”

You huffed. “A girl like me?”

You knew what he meant. You had already run through the worst-case scenarios in your head—alone, stranded, barely past midnight. Every woman’s worst nightmare.

But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of thinking he was doing you a favor.

“Yeah,” Joel said, a playful tone lacing his words, “ones that like to start problems.”

You glanced past him into the truck once again—exactly the kind of scene you were warned to avoid. Cluttered, worn, the kind of place that set off alarms in the back of your mind. But your options were limited—this or the highway.

When you looked back at his face, the sharp edge of his anger had dulled. He no longer looked like the man who had run you off the road, but someone weighed down by exhaustion, just trying to get home—same as you. The toll of a long workweek clung to you both.

He exhaled sharply. “You got a ride or not?”

Your hesitation must’ve been obvious because he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Look,” he muttered, flipping the screen toward you.

A blonde girl beamed back, clutching a trophy and soccer ball. 

Joel’s expression softened, a quiet, tired smile pulling at his lips.

“I got a daughter,” he said, voice quieter now. “I wouldn’t want her out here like this.”

Something in your chest eased. This was the first time you had seen him smile all night.

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Yeah- uh no, I don’t have a ride.”

Joel motioned toward your car. “I’ll clear a spot. Grab your stuff.”

With a grateful nod, you turned back to the wreck. You reached inside, sifting through the mess until you found the essentials—wallet, keys, and headphones. Tossing them into your bag, you made your way back to the truck.

Joel stood by the open passenger door, waiting.

You climbed in with a small nod of thanks. The cool air inside was a relief from the heavy night air. The seat hugged your body, and you wasted no time clicking the seatbelt into place—already well aware of Joel’s driving.

The truck dipped under his weight as he dropped into the driver’s seat, door slamming shut behind him.

“Where am I headed, kiddo?”

The engine rumbled to life, country music blasting through the speakers. Joel grimaced, quickly turning the volume down.

“Uh—just outside downtown, by the school- the highschool. Not the college. Just take exit fourteen and it’s pretty much straight until the river.”

Joel gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with your poor, over-explained directions.

Silence settled between you, the earlier hostility replaced by something quieter. The shift was jarring. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the realization that this wreck wasn’t about reckless driving—it was about two overworked, pissed-off people taking their frustrations out on the wrong things.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who let emotions get the best of him—he couldn’t afford to be. Not as a father. Most days, life’s inconveniences were just that. As long as Sarah was happy, everything else was just noise.

But today had pushed him too far.

Three months of work—scrapped in a single meeting. No discussion. No warning.  The new plans were a mess, the compromises were nonexistent, and the client was an insufferable pain in the ass. Joel had spent the entire day fighting for compromises that never came, his patience thinning with every rejection. Agreeing on the original plans had been difficult enough, and now this high-paying client was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.

The rest of Joel’s day was spent reviewing these so-called new plans, searching for compromises that might salvage at least some of the work already completed. But every suggestion he made was quickly rejected. The client wanted things done his way—no exceptions.

By the end of the day, frustration had Joel gripping the arms of his chair, clinging to the hope that at least one compromise might be accepted. But it wasn’t until eight o’clock—long past the time he should have been home—that the final rejection came. Even then, he persevered, spending the next few hours adjusting measurements and sketching out a rough plan to present the following morning. He just wanted this project to be over.

By the time he eventually left the office, his patience was gone.

The open road was supposed to be his escape. Just him, his truck, and the empty highway.

Then you got in his way.

He could’ve merged. Could’ve passed you and been done with it.

But the sight of your car in his lane, unaware, unbothered—it was the final straw.

He’d done this a hundred times before.

A little bumper-to-bumper game.

A little misplaced frustration.

He never meant for it to go this far.

But here you were, in his passenger seat. And your crumpled car was proof of just how wrong the night had gone.

And now, he had to get you home.

The low rumble of the engine and the faint hum of country music filled the quiet space between you. Joel drove at a far more reasonable pace now, nothing like the reckless tailgating from earlier. The road stretched ahead, lined by dense forest on either side, the scenery offering a welcome distraction as you gazed out the window.

"I'm sorry about your car."

The sudden break in silence made you jolt slightly in your seat. Your lips parted, but no words came out at first.

Sure, he was giving you a ride home, but that didn’t erase the mess he’d made of your night—or your car. You still had to deal with insurance, miss work, and somehow navigate the nightmare that was the current car market. The frustration bubbled up again, only to be met with the nagging reminder that your own childish stunt had played a part in this too.

The thought sent heat creeping up your neck. You huffed, crossing your arms. "Deserved. Partially– I think you gave me fucking whiplash."

His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his stoic exterior.

As his gaze fell on the lock screen of his beloved daughter, guilt settled deep in his chest. If she had come home telling him a man had run her off the road—wrecking her car in the process—he knew the rage he would feel. He had been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, and fatherhood had only reinforced those values. Your original outburst had been justified; after all, he had watched you crawl from the wreckage of your car, shaken but alive. Yet, his pride had held firm.

Now, faced with your unexpected kindness despite his wrongdoing, the weight of his indifference bore down even harder.

“My bones aren’t as brittle as yours, old man.” A smile spread across your face, the relief of a genuine conversation lifting the tension that had been weighing on you all day. “I think I’ll live.”

Joel rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Speaking of,” you added, a playful gleam in your eyes, “what’s an old guy like you doing out so late?”

Your attempt at making small talk and a joke fell flat as Joel’s expression soured. The events of his shift replayed in his mind, only adding to the pit of worry in his stomach.

“Work,” he said simply.

“Me too,” you sighed. “It never gets better, does it?”

“Don’t think so.”

The conversation ended there, the soft melody of a country song filling the car as you bobbed your head to the beat. The thought of the day behind you brought a wave of exhaustion to both of you, the prospect of how you were going to get home creeping back into your mind.

You could take the bus?

Maybe call up a coworker or a friend?

Neither option was particularly appealing. With a sigh, you turned your attention back to the man next to you. In the short half hour you’d known him, your initial thoughts had changed drastically from his less-than-ideal first impression.

While the memory of your wrecked car still lingered, so did the reminder of your own fault in this situation. It was something best left to the insurance companies to handle, the previous anger dissipated.  The coming weeks of ridesharing and public transportation wouldn’t be ideal, but at least you had a ride home tonight.

Your eyes lingered on the graying man next to you. His eyes were fixed on the road, glancing occasionally at his speedometer. The tension in his jaw had faded, his face more relaxed, weighed down by the exhaustion that was evident in both of you. His hair was messy, and you briefly recalled him running a hand through it when he first exited the truck—probably a nervous habit that had turned into a kind of permanent bedhead.

Despite his somewhat rough exterior—soiled, calloused hands, mud-streaked clothes, weathered skin adorned with scars and sun-kissed freckles from years of hard labor—staring at him for too long made a warmth spread to your cheeks.

The attempt to distract yourself from your car had worked a little too well.

You quickly pulled your gaze away from his face—hopefully before he noticed—and turned your attention elsewhere. His short-sleeve, button-up work shirt clung to his arms, biceps flexing as they stretched the fabric. His hands, strong and capable, gripped the wheel with ease, barely needing to look at it as his focus remained ahead. You watched as he took the exit, smoothly navigating the almost circular turn, his gaze not shifting from the road. Without turning his head, he effortlessly merged, the awareness of his surroundings second nature—an instinct gained over decades behind the wheel.

“Fairview or Jackson?” Joel’s voice cut through your thoughts.

Heat crept up your face as you whipped your head to the side, eyes landing on the familiar split in the road. “Fairview—for another eight miles.”

You knew exhaustion was setting in from the way your mind raced. Your unblinking stare drifted back to Joel, taking in details that anger had blurred before. Maybe it was the proximity, the sleep deprivation, the whirlwind of emotions—or all of the above—that sent warmth trailing lower. You shifted uncomfortably, legs brushing against each other.

Anything to distract yourself.

“What do you do for work?” you blurted, wincing at how dumb you sounded.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure you’re not concussed, kid? Might need to take you to the hospital.”

You groaned, slouching into the seat. “Just trying to make conversation…”

His amusement lingered as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Been in construction pretty much my whole life. Started right after high school. Had other plans, but…” He exhaled through his nose. “Had Sarah young, so I did what I had to. Hard work, but I’d do anything to provide for my girl.”

Your gaze flicked to his hands, catching the glint of a passing streetlamp. No ring. No tan line.

You shook your head. Why did that even matter?

This man had run you off the road. He was just driving you home, and after tonight, you’d never see him again. No reason to get caught up in things that didn’t concern you.

“What about you?” Joel asked. “What do you do for work?”

You blinked, surprised he’d bothered to ask. His eyes left the road for the first time that night, meeting yours expectantly.

“I work at a bank,” you scoffed. “Exciting, I know. Not a teller, just… office stuff. Behind-the-scenes.”

Joel smirked. “Can’t relate. I’m shit at math.”

The warmth in his voice sent your brain short-circuiting for a moment. His smile—subtle but real—stood out in the dim glow of the dashboard. The soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the creased lines on his forehead—despite the exhaustion in his face, he looked…warm.

You cleared your throat. “I am too.” You laughed. “I’m honestly shocked I haven’t tanked the place yet. Not that I’ll have much time to—I’ll probably get fired soon.”

Joel chuckled. “Talking like that, I can see why.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually good at my job.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked to you, amused.

You nodded, lips curling into a smile. “I just don’t see my boss being too happy about me missing a few days until I can find a ride to work.”

Something shifted in Joel’s expression. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glazing over as he turned his attention back to the road.

He was thinking.

Then, simply—

“I can take you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Unless you really wanna get fired..”

The initial temptation almost had you saying yes before your brain could fully process the offer. It was a kind gesture, but the thought of inconveniencing him—forcing him to carpool you to work every day—made you pause.

Then your eyes met his.

You should’ve known better. Should’ve recognized this for what it was—just a man doing the right thing, easing whatever moral strain the accident had put on him. But his stare held you captive, and for a moment, logic blurred.

Normally, you’d be panicking. Snapping at whoever was behind the wheel to keep their eyes on the road. But with Joel, you didn’t. Confidence radiated from him—not in a cocky or arrogant way, but the kind that came from experience, from years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

There was something in his gaze—something that mirrored what you felt deep in your stomach. A flicker of hesitation, a reluctance to let the night end. A reason to keep seeing each other.

He wanted to see you again too.

No. That was delusional.

The combination of exhaustion and your embarrassing need to get laid had clearly fried your brain. You were sitting here, crushing on a man at least twenty years your senior—someone’s father for god’s sake.

But you did need a ride to work.

You exhaled, glancing up at the moon before muttering, “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to be a burden. I know it’s hard for someone your age to remember so many things.” The quip slipped out before you could stop yourself, a flimsy attempt to break the tension—at least, the tension you felt.

Joel turned slightly, failing to hide his grin. “Not more than I’ve been.” Then, after a beat, “Unless you keep it up with the jokes. Might find yourself in the same place as your car.” He paused. “Sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

The nickname had driven you crazy earlier in the night—condescending, demeaning. But now?

Now it had you looking away, pressing your legs together in a weak attempt to ignore the heat spreading through you.

And Joel paused.

Why did he pause?

He’d said it so easily before, like it meant nothing. But now, there was something different in the way it left his mouth—like he almost caught it before it slipped out.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. “The jokes come free with the ‘totaling my car’ deal.”

“Lucky me.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

You hesitated for a second, then narrowed your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Joel raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t need a pity ride.”

His lips parted slightly before he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Whatever ran through his mind, he wasn’t letting it slip.

He smirked, settling instead for, “Maybe I just wanna see if you’re always this annoying.” 

Your breath caught. The way his voice dipped—the way his eyes flicked to your face, searching for the smallest twitch of a smile—it made something coil tight in your stomach.

You didn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips.

“Or,” Joel continued, smirking, “maybe I’m not so convinced you don’t got that concussion.”

“Oh, hush.” You rolled your eyes, giving his arm a playful shove. 

The teasing had shifted, the edge of frustration softening into something lighter. You didn’t know where this boldness was coming from—flirting with a stranger like this—but he wasn’t stopping you. If anything…was he returning it?

You bit your lip, gaze flicking anywhere but him. Then, before you could think better of it— “I get run off the road by a handsome stranger and you expect me to play it cool?” 

Joel cleared his throat—definitely caught off guard.  

“That right?” 

His voice—low, steady, unreadable—sent a ripple of uncertainty through you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt. Had you misread the moment? 

The air thickened. His gaze held steady, the weight of it pressing into you, testing you. 

You swallowed. Nodded. 

A beat passed. Then another. 

And finally, a smirk. “Guess you’ve made up your mind then.” 

Joel let the words settle before tilting his head, eyes still locked on you. “This handsome stranger gets to drive you to work ‘til you get a new car.” He threw your words back at you, mocking—but not unkind. You exhaled a laugh, the tension giving way to something else entirely.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “Oh, so now you’re deciding for me?”

He shook his head slightly. “Never said that.” He paused. “You just don't sound too opposed to the idea. Choice is all yours, honey.”

His voice had deepened just slightly at the last word, slow and deliberate.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

“And if I say no?” You challenged.

Joel chuckled lowly, sending a shiver up your spine. “You said it yourself—you’d be out of a job. And my company.”

You scoffed. “Can’t tell which one I’d be more grateful to miss out on.”

He smirked. “Better for me, sweetheart. You’re too much of a distraction anyway.”

Your breath hitched.

He adjusted his grip on the wheel, the tension thick in the space between you. His gaze flicked to you again, raking you up and down in a way that made your skin prickle with heat.

The truck jolted as he slowed, bringing the conversation to a halt. The school’s looming brick silhouette glowing under the buzzing street lamps, moths greedily swarming the light. The road, littered with potholes, sent a rough shudder through the truck as the tires fought for traction.

“Take this right,” you murmured. Joel turned down the music, his focus shifting, and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“It’s the third one on the left.”

He pulled into your driveway, cutting the headlights as the truck settled into park. The night air was thick and quiet, the world outside still.

Neither of you moved.

The truck rolled back slightly, settling into the incline, and for the first time all night, there was no tension, no urgency—just the unspoken weight of exhaustion pressing into the silence between you.

And still, neither of you seemed in a rush to break it.

You barely noticed the way Joel shifted in his seat, full of anticipation. His hands flexed around the wheel, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the unspoken energy hanging between you. Your mind raced through the events of the night, trying to make sense of how this even began—how a collision turned into something so unexpectedly charged.

Not that you were complaining.

You had at least a week of one-on-one time with Joel and that realization sent your heart stuttering against your ribs. This ride had already escalated in ways you hadn’t predicted, and now your thoughts wandered, imagining the possibilities of the next.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe you weren’t.

Shaking yourself from the haze, you reached for the door handle. “I should get going.” The lump in your throat made it harder to get the words out, especially with the way Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, steady and unreadable.

You clutched your bag to your side, gripping it like an anchor, grounding yourself in the reality that—somehow—your subtle advances had gone far more successfully than you expected.

The overhead light flooded the car as the door clicked open, the night air brushing against your skin. Your fingers curled around the handle, your balance slightly off-kilter from the nerves running through your veins.

You barely had time to register the movement before warmth encased your wrist.

Joel’s hand.

Firm. Steady. Completely engulfing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“Already forgot about our deal?”

His voice was smooth, tinged with amusement.

Before you could process it, he gave a gentle tug, pulling you back into the seat just enough that your face was level with his again. You kept the door ajar, caught between the instinct to flee and the undeniable pull of his presence.

His eyes searched yours, taking in any flicker of hesitation, any nervous shift of your body. His fingers, still wrapped around your arm, traced the goosebumps rising beneath his touch.

He smirked at his effect on you.

But the amusement didn’t erase the conflict in his mind.

You had just met, and the circumstances weren’t exactly the most flattering on his part. He had hit your car. He–an older man–had insisted on driving you. And now, here you were—breathless, your full attention on him, hanging onto his every word.

It was dangerous.

Tempting.

And guilt-inducing.

He didn’t let go.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening as he weighed the situation. Maybe this was just harmless flirting on your end. Maybe his immediate attraction to you had made him think otherwise. Maybe it was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a late-night illusion spun by exhaustion and circumstance.

Still, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Not yet.

His voice came quieter this time, deliberate. “What time do you have work tomorrow?”

“Joel—”

“It’s not up for discussion, sweetheart.” His grip didn’t tighten, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “What time?”

You sighed, knowing there was no use fighting him on this. “Eight.”

Joel clicked his tongue, considering. “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”

You blinked. “Joel, don’t you have work too?” A bubbling anxiety began to brew endless questions in your mind. “How are you gonna-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just be outside.”

You gave him one last look, searching for any hesitation, any sign that this was some kind of moral obligation rather than something he actually wanted to do. But his gaze was unwavering, he seemed absolute.

Finally, you relented with a soft sigh. “Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. His lips parted slightly as if he had something else to say—but instead, he just gave a slow nod.

“I’ll be here.”

The truck creaked as you lifted yourself from the seat, your shoes landing against the driveway with a soft thud. You adjusted your bag against your chest, the cool night air nipping at your skin.

Joel watched you, his hands still gripping the wheel, his knuckles still tight, as if holding himself back from saying more.

You hesitated, slowing your steps as you departed.

Say something. Anything. Don’t make this weird.

Before you could, his window rolled down. His tired, gruff voice cut through the silence.

“Get some sleep, kiddo.”

You whipped around, startled by the sudden shift in demeanor. He had spent the whole night teasing you—flustering you—but now, the words were softer. Almost… affectionate.

Your lips curled into a grin. “Don’t hit any more cars, old man!”

His chuckle followed you as you disappeared inside.

—

[bullet-prooflove]

Jinx: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @oklahomapeach @queensland-lover93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright - Robby wonders if he's fucked things up with you for good.

Exorcism (NSFW) - Robby and you finally find a way to be honest with one another.

Ready - Robby tells you he's ready to try again.

The Rose - You give Robby a special gift for your anniversary.

Heartbeat - Robby finds something to help him sleep.

The baby likes to play.

He likes to follow the sound of Robby’s voice as his lips ghost over your abdomen and kick when he hears that deep rumble. It’s the game the two of them have been locked in while you rest on the bed with your back against the headboard, reading Where The Crawdads Sing.

“I think he’s gone to sleep.” Robby murmurs, his thumb rubbing loving circles over the bump as he presses his ear to it.

“Well it is past his bedtime.” You say, your fingers combing lightly through Robby’s dark hair. He places a final kiss to your stomach before he pulls his Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt back down over it. His palm comes to rest on the bump as he nuzzles in close, his lips brushing over your cheek.

“Do you wanna discuss what happened yet?”

He’s talking about your reaction to the list of baby names he’d written down. You’d scrunched up the post-it in your fist, said the word ‘nope’ and then peaced out to the bedroom. It had taken him an hour to realise that maybe space wasn’t actually what you needed so he’d broke the stalemate, climbed onto the bed with you, started a conversation with the baby, waiting for you to vocalise what’s going on in that head of yours.

“No.” You say, your gaze focused on your book although you haven’t turned a page in the last couple of minutes.

“Alright.” He says as he lies back down beside you, his palms tapping out a rhythm on his diaphragm as he stares up at the ceiling. His eyes close and you sigh as you set down the book on your lap.

“If we pick a name, it feels like we’re jinxing it.” You tell him your husband. “He becomes a full little person and I...” Robby tilts his head towards you as your knuckles turn white clenching the paperback in your hands. “I know it’s fucking dumb but I picked a name for the last one and six hours later…”

You lost her.

You lost Joanne…

That’s the name he’s found on a pink post-it attached to the lunchbox you’d made for him the morning of Pittfest. Jojo for short.

“Ok.” Robby says swallowing hard against the ache in his chest as he shifts into a sitting position beside you. His thumb traces along your jawline as he cradles your face between his hands, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “No names until after he’s born. We’ll look down at him, he will tell us who he is.”

“He will.” You say softly, your palm coming to rest on your stomach, smoothing over the space where that precious little life resides. “I just know he will.”

Love Robby? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🌟 Creating Character Names: A Non-Basic Guide for Fantasy Writers 🌟

Listen up fellow writers! aggressively slides into your dashboard with chai in hand Let's talk about one of the most CHAOTIC yet FUN parts of writing - naming your precious book babies!

👀 First things first - throw out everything you know about "normal" naming conventions because honey, we're going WILD today!

Here's the tea: Your character's name is literally their FIRST impression on the page. It's their brand™️, their essence, their whole vibe condensed into a few syllables. And in fantasy? The rules? We don't know her.

🔮 Non-Basic Methods for Name Creation:

The Vibes-Based Approach

Close your eyes and picture your character

What color are they giving off?

What texture?

Now translate that into sounds

Example: A character who feels like liquid silver might be named Sylthra or Mercurine

2. The Meaning Mashup Method

Take 2-3 words that represent your character

Break them apart

Frankenstein them back together

Example: Brave (Fortis) + Storm (Tempest) = Fortempest

3. The Aesthetic Alchemy Instead of just picking random syllables, think about:

How does the name look on the page?

Does it have strong consonants or flowing vowels?

Would it look good written in blood on a magical contract? (IMPORTANT)

🌙 Pro Tips That Nobody Talks About:

Test Drive Your Names

Write them in different fonts

Yell them dramatically

Whisper them mysterously

If you can't dramatically whisper "Lord Xylophone the Terrible" without giggling, maybe reconsider

2. The Name Evolution Game Your character's name should have:

A formal version

A nickname

What their enemies call them

What their mom yells when they're in trouble Example: Theodora → Thea → The Midnight Witch → THEODORA BLACKTHORN GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT

3. Cultural Consideration (but make it fantasy)

Create naming patterns for different regions/species

Maybe elves use lots of 'ae' and 'th' sounds

Perhaps dragon-folk names always start with a hiss

Desert dwellers might have names that sound like wind through sand

🔥 Advanced Name-Crafting Techniques:

The Emotional Echo Method

Write down the key emotion of your character

Find its opposite

Create a name that somehow bridges both Example: A character who's both gentle and fierce → Lysander (means "liberator" but sounds soft)

The Musical Approach

Names have rhythm

They have melody

Try singing your character names

If it sounds like a spell, EVEN BETTER

💫 Remember:

Names can be weapons (looking at you, True Name magic systems)

They can be prophecies

They can be curses

They can be LIES

🚫 What to Avoid (but like, in a non-basic way):

Names that look like you headbutted your keyboard

Names so complex your readers need a pronunciation guide every 2 pages

Names that are just regular names with random 'y's thrown in (looking at you, Kathryn → Kathyryn → Kathyyryn)

✨ Final Thoughts: Your character's name is a spell you're casting on your readers. Make it memorable. Make it meaningful. Make it YOURS.

And remember, if all else fails, you can always name them after what they had for breakfast. (Looking at you, Toast the Dragonslayer 👀)

sips chai aggressively

That's all for today's chaotic naming advice! Drop a 🌟 if you're gonna rename all your characters now! - Rin T.

[Note: Feel free to reblog and add your own chaotic naming methods! Let's build this resource together!]

[feelbokkie]

to fall apart

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: hurt/comfort (mostly comfort), heavy angst

warnings: swearing, emotional exhaustion, hints of emotional abuse (none depicted), family trauma

pov: 2nd person

description: After getting a concerning text in the middle of the night, Chan comes to your rescue.

pairing: chan & reader (aka, platonic pairing)

word count: 3,035

a/n: for those of you who saw me post this earlier, unfinished, no you didn't

©feelbokkie (2024) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

"Can you pick me up?"

As you sit in the passenger seat of Chan's car, wearing one of the hoodies that he happened to have in his car, you can’t help but feel guilty. It's late, too late for the two of you to be parked in front of a 24-hour convenience store. But you didn't want to go to his place yet and you needed to get out of your parent’s house.

With your head leaning against the cool glass of the window, you watch as Chan disappears and reappears through various parts of the convenience store. A few times, you catch him glancing in your direction, with an expression that you can't see all too well from where you are but you know that at least part of it is concern.

Your heart has finally settled down to a normal rhythm after overworking itself for several hours. You're not sure if it's because of the familiar scent from being in Chan's car or the music he has playing while you wait for him or the melodious pattern of the rainfall hitting the car. Or maybe it's simply being out of your house. Either way, you feel calmer and more relaxed.

You also feel exhausted.

"Sorry for making you wait," Chan says as he hops back into the car. He sets a bag in the center console and shuts the door behind him. He pulls the hood of his jacket off, sending raindroplets flying around the car.

"Sorry for making you leave your place at 3 in the morning." You mumble, not moving from your position.

"Don't do that. You didn't make me do anything. If I thought you were bothering me, I would have said so." Chan softly pats your head before reaching for something in the bag. "Give me your wrist."

You give him your left hand without protest. He slowly rolls up your sleeve, careful not to add more discomfort. He looks over your wrist, moving it around like he knows what he's doing while you wince at the forced movement. He offers whispered apologies each time you express even the slightest sign of being in pain.

"Okay, I think it's just a bad sprain and a bruise, not broken." He whispers more to himself than to you. You glance over at him and spot his phone in his lap open to a WebMD page. He gives you back your arm, making sure to rest it on your lap.

He rummages through the bag for a second before pulling out everything. He does his best to place them on his lap, but the limited space being mostly taken over by the steering wheel makes it nearly impossible. Whatever he can't put on his lap is either placed back into the center console or on that dashboard. He takes two cups of ice that you didn't see him holding earlier and emptys the contents into the bag before tying it as tightly as he possibly can. He stacks one of the empty cups into the other before turning them upside down and putting them over the gear stick.

“This is going to be a little cold,”  He warns before gently putting the makeshift icepack over your wrist.

Silence takes over the car again. The music is softer now and partly being drowned out by the pitter-patter of the raindrops hitting the car, falling harder than it was earlier. You rest your head against the headrest and close your eyes, focusing on the rain. Even then, the soothing rhythm is not enough to combat the jackhammering in your head that is slowly, but surely, drowning out every incessant thought flooding your brain.

"Are you hungry?" Chan offers, breaking the silence.

You shake your head and leave it at that.

You are hungry, starving almost. You can't exactly remember the last time you ate anything. Days blurred together in your head, distant and disconnected as if they happened to someone else. And yet, you're drowning in them, caught in the riptide and being dragged further away as the days continue. Classes during the day, work in the evening, and screaming at night.

"You can talk if you want," Chan tries again, words flowing slowly as he chooses his words with gentle care. "Or if you don't we can just sit in silence. Or I can drive around."

You sit there quietly for a moment, trying to figure out where to start. You can't remember what you've already told him, or exactly how much. You're not even entirely sure he knows exactly what's going on in your life at the moment. Still, as you look back at the last few weeks--no, the last few months--your lips remain sealed, trapping every thought and emotion filling your head. Your eyes slowly open. Unfocused and glassy, staring off at the blurry lights coming from the convenience store.

"I'm just so fucking tired," you finally mumble, your voice barely audible, as though you're speaking to yourself rather than to Chan.

Chan waits patiently in silence, hoping that you'll offer more. His hands fidget in his lap with a desire to reach over to you and embrace you in a tight hug. His heart silently shatters in his chest as looks into your eyes, now devoid of the light and warmth he's grown so accustomed to seeing. Now all he can find is a dull, lifeless gaze.

"I just...I can't do this anymore. I can't...I'm exhausted. I don't know what to do. I just..." You ramble, your voice trembling as you try to make sense of your thoughts.

"Just take a deep breath and start again," Chan's voice drops to a gentle tone.

"I can't," Your voice strains. You take one long, shaky breath before trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat. "I can't fucking breathe, Chan. I'm, I'm at the end of my rope here and I don't have it in me to keep holding on."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to contain the tears that well up in your eyes. Only, one escapes, and then another and another until a steady stream rolls down your cheeks. You can't stop the choked sob that escapes your throat.

No longer able to watch silently from a distance, Chan wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. The sudden warmth and comforting scent of his body washed and shampoo mixed with his laundry detergent force more sobs out of you. Your right-hand rests on his chest, lightly gripping the fabric of his hoodie.

Chan doesn't shush you or try to get you to stop crying. Instead, his hold around you tightens with one hand on your back and the other on the back of your head. The hand on your back moves slowly, going up and down trying to soothe you a bit. Chan's head hangs low, almost resting against yours.

"It's okay, I'm here. Let it all out." His voice is just above a whisper and yet, he's louder than your sobs.

You're not sure how long you sit there crying with Chan holding you. Eventually, when you're out of tears and your throat starts to ache, Chan lets you go and you lean back into your seat. You start to tell him everything that's been happening for the past few months. The arguments between your older brother and your stepdad. How they end in screaming matches in the dead of the night. Your mother's wails to get them to stop. How you're somehow the one responsible for getting them to stop. The tension in your home and how you've been walking on eggshells, worried about setting either one of them off. With hardly any sleep or peace at home, you leave your house right at the crack of dawn and sit in the library on campus trying to get a few minutes of sleep before your first class of the day. How, even though you finish classes relatively early in the day, you'll stay on campus longer to get your school work done or study for exams without the interruption of the usual chaos in your home. You let him know about all of the extra shifts you've taken at work just to avoid the drama, but even that is wearing you down. And that most days, you come home so exhausted that you skip dinner and head straight to bed before being abruptly woken up by more screaming.

"Did they..." His voice trails off, unsure how to finish the question cautiously. But you don't miss how his eyes drift down to your arm before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

"No, neither of them would lay a finger on me." You shift in your seat so you can face him better. "This was an accident."

"Accident how?" There's an air of accusation in his tone, almost like he doesn't believe you. After hearing to story you just told him, you're not sure you'd believe you if you were in his position.

You move the makeshift ice pack to the other side of your wrist. Most of it melted, probably from the heat of your hug with Chan. "It was mostly my fault. Normally I just try to calm them down from the sidelines. But they were really on one today. One of them was drinking. Maybe both of them, I don't know. But they were really getting into each other's face and it looked like they were going to hit each other. I stupidly jumped in between them and got shoved. I tried to catch myself and landed badly. I forgot that they're both taller than me and when they're arguing, I'm quite literally in their blind spots. They both felt horrible...and then they started fighting again because I got hurt. I snapped after that and cussed both of them out before texting you."

"Were they still fighting when you left?" Chan's hand finds your head again. His fingers move slowly and he starts to massage your scalp, almost as if you're a puppy he's trying to calm down.

"Yeah," You sigh as you focus back on the rain running down the windshield. "Pretty sure one or both of them were drinking. It reeked of alcohol. My mom was crying and begging them to stop and begging for me to not leave. She probably thinks I'm not coming back."

Chan stops massaging your scalp and instead taps on your head to get your attention. It takes a second before you face him, part of you is embarrassed that he's watched you break down. And yet, you don't find a single look of judgment on his face. Instead, you meet eyes filled with so much tenderness it hurts. A gentle, understanding smile touching the corners of his mouth appears on his face when you finally look at him. His hand stays on your head, holding it in place as he starts to dry your face with the sleeve on his other hand. "Do you want to?"

"I mean, I don't have a choice. I'm a student working a part-time job. I don't even make enough money to rent a room in someone's house. My brother staying with us was only supposed to be temporary. Temporary means like six-plus months apparently."

"You're more than welcome to stay with us. That storage room that Jeongin puts all his packages in is actually a spare bedroom." Chan chuckles as he drops his hands. He focuses his attention back to your wrist. He grabs a tube that resembles toothpaste and squeezes some on your wrist. He takes a napkin that he has sitting next to his phone and spreads it around, making sure to spread the cool liquid evenly.

"I can't do that,"

Chan looks around for something for a moment before finding it on the floor by your feet. He leans over a container for a wrist brace. He flips it over to the back and starts reading the instructions. "Why not?"

"I can’t do that to you and Jeongin.”

“Do what?” He doesn’t look up as he takes the brace out of the packaging and carefully tugs it onto your wrist. “If anything, you’d be doing both of us a favor. I’ll get to see and hang out with my best friend more often. And Jeongin will be more than grateful to you for getting me off his back.”

“Well if you left the man alone and didn’t get cute aggression around him all the time then maybe he wouldn’t escape from the apartment all of the time.”

Chan finishes adjusting the straps and making sure he didn’t make it too tight before softly patting your hand and looking back at you. “Listen, I’m serious. Isn’t our place closer to the university anyway? You could probably walk. Or we could drop you off sometimes. Way cheaper than the bus.”

You subconsciously chew on your bottom lip as you consider it. Your job is also closer to their apartment than your house, something you were grateful for when you had a shift right after class. And yet, the image of your mom trying to deal with both your brother and stepdad alone pops into your head. You squeeze your eyes shut as you try to erase the image in your head and the sound of your mother’s desperate pleas to stop both men. You bow your head in defeat and let out a small sigh. “It’s not fair to my mom,”

“It’s not fair to you either. Look at me,” Chan tucks his finger under your chin and forces you to look at him. “You are one of the strongest people I know but you’re wearing yourself thin trying to solve everything.”

“Yeah but…it’s my family. At the end of the day, I have to be there for them.”

“Are they there for you? Are they supporting you by keeping you up at night over petty bullshit when they know you have school or work in the morning? What about when you’re picking up extra shifts just to avoid being around them? Or making it impossible to do your school work?”

“All families are complicated, you know that.” You laugh awkwardly as you push Chan’s hand away.

“True, but…” Chan pauses for a moment, studying your face as unspoken words linger between the two of you. He runs his hands through his hair, making the already messy curls even more of a disheveled mess. “At least spend the night tonight. Or for a few days. You have exams coming up, right?”

“I could…but for one, I brought none of my stuff with me. Just grabbed my phone and left when you picked me up.” You hold your half-dead phone up. It’s been buzzing in your pocket the entire time with texts and calls that you can’t be bothered to look at right now. Part of you is scared to check.

“You’re already in your pajamas so you’re fine for now. And I’m sure we can find something for you to wear in the morning. I can take you back home when you get up to grab some stuff.” Chan shrugs as he settles his back against the door.

“Okay sure, let’s say I do stay. We go and get my things and I stay with you until exams are over or whatever. You don’t have a bed in that spare room. And as comfortable as your couch is, I can’t just live in your living room for a week. You, specifically, will go crazy.”

Chan lets out an amused laugh as he stares at you, “That’s cute, you think I’m going to make you sleep on the couch. Real funny joke,”

“Well other than the floor, there’s really no other options.”

“You can take my bed. I like the couch more anyway, it’ll give me a reason to sleep on it without being judged by In.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“If I’m willingly offering my bed, you’re not kicking me out.”

“Yeah but—“

“Stop acting like you’re burdening me. You aren’t. I like being around you and you’re genuinely one of my favorite people. You are not and never will be a burden to me. So get that out of your head.”

The last sentence echoes in your head. You never want to inconvenience or bother people, especially your friends, so they never know you’re going through something until it’s already over. You’re not sure what changed and made you text Chan tonight but you’ve spent most of the time feeling bad for waking him and forcing him out of the warmth of his bed.

You are not and never will be a burden to me.

Those simple words, combined with the soft look in Chan’s eyes hit you harder than they should. Your body feels lighter like a boulder has been lifted off your chest, allowing you to breathe for the first time in years. Possibly for the first time ever.

“H-hey, don’t cry,” Chan sits back up in a panic, rushing to wipe the fresh tears falling down your face. “I think it’s time for you to get some sleep. Pretty sure that convenience store worker is ready to call the cops on us for loitering. Let’s go home, hm? We can just share the bed tonight and talk about the rest later.”

You nod quietly as you wipe your face with your good hand and melt back into the seat. Chan moves everything off the dashboard and center console, haphazardly tossing them into the back seat, before getting settled to drive.

After backing out of the parking space Chan rests his hand on your lap, palm up, waiting for you to take it. You don’t think twice before slipping your good hand into his and resting your head on the window once again. Chan’s fingers lightly tap along to the beat of the song playing.

“Sorry for waking you up and falling apart on you,” You mumble with a small yawn, exhaustion slowly taking over your body.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces whether you want me to or not.”

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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[octaneink]

Food Market Dates

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary : A totally cute, innocent date at the market where they try out new foods Warnings: Implied sexual themes towards the end and a discussion about pineapple being on pizza Notes: I am sorry gang idk what happened to me when I was writing this. It was like I was possessed, mostly for that part at the end.

The train rattled along the tracks, the dreary UK weather outside the window a mix of grey skies and the occasional drizzle. Will sat next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle, his hand resting comfortably in yours. His thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles, a small, absentminded gesture that made your stomach flutter. He was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, the faint sound of whatever video he was watching barely audible over the hum of the train.

You, on the other hand, were engrossed in a book—paperback you’d picked up at the station earlier. It was one of those novels you loved, the kind that end up with a dog-eared cover and pages that smelt faintly of coffee. You were halfway through a particularly juicy scene when Will suddenly squeezed your hand, pulling your attention away from the page.

"You know what I’m most excited about today?" he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the train.

You looked up, marking your page with a finger. "What? Finally admitting that I have impeccable taste in food?"

He snorted, shaking his head. "Impeccable taste? That’s a stretch. Remember the time you tried to convince me that pineapple belongs on pizza?"

"Because it does!"

"Because you’re wrong," he shot back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. "Fine. So what are you most excited about, then?"

He leaned back in his seat, his hand still warm in yours. "The food, obviously. But also… just this. You, me, no plans, no stress. Just a normal, chill day. No arguments about pizza toppings, no you stealing the last bite of dessert—"

"Hey, that was one time!"

"—and no me having to remind you that pineapple is a crime against pizza," he finished, his grin widening.

You nudged him with your shoulder, laughing softly. "Well, for the record, I’m excited too. Even if you do have terrible opinions about food."

"Oi, my opinions are flawless," he said, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he knew exactly how flawed they were.

You shook your head, leaning into him slightly. The train swayed gently, and you let your eyes drift back to the window, watching the grey landscape blur past. Will’s hand tightened around yours, a silent reassurance that pulled your attention back to him.

"So," he said, his tone light and teasing, "what’s the first thing we’re getting at the market? And don’t say something weird like… I don’t know, candied eels."

You laughed, the sound soft and warm in the quiet carriage. "I was thinking skewers. Or maybe that tea place we saw last time. You know, the one with the really colourful drinks?"

"Ah, the one you made me try even though I said I didn’t like boba?"

"You loved it!"

"I tolerated it," he corrected, though the smile on his face betrayed him.

"Sure you did," you said, rolling your eyes. "And I’m sure you’ll tolerate it again today."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt his thumb brush over your knuckles again. "Fine. But only because you’re cute when you’re smug."

You shook your head, laughing softly, and let your gaze drift back to the window, the train rattled on, the rhythm of the tracks steady and comforting.

The market was a riot of colours and sounds—stalls draped in vibrant fabrics, the sharp hiss of oil hitting a hot griddle, and vendors’ voices rising above the hum of the crowd. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spices, sweet sauces, and the occasional waft of fresh herbs. Will walked beside you, his hand brushing yours every so often, his touch light but deliberate, as if he couldn’t quite resist the pull to be closer. The two of you wandered through the bustling aisles, the smell of freshly steamed dough and savoury fillings drawing you toward a stall selling bao buns.

You stopped in front of the stall, the golden, fluffy buns piled high on the griddle, their tops glistening under the soft glow of the stall’s lights. You pointed at the pork-filled ones, turning to Will with a grin. "Can we get these?"

He nodded, already pulling out his wallet. "Anything for you," he said, handing over the cash to the vendor with a quick smile. His voice was soft, almost tender, and it sent a little shiver down your spine. Turning to you, he added, “But don’t let it go to your head.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way his lips quirked into a smile made it hard to stay annoyed. There was something about the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the entire market—that made your heart skip a beat.

The vendor handed you a paper tray with two fluffy bao, the steam rising in delicate curls. Will leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as he studied the buns. "Alright, let’s see if these are as good as they look," you said, picking one up and blowing on it gently before taking the first bite.

The rich, savoury filling hit your tongue, the flavours of tender pork, sweet hoisin, and a hint of ginger mingling perfectly. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a small, contented hum escaping you. When you opened your eyes, Will was watching you, his gaze soft and intent, as if he were memorising the way your face lit up.

"That good, huh?" He asked, his voice low and warm, like the first sip of tea on a cold morning.

You nodded, carefully breaking off a piece of the bao, making sure to get a bit of the tender pork, the sweet hoisin, and a hint of ginger in one perfect bite. Holding it out to him, you grinned. "Your turn."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your fingers as he took a bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Alright, that’s incredible. Another one."

You laughed, breaking off another piece and holding it out to him. He took it from your fingers, his lips grazing your skin again, and this time, you felt the warmth of his breath against your hand. The simple act felt strangely intimate, and you couldn’t help the way your pulse quickened.

The two of you went back and forth, sharing the bao bun between you—breaking off pieces, you feeding Will, and laughing as you tried to avoid getting sauce on your hands. The warmth of the buns contrasted with the crisp autumn air, but it was nothing compared to the warmth spreading through your chest every time Will’s fingers brushed yours or his eyes met yours with that soft, knowing look.

By the time the bao was almost gone, you held up the last bite, raising an eyebrow at Will. "Final piece. Who gets it?"

He grinned, his eyes locking onto yours as he leaned in. His lips grazed your fingers again, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary as he took the bite. "Cheers, love," he said, his voice low and teasing, the endearment slipping out so naturally it made your breath catch.

Your fingers froze midair, the warmth of his lips lingering on your skin. You quickly looked away, pretending to fuss with the napkin, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. Will caught your reaction—the way your eyes flickered, the slight smile you tried to hide, the way your fingers lingered in the air for a second too long. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.

Before you could recover, he leaned in again, this time pressing a quick, soft peck to your lips. You blinked, startled, but before you could say anything, he pulled back slightly, his tongue darting out to lick his own lower lip. "Sorry," he said, his voice teasing, "you had a bit of sauce there."

You stared at him, your face burning. "There was no sauce," you protested, licking your lips.

He shrugged, his smirk widening as he followed your lips. "Could’ve sworn there was. Ah well, there's none now. You're welcome, by the way."

You shook your head, laughing softly to cover your fluster. Will glanced around the stall, taking in the steam rising from the griddle and the vibrant colours of the surrounding market. "Alright," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "What’s next?"

You and Will wandered through the aisles, the vibrant colours of the stalls and the chatter of vendors creating a lively backdrop. You had just left the bao stand, the taste of the fluffy buns still lingering on your tongue. Will walked beside you, his arm brushing against yours as you navigated the busy aisles. His hand occasionally grazed yours, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, seeing how close he could get without fully taking your hand. Each touch sent a little spark through you, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

"So," he said, glancing down at you with a grin, "what’s next? You’re the food expert here."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’m not an expert. I just like eating."

"Same thing," he replied, his tone teasing. "You’ve got that… vibe. Like you know what’s good."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile. "Alright, Mr. Compliments. Let’s see…"

You scanned the stalls as you walked, the two of you weaving through the crowd. The market was a maze of options—sizzling skewers, steaming dumplings, colourful desserts, and more. Will kept pace beside you, his hands in his pockets, but sometimes, he’d bump your shoulder or let his fingers brush against yours, sending little jolts of warmth through you. It was like he couldn’t help himself, and honestly, neither could you.

"Remember that time we tried to make bao buns at home?" he asked suddenly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "Don’t remind me. That was a disaster."

"Disaster?" he repeated, laughing. "Mate, we set off the smoke alarm. Twice."

"Yeah, because someone thought it was a good idea to crank the oven up to max," you shot back, grinning.

"Hey, I was following your instructions!"

"You were not!"

The two of you laughed, the memory of flour-covered counters and charred buns still fresh in your minds. Will nudged you with his elbow, his grin widening. "We should try it again sometime. Third time’s the charm, yeah?"

"Only if you promise not to touch the oven," you said, raising an eyebrow.

"Deal," he replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. His fingers brushed against yours as he lowered them, and you felt the warmth of his touch linger even after he pulled away. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the noise of the market seemed to fade into the background. There was something in his gaze—something soft and unguarded—that made your heart skip a beat.

As you continued walking, the smell of grilled meat caught your attention. You glanced toward a stall selling skewers—yakitori, grilled prawns, and lamb kebabs. The skewers were glistening with a sticky glaze, the aroma irresistible.

"Skewers?" you asked, nodding toward the stall.

Will followed your gaze, his eyes lighting up. "Skewers it is."

You approached the stall, the vendor busy flipping skewers on a hot grill. Will leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as he studied the options. "Can we try one of each?" you asked, turning to Will.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Greedy today, aren’t we?" He teased, but he was already pulling out his wallet and handing over the cash. His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the tray, and you felt a little shiver run down your spine.

The vendor handed you a paper tray with the skewers, the smell of charred meat and sweet marinade making your mouth water. Will watched as you picked up the lamb skewer, taking the first bite.

The rich, slightly gamey flavour of the lamb skewer hit your tongue, and you wrinkled your nose, clearly not a fan. You glanced at Will, who was already watching you with that amused glint in his eyes, like he’d been waiting for your reaction.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed. "Not your thing, huh?"

You shook your head, handing the skewer to him. "Here, you can have it."

He took it without hesitation, biting into it as he kept his gaze on your face. "What’s wrong with it?" he asked, mouth full, his voice muffled but still teasing.

You shrugged, already reaching for the yakitori. "Just not my thing. Too… gamey."

Will chuckled, still chewing. "You’re just using me as a human bin, aren’t you?"

You grinned, taking a bite of the yakitori. The tender chicken, glazed with a sweet soy sauce, was perfect—juicy, flavourful, and exactly what you’d been craving. "Pretty much," you said, your mouth half-full. "But hey, you don’t seem to mind."

He finished the lamb skewer in a few quick bites, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb in a way that was unfairly distracting. "I don’t," he said, his tone light but his eyes lingering on you a beat too long. "But don’t think I won’t remember this next time you’re eyeing my fries."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Noted."

He reached for the grilled prawn next, holding it out to you. "Your turn."

You took a bite, the smoky flavour of the prawn hitting your tongue. It wasn’t bad—grilled to perfection with a hint of chilli and garlic—but it wasn’t your favourite either. You gently pushed the skewer back toward him. "Here, you can have this one too," you said, laughing.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression playful. "Are you sure? These look banging."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’m sure," you said, though a small part of you wondered if he’d noticed how your pulse quickened when his fingers brushed yours. You took another bite of the yakitori, the savoury flavour grounding you. "I’m sticking with this."

He shrugged, taking a bite of the prawn. His eyes lit up as he chewed. "Alright, you’re missing out. This is delicious."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’ll take your word for it."

Will reached for the yakitori, taking a small bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Okay, you’re right," he said, his voice warm and a little teasing. "This is superb."

You grinned, holding out the skewer to him. "I know, right? Want more?"

He shook his head, pushing it back toward you with a soft smile. "Nah, that one’s yours. I’ve got the prawns."

You smiled, taking another bite of the yakitori as Will glanced around the skewer stall, taking in the sizzling grill and the vibrant display of meats. His eyes lingered on the vendor flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames from the grill casting a warm glow on his face. For a moment, you just watched him—the way his lips curved into a small smile, the way his shoulders relaxed as he leaned casually against the stall. He looked… happy. Content. And it made your chest feel impossibly warm.

"Right," he said, turning back to you with a grin. "What’s next? Drinks?"

You nodded, finishing the last bite of yakitori and tossing the skewer into a nearby bin. "Drinks sound perfect. But only if you’re paying."

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you felt his hand brush against yours again as he stepped closer. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you said, grinning up at him. "And you love it."

He didn’t deny it, just shook his head with that same soft smile as he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. "C’mon, then," he said, tugging you gently toward the next stall. "Let’s find something sweet to wash all this down."

As you wandered further into the market, you spotted a stand selling bubble tea. Visual samples of colourful drinks were lined up in tall plastic cups, the boba pearls glistening like little jewels at the bottom. You pulled Will over, studying the menu, your fingers still loosely intertwined with his. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, absentminded gesture that made your stomach flutter.

After a moment, you pointed at the Thai iced tea and the classic milk tea with boba.

Will raised an eyebrow, his smirk playful. "Two drinks? Greedy, aren’t we?"

You smirked back, already reaching for your wallet, but he beat you to it, pulling out his own with a wink. "My treat," he said, handing over the cash before you could protest.

The vendor handed you the drinks, and you immediately took a sip of the Thai iced tea. It was sweet and creamy, the perfect balance of flavours. The rich, spiced tea blended perfectly with the condensed milk, and you couldn’t help but hum in approval, your eyes meeting his, Will was watching you his expression soft and amused.

"That good, huh?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, holding out the drink to him. "Your turn."

He took a sip, his eyes widening as the flavours hit his tongue. "Wow," he said, his tone genuinely surprised. "That’s… incredible. Not too sweet."

You laughed, taking the drink back. "Told you."

Next, he reached for the milk tea, taking a cautious sip. The chewy boba pearls rolled into his mouth as he chewed, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Okay, this is amazing too. How do you always know what’s good?"

You grinned, taking a sip of the milk tea yourself. The chewy boba was a pleasant surprise, and you couldn’t help but smile. "It’s a gift," you said, your tone teasing.

Will noticed your reaction, holding out his hand for the milk tea. "Let me try that again."

You handed it to him, and he took another sip, his eyes lighting up as he savoured it. "Yeah, no, this is definitely a winner. You’ve got impeccable taste."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I know."

Then he reached for the Thai iced tea again, taking a longer sip this time. His face lit up even more, a look of pure delight crossing his features. "Okay, wait, this one might be even better. How is that possible?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Of course you like the one I wanted. Typical."

Will grinned, holding the Thai iced tea out of your reach. "Finders keepers."

"Oi!" you protested, trying to grab it back.

He held it high above his head, laughing as you jumped to reach it. "You’re such a child," you said, though you couldn’t stop smiling.

Will finally relented, handing the drink back to you with a smirk. "Alright, alright. You can have it. But only because you’re cute when you pout."

You rolled your eyes, taking the Thai iced tea and taking another sip. Will glanced around the drink stall, taking in the colourful display of drinks, but his hand never left yours. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you couldn’t help but notice how warm and solid his grip felt.

"Right," he said, turning back to you with a grin. "What’s next? Dessert?"

You nodded, "Dessert sounds perfect."

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and you felt it vibrate through your chest. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"Yep," you said, grinning up at him. "And you love it."

He didn’t deny it, just shook his head with that same soft smile as he tugged you gently toward the next stall. The market lights flickered on as the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. The air was cooler now, but you barely noticed, too focused on the warmth of his hand in yours and the way his shoulder brushed against yours as you walked.

The dessert stall was a colourful explosion of sweets—mochi, taiyaki, and towering soft serve cones in flavours like matcha, black sesame, and hojicha. You pointed at the matcha soft serve, the vibrant green ice cream swirling into a perfect peak, its colour so vivid it almost glowed under the soft lights of the stall. The earthy aroma of matcha wafted toward you, mingling with the sweet scent of condensed milk. "Can we get one of those?" you asked, turning to Will with a hopeful smile.

Will glanced at the cone, then back at you, his expression softening as he took in the way your eyes lit up. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached for his wallet, his fingers brushing against yours as he pulled it out. You couldn’t help but notice the way his lips curved into a small, private smile.

"If it makes you smile like that, of course," he said, his voice low and warm, like the first sip of tea on a cold morning. He handed over the cash to the vendor, his movements unhurried, as if he were savouring the moment as much as you were.

You and Will moved away from the stall, weaving through the bustling crowd until you found a quieter spot near the edge of the market. It wasn’t much—just a small alcove between two stalls, sheltered from the main flow of foot traffic—but it felt like your own little haven.

Will leaned casually against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours as you stood side by side. The hum of the market was still there, but it felt distant now, like background noise to the quiet moment you were sharing. You held the cone between you, the coolness of the ice cream a sharp contrast to the warmth of his body so close to yours.

"Alright, let’s see if this lives up to the hype," you said, leaning in and gently wrapping your lips around the creamy peak, sucking lightly to pull a bite of the cold, velvety ice cream into your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the soft serve like a whisper of spring—earthy, sweet, and impossibly smooth. The bitterness of the matcha balanced perfectly with the creamy sweetness, and you couldn’t help but let out a small, contented hum.

When you opened your eyes, you caught Will staring at you, his gaze lingering on your lips for a second too long. There was something in his expression—something soft and unguarded—that made your stomach flip.

"Your turn," you said, holding the cone out to him, pretending not to notice the faint flush creeping up your neck.

He blinked, snapping out of whatever thought had momentarily distracted him, and took the cone from you. But instead of taking a bite, he held it carefully in one hand, his eyes never leaving yours. The soft serve was starting to melt slightly, a tiny drip sliding down the side of the cone, but Will didn’t seem to care.

Before you could say anything, he stepped closer, his free hand sliding around your waist to pull you in. "I think I’d rather taste it this way," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

And then he kissed you.

His lips were warm and insistent, capturing yours in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. You could feel the cool sweetness of the matcha still lingering on your lips, and Will seemed determined to savour every bit of it. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he tilted your head just slightly, deepening the kiss.

At first, his tongue brushed against yours tentatively, a slow, teasing exploration that sent shivers down your spine. But then, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer, the kiss grew more insistent, more passionate. His tongue swept against yours, warm and searching, as if he were trying to memorise the taste of you mixed with the earthy sweetness of the matcha. You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, the fabric of his jumper soft under your fingertips. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, quickening just like yours.

The world around you seemed to fade away—the low chatter of the market, the sizzle of food on grills, the faint hum of music from a nearby stall. All that mattered was the way his lips moved against yours, the way his breath mingled with yours, the way his body pressed close, solid and reassuring.

When he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His blue eyes were dark, his pupils wide and blown with want, his gaze heavy with something that made your stomach flip. It wasn’t just unspoken—it was hunger, pure and undeniable. The way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered at that moment, sent a shiver down your spine.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice rough and a little unsteady, as if he were struggling to keep himself in check. "Definitely starting to see the appeal."

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, where a faint trace of matcha still lingered, and you could feel the slight tremor in his hand. It was as if he were holding himself back, but just barely. The air between you felt charged, electric, and you could see the conflict in his eyes—the way he wanted to kiss you again, to pull you closer, to lose himself in you completely.

"Will," you started, your voice soft, but he shook his head, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips.

"Don’t," he said, his voice low. "If you say my name like that, I’m not going to be able to stop."

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as you stared up at him. There was no mistaking the desire in his eyes, the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, like he was already imagining kissing you a second time. He wanted you—wanted you in a way that was almost overwhelming, and it was written all over his face.

But instead of giving in, he stepped back slightly, his hand sliding from your waist. He glanced down at the cone, as if grounding himself, and let out a soft laugh. "Guess I got a little distracted," he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burnt with that same intensity.

"Just a little," you said, teasing, though your voice was a little breathless. You couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed around the cone, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you again. Before he could say anything, you reached out and gently took the cone from his hand, your fingers brushing against his in the process. The contact sent a little spark through you, and you saw his eyes darken as he watched you.

"Careful," you said, your tone light but your gaze holding his. "You’re going to drop it if you keep getting distracted."

He let out a soft laugh, though it sounded a little strained, and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, you’re not exactly helping," he said. His eyes dropped to your lips again, and you could see the way he was struggling to keep himself in check.

You took a small bite of the ice cream, the cool sweetness a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. Will watched you, his gaze intense, and you couldn’t help but tease him a little. "Want a taste?" you asked, holding the cone out to him, your tone innocent but your eyes playful.

He shook his head, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I already had my taste," he said, his voice dropping lower. "And it’s going to be a problem if I have another."

Your face flushed, but you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. Will stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the cone. "But since you’re offering…" he said, his tone teasing as he took a small peice, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in the way he looked at you, something raw and unguarded, that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks burn.

He handed the cone back to you with a smirk, his arm still wrapped around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. "Next time, though," he said, his tone playful but his eyes soft with something deeper, "I’m picking the flavour."

"Deal," you said, leaning into him, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the cool evening air. You took another bite of the ice cream, the earthy sweetness of the matcha mingling with the lingering taste of him on your lips. The market buzzed around you, but it felt distant, like the two of you were in your own little world.

Will’s thumb brushed lightly over your hip, his touch sending a shiver through you even through the layers of your clothes. "You know," he said, his voice low and warm, "I think this might be the best date we’ve ever had."

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. "Yeah," you agreed softly. "It’s pretty perfect."

He chuckled, the sound rich and full, and you felt it vibrate through your chest. "Glad you think so," he said, his tone light but his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Because I’m not done yet."

"Oh?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your voice was a little breathless.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Nope. Not even close."

Your face flushed, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. "You’re horrible." you said, though the way your heart raced betrayed how much his words affected you.

Will grinned, pulling you closer as you continued walking through the market. The lights twinkled above, casting a warm glow over the stalls, and the scent of spices and sweets filled the air. His hand never left yours, his fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As you strolled, the sounds of the market fading into the background, you couldn’t help but think that moments like this—simple, sweet, and shared with him—were your favourite kind. Will’s hand in yours, his laughter in your ears, and the promise of more ahead made everything feel just a little bit magical.

😮‍💨 damn. I got carried away with this one… Was that kiss realistic? I've never kissed anyone that wasn't a peck, so I just guessed at what it would be like. Was that okay? Do people have any pointers for writing reasonable make out sessions? 🤭But anyways… I hope people enjoy!

[wendichester]

is it okay if I request a sam x reader where sam is secretly in love with you but reader is dating dean and music and personality wise reader is a lot more like sam?

₊˚⊹ ᰔ happier,

summary. maybe you've picked the wrong brother. sam thinks so.

pairing. unrequited lover!sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester

wordcount. 662

notes. this honestly broke my heart a little. i am not okay ˙◠˙

The bunker’s library is dimly lit, the warm glow of a desk lamp casting shadows across Sam’s face as he flips through an old book. The faint sound of your favorite song hums from the kitchen, where Dean is cooking—or attempting to. Sam knows you must have convinced him to play it.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in, but he knows it’s you. Your scent—something faintly floral and sweet—fills the room before you even say a word. You’re always here, hanging around Dean, but it’s Sam you seem to click with when it comes to conversation, music, and shared interests. You’re like him, and it’s something he tries to bury deep down.

“Hey, Sammy,” you say, plopping down in the chair across from him with a grin.

Sam’s heart skips a beat at the nickname you’ve claimed just for him. Dean calls him “Sammy” too, but it’s different when it’s you. When it’s you, it’s softer, sweeter, like you’re letting him into a part of your world you don’t share with Dean.

“What are you working on?” you ask, tilting your head and leaning forward, your elbows on the table. Your loose flannel—Sam’s flannel, lent to you during a cold night in the Impala—is unbuttoned over a tank top, your tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves.

“Just researching,” he says, his voice carefully neutral as he slides the book toward you. “Possible lore on the hunt.”

You nod, eyes scanning the page. You’re so focused, biting your lip like you always do when you’re concentrating. It’s one of the many little things Sam has noticed about you, the small quirks that make you who you are, that make him fall a little more every day.

“You’ve got that look,” you tease, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“What look?” he asks, his voice slightly defensive.

“The ‘I’m overthinking everything and carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders’ look,” you say with a smirk.

Sam chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Guess it’s hard to hide.”

You reach across the table, your hand brushing his briefly as you slide the book back toward him. His skin burns at the contact, and he hates himself for the way his heart aches.

Dean strolls into the room then, plates of food in hand. “Dinner’s ready,” he announces, setting a plate in front of you. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, and Sam forces himself to look away.

“Thanks, babe,” you say, smiling up at Dean. Your eyes light up when you’re with him, and Sam can’t blame Dean for falling for you. He just wishes he’d had the chance first.

As the three of you eat, you and Sam inevitably end up in your usual rhythm—talking about books, dissecting song lyrics, and trading inside jokes Dean doesn’t quite get. Dean doesn’t seem to mind; he’s used to it by now, but Sam wonders if he notices how much easier it is for you to talk to him than to Dean.

Later that night, when the bunker is quiet and Sam is alone in his room, he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

You’re with Dean, and Sam knows better than to get in the way. Dean’s his brother, his blood, and he’d never betray him like that. But the way you fit so easily into Sam’s world, the way you laugh at his dry humor and share his taste in music—it feels like the universe is mocking him.

He pulls out his journal, the one no one knows about, and writes down a single thought before closing it and setting it aside:

“She would be so much happier with me.”

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair. Loving you from afar is torture, but it’s a pain he’ll endure if it means seeing you happy, even if it’s not with him.

For now, that will have to be enough.

⋆.˚ ★— read part 2

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze

[angels-hideaway]

Left astray

Sevika x fem!reader

cw: homelessness, implied off page parental abuse, alcohol, sort of suicidal thoughts? Reader is underweight and trying to gain more, so if weight is a sensitive subject steer clear!

PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF AND AVOID IF ANYTHING IS TRIGGERING❤️

This was it. You were dying. You probably should feel sad, vengeful, or desperate to cling to life, but you just didn’t. At least dying would remove you from the miserable existence that is life.

Homeless, starving, and dirty, you’ve just been rotting away on the streets of Zaun. Even in your final moments, you can’t even look up at the sky for some comfort. You only see smog, neon, and more desolate buildings.

You can’t help but grin. This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. As you finally close your eyes, something or someone interrupts your pitiful death. “Hey. You alright?” You open your eyes. Someone is looming over your cadaverous form, and they squat down next to you.

“I have water if you want.” It’s a woman. She looks stern, but there’s a hint of concern in her face. “I want to die.” Is all you mutter out. She sighs, digs in her pocket, and takes out a cigarette. After lighting it, she sits down next to you. “I get it. I used to think I did too. Watching my home, and the people who live here get trapped in situations like yours..”

“I’m not looking for sympathy.” You say dryly. “That’s fine… But It’s not..I can’t just walk away knowing you’ll be dead by tomorrow.” You cautiously peek at her. “Why? I don’t know you. And I’m sure you don’t go around saving every homeless nobody.” She takes a drag. “You’re right. I don’t… but maybe I should. Its them I’m fighting for anyways..”

Fighting for? What is this lady talking about?…You brush it off and speak again. “what are you gonna do with me?” “Hold still…” Before you can even comprehend it, She lifts you up and starts walking. You’re too weak to even protest, and let the rhythm of her footsteps lull you to sleep.

  🎀🐇╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗🐇🎀

You wake up on a tattered looking couch covered by a soft blanket. Something’s strange. You’re wearing a large t-shirt, your skin is clean, and your hair is damp. Have you been bathed? You’re still nearly skin and bones, but you feel a lot better. The apartment you’re in smells of smoke and stale air. Like whoever lives in it doesn’t live in it too often.

There’s a small paper on a coffee table in front of you. It has writing on it, and looks like it was left for you to read. Bold of the author to assume you had enough of an education to read. You did, but only because of your mother. She hated you now. Being reminded of her only caused more pain, so you avoided anything related to her. That included reading.

Nevertheless, you pick up the note and read

Hey, whatever your name is. I don’t mind you crashing at my place since you seem pretty harmless. I’m Sevika, and yes I did give you a bath, no, I didn’t do anything to you. I couldn’t have you smelling like shit and laying all over my stuff. Eat whatever you want, stay out of my closet, and I’ll be back by evening. I’ll know if you fucked around with anything.

Sevika’s handwriting is surprisingly pretty for her reputation around here. In your delirious state, you hadn’t realized that it was her you were talking to. Silco’s guard dog, the Scary Lady, or Murder Machine. You heard all of those less than favorable names referring to her.

But here you were, in her shirt, sleeping on her couch, and being invited to stay till you picked yourself up. What had caused such a random change in her character? Unless she’s just a nice woman and everyone else has her all wrong, this is pretty uncharacteristic. Maybe you looked so pathetic she pitied you.

That evening came fast. The door opening and slamming shut made you freeze mid fridge-raid. “You’re up…” Is all Sevika says as she strides over to you. With a half eaten apple in your hand, you can’t find any words for her. “Not talking anymore? That’s fine. Can I at least know your name?” Your name feels strange and unfamiliar coming from your lips. You haven’t said it in ages. When your priority is just to survive, names aren’t really important.

“Alright. If you want, I can order you something when I pick up my takeout.” She’s giving you dinner now too? You nod eagerly before you even notice. Your stomach growls obnoxiously. “Sorry…” you mutter. She doesn’t reply, and just goes to sit on the couch.

Dinner is awkward. You’re sitting across from her, while trying not to wolf down the greasy, delicious, fat filled burger in front of you. Sevika is wearing reading glasses while combing through an array of documents. Every so often, her eyes look over you just to see what you’re doing.

Once you’ve fed yourself enough to slow down, you try and break the silence. “So uhm…why are you doing this? You’re not exactly known around for being charitable…” Sevika lifts her gaze and takes off her reading glasses. She’s not looking in your direction when she responds. “I guess I just…you…reminded me of someone. Someone from a long time ago.”

What kind of response is that? “And the whole reason I do what I do is to help people like you.” She has a voice that grounds you. There’s no feeling uncertain around such a confident woman. “But don’t go getting any ideas. This doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want.” You’re still confused. Why you? Why today?

That night, you’re sleeping on the couch. Sevika is confidently sleeping in her bed, snoring like a freight train. She knows you wouldn’t dare try anything, given her reputation for breaking limbs. When sleep finally comes, your dreams turn to nightmares. Violent nightmares calling you back to your past. Normally, shivering in a cardboard box would keep them at bay.

You see your mother on that day. screaming at you with enraged purple eyes, trembling, with purple scars crawling all over her body. It took everything from you. Your life, your mother, your home…You wake up in a cold sweat, crying out and wiping tears from your face. Everything’s spinning and you let out a weak whimper. Suddenly, there’s a hand on your back, rubbing in firm circles.

“You’re alright…not out there in the rain anyways..” It’s Sevika. she’s trying her best to comfort you, but you can tell it’s not something she’s used to doing. You don’t even care. You bury your face in her chest and hug her close, crying and gasping from the awful memory.

Sevika is frozen. she seems unsure of what to do with you. One hand rests on your head, and her bionic arm finds your back. “Not so blunt now…Sorry. Too soon.” She remarks. You center yourself, and pull back from her feeling a little embarrassed. “Sorry I woke you…” “ S’alright.”

She sits there with you on the couch until you fall back asleep…

🎀🐇 ╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗🐇🎀

It’s been one week since you first arrived at Sevika’s apartment. You’ve gained a little weight back, but the nightmares still terrorize you. Sevika’s picked up on the way you flinch when startled, or how uncomfortable you get when she smokes weed or drinks heavily.

It’s clear to her that you have a negative history with substances, so she starts to limit her alcohol when you’re around, and she’ll only smoke on the balcony. You’re worried that you’re being a burden to her. One night, you see her smoking on the balcony, and step outside with her.

She doesn’t say anything, but raises an eyebrow as her way of asking: “What’s up?” You lean your elbows on the railing. “You know… you don’t have to change your lifestyle for me. Letting me just be here even though I’m a stranger is enough.” Sevika takes a drag. “Here in the undercity, it’s important that we stick together. You needed help, so I decided to help you. I’m not going to pry into your damage, but if cutting back on my bad habits makes you more comfortable, I’m fine with that.” She smiles, and faces you. “Besides, having a pretty girl for a roommate ain’t so bad, bunny rabbit.”

You can’t even focus on the fact that she just called you pretty. “Bunny rabbit?” She chuckles. “You’re skittish as hell. M’scared you’ll just faint from shock one of these days.” She’s not wrong about that. You’re used to always needing to be on high alert. Every sound could mean danger.

You only feel more guilty. “Sorry…” your voice cracks embarrassingly. Sevika’s smile drops and she looks over at you. “Oh- I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings... No use feeling bad about it. Let’s just work on getting better, m’kay?” She presses her cigarette to the railing to out it, and puts one hand on your shoulder, leading you back inside. “Let’s go to bed, it’s late.”

As time goes by, you start to bond with Sevika. She’ll come home, tell you all about her day, eat dinner with you, and talk until you fall asleep. The nightmares ease too. If you do have one, she’s right there to tell you that everything’s okay.

One afternoon, Sevika gets back early with a shopping bag. You get up off of the couch to greet her. “Sevika? What’s that?” She smirks, and pulls out a pretty dress with spaghetti straps. “Since you came along, I haven’t been to the Last Drop in a while. So, I thought you might wanna come with.” You take the dress from her and admire it. “Sevika… it’s so pretty! But I don’t know… I haven’t been to a bar.” She puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “You’ll be fine with me. Trust me. As long as everybody knows you’re with me, you’re safe.”

So, you decide to go with her. When you were getting dressed, Sevika spotted you looking at yourself nervously in the mirror. “Hey… is it too much? I didn’t really know what you’d like…” you turn to her. “No it’s pretty! I’m just… not used to this.” Sevika goes into her closet and comes back, draping a leather jacket over your shoulders. “You can have this for tonight if it makes you more comfortable.”

You feel your face heat up. “…thank you.” She smiles, and pats your shoulder. “No problem bunny rabbit.” The whole walk to the Last Drop, Sevika keeps you close. She glares at anyone who even looks in your direction, and yells threats back at cat-callers. When you finally reach the place, she opens the door for you. “Ladies first.” You smile. “You’re a lady too y’know.” She rolls her eyes playfully.

You weren’t sure what to expect at the bar. Sitting next to Sevika while she throws snide comments at the other card players definitely wasn’t it. She’s winning big time though. Laughing and squeezing your shoulder every time she sweeps another pile of chips her way.

Around an hour later, Sevika is definitely tipsy, but her instincts are sharp as ever. For some reason, more people keep coming to play against her even though she can’t stop winning. This next game looks especially tough. For a moment, you think it’s finally over before she reveals her winning deck. Her opponents jaw drops. Sevika lets out a booming laugh and just pulls you onto her lap like you’re the prize.

“Thought I was in trouble there, didn’t chya, cutie?” She laughs again while you register being seated on her muscular thigh. The other players mutter curses and storm off. “Wasn’t that fun? You didn’t drink any though.” Her large hand caresses your waist.

“I don’t like alcohol.” You respond curtly. Sevika lets you get off of her before she grabs the large sack of her winnings. “Let’s head home. Yeah? sweet thing?” You’re surprised at how casual she’s being with you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the Sevika you’ve heard about isn’t nice and flirty in the slightest.

When you finally arrive at the apartment, Sevika crashes on the couch instantly. She seems like the type to be able to hold her alcohol, but she was being a little excessive today. After all that, you’re tired too. You take off the dress she gave you and slip on one of her shirts. Climbing back onto the couch, you snuggle against her human arm, and let sleep take you.

You wake up slowly. the sunshine is filtering in the room through the window. Sevika’s arm is draped over you like a blanket. It’s heavy. Given your current state, you’re not strong enough to move it. Not that you’d want to anyways. Sevika is usually up earlier than you. Perhaps she’s got a hangover.

With a big yawn, Sevika finally wakes up. She doesn’t say anything to you, despite the rather intimate sleeping arrangement. She stands up, ruffles your hair, and goes to turn on her coffee machine. “You could’ve taken the bed.” She finally says from across the apartment.

“I…didn’t want to.” Is all you can think to say. Sevika walks towards the couch again and plops down next to you. “Why not?” Her gray eyes stare unyielding into your own. “…just didn’t wanna.” You dont want to admit that you wanted to be on the couch with her. You haven’t known each other for very long. Not long enough to cuddling like you’d known her for years. “Okay, bunny rabbit..”

🎀🐇 ╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗🐇🎀

Sevika was already kind to you before, but now she’s treating you like a pet. When she goes to the store, you know she’s coming back with something for you. Whether it’s a candy, new clothes, or just something she thinks you’d like.

She starts to touch you more too. She says it’s to “help you get used to it.” But every time she brushes her hand against your cheek or holds you by your waist, your heart flutters.

You’ve been living with Sevika for over a month now. Standing on her scale, you wait nervously to see your weight. Healthy. Still some way to go, but you’re not skin and bone anymore. Your cheeks look a little fuller, your skin a little more smooth, and there’s a glimmer again in your eyes.

The door slams shut, making you nearly jump out of your skin. It’s Sevika, but she doesn’t call for you like normal. Curiously, you exit the bathroom to see what’s happened. She’s standing with her hands pressed against he counter, hackles raised, and her muscles are tensed. “Sev?” You approach her and place a hand on her shoulder blade.

“Hey bunny…” She finally acknowledges you. She speaks to you in a soft, low voice that makes your breath catch in your throat. “Sorry if I scared ya…Know how you are. Today was just…Fuck, bunny. I don’t feel like chatting about it.” She pulls you in a hug. It’s sudden, but not unwelcome.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to…” you say to her. She sighs, goes over to the couch, and takes off her arm. “Come’ere.” You join her on the couch and she pulls you closer with her right arm. “You know…things have been better round’ere since you showed up.” “Really?” She smiles at you, running her human hand through your hair. “Yeah… if I didn’t have you, I’d probably be de-stressing in some other awful way.” You raise an eyebrow at the vague response. “Like what?”

A teasing grin forms on her face. “I dunno.. maybe by beating up some thugs or even a couple sessions at Babette’s.” Your face contorts into one of shocked surprise. Sevika notices and chuckles. “Yeah I get around, bunny.”

There was no doubt in your mind that it wasn’t true. After all, she’s an incredibly handsome woman. Broad muscular shoulders, and a face that could make your heart melt and your blood run cold depending on its expression. You sometimes fantasized that there could be something more with her, but demeaning thoughts told you that you were only a charity case for her.

She couldn’t truly care about you, because nobody ever did. Sevika notices the sudden shift in your expression. “Hey bunny… you alright?” “Yeah…I’m fine.” She senses you don’t want to be questioned further, and leaves back into her seat. “If you need something, I’m here. Kay?”

You nod, pushing away the thoughts of your yearning, and self hatred, opting to enjoy some peace for the first time in a while.

[landojpg04]

Scrubs and Squadrons//B.Floyd

Chapter Four

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Doctor!Reader (Fiesty Nickname/Female and She/her pronouns)

Warnings: Language, blood/injury, hospital terminology, medical setting, mild flirtation, mutual pining.

Masterlist

Bob didn’t take her silence personally.

He worked well with it—understood it. She wasn’t one for constant texts or small talk, and that was fine with him. When she needed to rest, he let her. When she needed quiet, he offered it. Still, he found subtle ways to show he was thinking of her.

Dropping off lunch when she mentioned cravings in passing. Leaving sticky notes with her lunch, he brought her. Once, when she was too exhausted to drive home, he drove and picked her up and dropped her back off for her next shift.

Natasha caught him once or twice, watching from afar with a smirk. She and Jack did the same thing—synchronized in their own chaotic way. “You two are soft,” she’d tease. 

But the brunches—those became their rhythm.

Every Sunday morning after shifts, tired and bleary-eyed, they'd meet. Diner booths. Sometimes, just his truck with coffee and muffins. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t have to be. It was something theirs.

And yet… they hadn’t kissed. Not yet.

There were moments, sure—close calls. Her hand brushing his, her head resting on his shoulder for just a second longer than usual. The look in her eyes sometimes, like she was thinking about it. But it always stopped just short.

Maybe they were both waiting for the right time.

Then, in the middle of his break between flights, Bob saw her name pop up on his screen.

I have this week off.

He blinked at the message, then read it again. A slow smile pulled at his lips.

She worked herself to the bone. A week off wasn’t just rare—it was nearly impossible. This wasn’t just seven days of free time. It was seven days on the same page, same pace.

A full week without shift changes, without crashing into each other’s schedules.

No excuses.

No missed chances.

He stared at the screen a second longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

This was it. If there was ever a chance to finally close the gap between them…it was now.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

“Looks like someone found out about Jack’s treat,” Natasha teased, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

Bob looked up from his phone, meeting her gaze. “Next week is Fourth of July—probably their busiest week. Jack just wants to make sure his best doctor is well rested.”

Natasha gave him a wink over her shoulder and walked away.

Soon after, Bradley came up, a teasing grin on his face. “So, how have things been with Doctor Feisty?”

Bob glanced up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Honestly? It’s like she’s brought me out of my shell.”

Bradley chuckled. “I’ve noticed. You deserve that.”

Just then, Mickey jumped in with a grin. “Looks like Bob finally leaves the house and sees the sunshine whenever she’s around.”

Bob rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep the indoors interesting.”

Bradley laughed. “Yeah, well, glad to see you’re finally getting some fresh air.”

Later that evening, just as Bob was finishing up on base, his phone lit up. Her name. He answered without hesitation.

“Hey, Doctor Feisty.”

Her voice came through the line, warm but touched with tiredness. “Hey, Lieutenant Cowboy.”

There was a pause, comfortable but charged.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone soft, “about how I want to spend my next week… a few days to just… unplug. No chaos, no overhead pages. Just me, the sun, maybe something sweet in the oven.”

Bob leaned against the hood of his truck, eyes drifting to the horizon. “Sounds like a well-earned break.”

She hummed. “It’s more than earned. I want to bake, maybe finally finish that novel that’s been mocking me from my nightstand… and honestly? I want a beach day. I want sand, and salt in the air, and to remember what fresh air feels like.”

His grip on the phone tightened slightly, but his voice stayed calm. Steady. “That sounds… perfect.”

There was another pause, one laced with quiet nerves.

“And I was hoping… maybe you'd spend some of it with me.”

Bob didn’t miss a beat. “I’d like that,” he said simply—measured, sure. But inside, the words echoed like a firework going off in his chest.

She laughed lightly, the kind of sound that made him feel like he was standing in sunshine. “You always sound so calm. Like nothing ever shakes you.”

“I’m good at playing it cool,” he said, a hint of mischief beneath the calm. “But you’d be surprised.”

“I just pulled in,” she said with a smile in her voice. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

His answer was soft, grounded, certain. “Always, Doctor.”

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

Y/N had decided to take an extra day off, calling in for some well-earned PTO. She wanted to get her nails done, freshen up her hair, and—most importantly—see the sun without a hospital ceiling looming overhead.

It was Thursday afternoon when she decided to do something bold.

Today was her turn to bring in food and snacks for the squadron.

So there she stood on the base she once called her playground as a child—the same sprawling grounds where she’d run wild, chasing after her father’s footsteps and hiding behind corners, fearless and free.

But today, instead of racing around, she held a plate of cookies and a small bag with Bob’s name carefully written on it.

Her fingers trembled just a bit as she pulled out her phone and texted Bradley: What time does morning training wrap up?

She wanted to be at the cafeteria just at the right time, ready to surprise Bob with a simple gesture that spoke louder than words.

At exactly 11:47, Bob walked in—hair slightly tousled from the helmet, cheeks pink from the morning heat, and sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He moved toward the food line out of habit, not expecting anything unusual.

Then he saw her.

She stood just beside the counter, arms loosely crossed, pretending not to look like she was watching for him. Her smile bloomed the moment their eyes met—soft and a little proud.

Bob blinked. Then stopped completely. “…Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she said, voice light. “You look warm.”

He chuckled. “That’s one word for it.”

His eyes dropped to the cookies on the tray, then to the small bag in her hands. When she held it out, he took it like it was something delicate, something sacred. Inside, a thermos of his favorite soup and a little container of lemon shortbread, and a turkey sandwich—he’d once mentioned, offhandedly, that his mom used to make some just like them.

She remembered.

Before he could say anything, the squadron trickled in—sweaty, loud, hungry.

“Yo, what is this?” Mickey was the first to spot the cookies, already halfway to the tray.

“Who brought these?” Hangman asked, reaching for one.

“Doctor Feisty, reporting for snack duty,” Natasha said with a grin.

Bradley took a bite and groaned dramatically. “Okay, this is unfair. These are obscenely good.”

“I mean,” Mickey added, mouth full, “who knew Bob could bag the hot doctor and get us free snacks?”

The room broke into laughter, but Bob just shook his head, cheeks tinged red, lips twitching with a smile.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. “Bagged, huh?”

Bob looked around at the group, then met her gaze, voice low and honest. “I’ll take the cookies,” he said, “but I’m not sharing your treats next time.”

A beat of silence. Then, hollers and whistles erupted around them.

“Damn, Bob!” Bradley clapped a hand over his heart. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Bob just gave a little shrug, eyes never leaving hers. “I’m full of surprises.”

Y/N laughed, stepping closer to hand him the thermos. Her fingers brushed his—intentional this time.

“I’m starting to see that,” she murmured.

Bob smiled, a quiet kind of brightness behind it. “I really liked this surprise.”

“Good,” she said, her voice soft. “There’s more where that came from.”

[fushiguruuzzzz]

𑁤 Cherry Waves

Megumi Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

Words — 2.3k

Cw — rockstar au, yes the title is a Deftones reference, mentions of alcohol (no use this time! Yay!), written in one sitting, not proofread, sort of situationship to lovers????? I’m not even entirely sure that’s a secret between them ig, chappel roan reference, lmk if there’s anything I missed !! All you long for is Megumi Fushiguro to love you when he’s sober. All he longs for is to have the courage to show you he does. These two dreams tend to clash when paired with insecurities and desperate secrecy, and the question is: will you be able to work it out?

a/n — this was fun to write tbh, I love rockstar Megumi baddddd and just wanted to get something out for him I fear. This won the poll so Gojo fic out some other time, in the meantime I’ll probably post Kilby girl prologue :3

Being famous had its perks, but with them came many downsides. One that you would consider the most pesky was the lack of privacy. Every secret you kept so precisely hidden was uncovered somehow, sometimes ones you weren’t even aware of yourself. Sometimes it was an old video of you found in the darkest depths of the internet, sometimes it was a song you hadn’t released yet. In your case, it was… whatever you had going on with your bandmate. Honestly you weren’t sure what exactly it was, neither was Megumi. But there was something, far too many glances that lasted just a beat too long, the graze of your fingers as you passed him his guitar that seemed to set you alight. The drunken kisses you’d share in the back of a crowded club that you were both eager to leave, the ones you wouldn’t talk about when the morning came. You’d share glances over the breakfast table that grew less awkward and more knowing as your rituals continued, the weeks going by and your dynamic never changing.

Sometimes months would go by without those moments of solidarity when your desperation bubbled over and came out in bursts. He never dared to voice it, but it killed Megumi. He loathed the way your touch would be all consuming, and then just a few hours later he’d been imprisoned by the lack of label between you, your distance heart wrenching. You were everything, and then nothing. You came in waves, not steady like the rise and set of the sun, but like the tide, unpredictable and heavy and undeniably passionate. You despised it equally as much, but you had the self control to contain it. Until you were on stage and consumed by nothing but the music, the songs you wrote about him, that is.

Your fingers were nimble and quick as they strummed the guitar, your lips ghosting over the rough wire of the microphone with every lyric. The rhythm reverberated through you, your heart beating in sync with the unsteady beat of the drums. This was it. This was life. Life was impending hearing loss and callouses on your fingers, it was red lights and the screaming of a crowd and the lingering knowledge that who might be the love (or loss) of your life is just a few pages behind you. The energy emitting from your body picked up his own every instance without fail, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as soon as he walked into the room. Paranoia? Maybe. Soul ties? Also maybe. That secret wasn’t yours to know, as it seemed.

Everything felt blurry, your consciousness only ever going up to half capacity on nights like this. You figured that if you were fully present, you couldn’t handle it all. It was a defence mechanism you’d made for yourself to handle the constant attention, the haunting awareness that you were being constantly perceived. Every shift of your eyes as they wandered to your black haired bass player was recorded, forever on the wide world of the internet. So you had to be careful, tread lightly at all times. They were everywhere, it seemed. You never really got used to it. This was your job, though, you signed up for this. You knew that, so you put up with it. You just wished you could love in peace.

You panted, chest heaving as you took in gasps of warm air. Not all that refreshing, but oxygen nonetheless. The last instrumentals of the final song faded out, the only noise being the dull chattering of the crowd. You felt their eyes on you, but one stuck out far more than any others. Him. His emerald eyes in the dim light were piercing, having such a deep effect over you even when they were out of sight. You were suddenly all too aware of the sweat sticking to your forehead, and the faint aftertaste of coffee on your tongue. You’d chugged three cups beforehand, figuring you’d need it to get through the night. Maybe it should’ve been four.

“Thank you so much for coming out, folks! That’s all for tonight!” you said, putting on an overly cheery tone that you were sure reeked of bullshit. With that the crowd began filtering out, the rows becoming gradually more empty with every passing minute. You, Megumi, and the others fell into the same old routine of packing up your instruments and getting ready to head out.

When the equipment was away and you were officially free to go for the night, Nobara spoke up. “Anyone in the mood to get drunk off of shitty overpriced vodka and hope we don’t get cancelled?”

As you walked to your respective vehicle, you couldn’t help but laugh. Your eyes flickered to Megumi for but a brief moment, but long enough for him to catch it. Something lied in the air between you then, the acceptance of what would happen the moment the alcohol took its toll and you were left alone. But as you met the sight of his raw eyes shining with what almost looked like expectation, something shifted. You didn’t want to be something that he only loved when he was drunk, you didn’t want to be the girl that was always just there when he needed you. The smile slowly faded from your face, being replaced by something softer; something more fake.

“I’m spent, I’m not gonna join tonight. Call me, yeah?” you asked, giving a small nod to the group as you lowered yourself into your drivers seat. Megumi’s eyes followed you inch by inch, taking in every subtle shift of your face, the soft crease between your brows as you put the keys into the ignition and made an eager escape. You were doing this on purpose, you were avoiding him. Why? Was he not enough, was he too much? Was this the end of whatever sick dance of passion and indifference that you were playing? But Megumi wasn’t stupid, in fact, he was an academically gifted boy. He knew that if he loved you when he was sober, you’d be willing to get drunk. It made something in his chest clench unfamiliarly, and he hated it. Hated the way you made him feel, hated the way he made you feel. He just… hated.

He hated the way the sound of your engine faded as you drive further and further from him, because it felt like you were leaving him in more ways than one.

Your fingers strummed impatiently against the steering wheel, though you weren’t sure what you were waiting for. You had nothing to wait for, no one. Maybe you were waiting for the moment your screen would light up with Megumi’s name, that he’d magically overcome whatever emotional blockage that was keeping him from you and learn to love you properly. You shook your head. Be realistic, now. It’s Megumi.

Pulling into the darkened parking lot of your apartment building felt like the nail in the coffin, the break in the inconsistent pattern you’d been following for so long. And as you stepped into your apartment, the falls felt oddly empty. It was missing something that had never been there in the first place, something that seemed to fit so perfectly, yet you didn’t. Maybe that was the case. Megumi fit into your life, he fit whatever love you held for him, but did you fit him? Maybe not.

You felt exhausted, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. You tossed and turned uncomfortably in your sheets for what felt like hours before sighing in defeat and trotting out to your kitchen.

As you sat on your counter, tentatively sipping an icy cup of water, your mind wandered. You wondered what type of lover Megumi was. When the lights were soft, would his touch be, too? Would the scrambled urgency of his lips against yours turn into something calmer when he knew you had the time? His rough hands calloused by his passion, would they hold you as delicately as they cupped your face in his moments of weakness, as you escaped from the crushing reality of your status? Your heart ached at the realization that you didn’t know, and you weren’t sure you’d ever get the chance to. Maybe someone else would, someone that fit.

A firm knock on your door pierced through the walls more than it should have. There was an empty sort of quiet that followed, as if the person waiting to enter didn’t have the courage to fill it. You slid from the cold marble, socked feet hitting the ground as you placed your glass next to you. There was barely the sound of shuffling as you padded to the door, not bothering to look through the peephole in your sleepy haze.

When you swung the door open, he looked nearly as shocked as you did. Of course Megumi had been the one to come here in the first place, but he half expected you to be asleep or just ignore him entirely.

“Megumi?”

He blinked at you for a moment, eyes unfocused. “…hey,” he said, voice hoarse as if he was the one who’d spent the night singing.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out?” you asked, standing dumbfounded in the doorway.

He paused. “You didn’t go.”

That statement meant a lot more than its words. You didn’t go, so he didn’t. He wanted to see you, to be with you.

“Can I come in?”

You looked between you, suddenly remembering that he was standing outside in the hallway whilst you were keeping him there. You shuffled to the side, motioning for him to enter. He did, no words shared in the silent moment. You fell into step, taking the few strides across the apartment and plopping down on the plush cushions of your couch.

You stared down at your fidgeting hands, debating whether you’d break the silence or not. He was the one who showed up here, so shouldn’t it have been him? But deep down you knew Megumi, he wasn’t one to speak unless spoken to. Not usually.

“What are you doing here?” you asked again, voice softer. He lifted his head, the black spikes of hair shifting with every movement. He looked particularly disheveled, like he’d spent his night tossing and turning as you had. “You and I both know why I’m here.”

With a soft exhale through your nose, you nodded. The thing was, you didn’t know the exact reason for his appearance. Was it to put an end to whatever you had, or the opposite? Because whether you liked it or not, it wasn’t casual. You didn’t know if they ever had been.

“What am I doing wrong?” you blurted. Your eyes widened, surprised by your own words. Damn your mouth and its tendency to act before your brain could, because it put you in situations like this.

His expression mirrored yours, confusion and something else, something more unrecognizable. “What?” he said, throat suddenly dry. “I never said you did anything wrong. You… you didn’t.”

That only puzzled you further. If you’d done nothing wrong, what was it that kept him from you? Perhaps your actions weren’t wrong, just you were. “I don’t understand,” you whispered, unable to find the correct words.

“Why would you think you’re doing something wrong?” he pushed.

“Because you don’t like me.”

A silence fell over you, and Megumi felt more flustered than he had in his life. “I’ve given you some pretty clear implications denying that,” he murmured.

“But you don’t like me when you’re sober, Megumi.”

A heavy silence fell over you, swirling with unspoken words and the quiet desperation for closure. You just needed him to confirm it, you couldn’t spend any longer clinging to the last bits of drunken hope residing in you.

“I’m sober now.”

“Yeah, well-“ you were about to shoot back, but then he was tilting your chin up and pressing his lips to yours. Your lips were captured in his as he inhaled every bit of you, the taste of your lips overtaking his senses. Cherry. He swallowed every claim and rebuttal rolling off of your tongue, rough hands cupping your face as he kissed you with a mission to prove himself. Megumi had never been one for words, opting to show his intentions through action. He sure got his point across.

He panted into your mouth, brow bone ghosting over yours as his eyes drank you in, deep and curious. Not an ounce of alcohol swirled in his bloodstream, but he felt completely drunk off of you. Maybe he couldn’t ever love you when he was sober, for your every breath intoxicated him, drew him in.

Your mind was spinning, wondering if you were in the midst of a fever dream. Megumi tasted of nothing but espresso and mint, no traces of vodka bleeding into your mouth as it interlocked his. He was completely present, and he was kissing you. He held you with a delicacy you weren’t aware he was capable of, hands that were once in tense fists now cradling you like fine china.

“Are you saying…” you breathed.

“Yeah. Now shut up, will you?”

You huffed, but it did little to hide the eagerness in your actions as you took him by the collar and pulled him in once again.

As you felt his lips on yours, you realized that they were perfect; like puzzle pieces reunited. The thing about puzzle pieces is that it was never one fitting in the other, it was that they fit together, reciprocated. They were two parts of a whole, equal, mutually connected. Megumi filled the empty walls of your home, and you filled his heart, and that felt pretty damn equal to you.

Tags: @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniya @anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @lizbix

[iridescentparkers]

tease ˚ ༘ ౨ৎ⋆｡˚ a small pre-500 gift. enjoy ;) (18+)

warnings - swearing, smut. a little sub!peter!

HE SLUMPED his long, lanky body against his bedroom floor, pressing his back against his bookshelf. Peter's glasses slid down the bump on his nose, his mouth gaping slightly open as he stared at his textbook. You sat against his headboard, watching the rhythm of his chest move as he studied what was in front of him.

His tongue touched the roof of his mouth as he turned the page, the little movements sending warmth to your body. 

Weren't you supposed to be studying? Fuck. He’s not trying to tease you. That’s what made it so much hotter. Just his steady breaths alone turned you on.

As he adjusted in his seated position, leaving his eyes on the page, you felt sweat drip down your side. 

You huffed, beginning to fan yourself with the book, “It’s really hot in here.” 

Peter looked up to you from his book. 

“Extremely,” he said, looking around, before meeting your eyes. “Once I finish this chapter, I’ll go downstairs and try to fix the A/C.” 

“Thanks,” you smiled. 

“Anything for you,” he cheesed, glancing up at you before moving his eyes back to his book. 

You quickly moved your eyes between him and your material. As some minutes passed, you sat bored, aimlessly moving your fingers around the page as your brain thought about watching him come undone on his bedroom floor. 

“God, it is warm here,” he stated. “Maybe this will make it less stuffy.” 

With the window open, he removed his shirt, putting both his arms on the windowpane. As he looked down at the cars and streets beneath him, he gripped the wood, his veins growing prominent on his skin.

“Wonder if anyone else has a broken A/C too?” He asked. He moved back to his previous position, grabbing the book next to him to continue studying.

Was he doing it on purpose? You watched him take a breath as he continued studying to then looking at the band of his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. They were loose around his body. His hand that was not holding the book sat on the upper part of his thigh. 

Peter put his head back as he huffed, closing his eyes and peering them back open before looking back to you, “Something wrong?”

Your expression is neutral, hiding how gobsmacked you are by him right now. “No.”

“Really? You keep looking at me. You sure?”

You paused right before moving to the floor and sitting against his bed. “It’s just- Peter you look really…good, right now.”

“Now? I’m a sweaty mess.”

“A hot, sweaty mess.”

He smiled, leaning over to place a peck on your lips before going back to his position, “What do you need from me right now?”

“Whatever you want,” you smiled, crawling over between his legs before walking your fingertips to the head of his cock. “Let me make you feel good.”

He nodded, letting you guide his hand to the inside of his pants, you both feeling him inside of his sweatpants. You both glide his hand up and down, feeling his hips twitch beneath him. You both continue the motion, Peter biting down on his lip as he hunches forward, moaning into your ear. 

You felt him get hard beneath you, Peter moaning louder as you ran your thumb briefly along his tip.

"You're so hard already, and just for me baby?" You teased, rubbing a gentle hand along his chest as your foreheads touch, his breathing picking up more speed. "You're doing so good."

You moved his hand away as you slid down his pants from his hips and slowed the gentle strokes on his dick. “Can I tell you something?”

He whimpered his sentence, dropping his jaw as he moved closer to your ear as you nodded, “I saw you watching, and I took off my shirt to make you flustered.”

“Really?" You asked, slowly moving your hands from him. "Since you didn’t want to behave, should I stop?”

“No,” he shuddered. “Please, you’re just so cute when you get like that!"

You cut your lids, placing a hand on his cheek, cupping his chin as you pull his ear closer to your lips.  “Don’t let it happen again.” 

You whisper in his ear, gritting as you look down at him before placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Yes- Yes, ma’am.”

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act I : Chapter two

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: None

Your eyes glanced at Lottie's hands, that were fidgeting with her pencil. Her eyes darted across the page as she read through French conjugations. Her hair was up in a ponytail today, and she had on a navy sweater.

You slid your palm down your thigh, hoping it’d stop the slight shake and rhythm it had developed since sitting across from the girl. She was gorgeous. And all you could think about all day was this first study date. And how you were sooo out of your depth with this.

You almost wish you were exaggerating. But you knew it when Lottie asked you about the homework, and instead of answering, your brain short-circuited, and you had to hit her with the “Oh my god, what homework?”

Luckily, Lottie blinked and giggled at your question. You felt mortified. You were sure-no convinced she was going to see right through you. See you as the lost cause, no future, sexually confused, sellout idiot that you were. She was going to hate your guts and never speak to you again.

“What are you thinking about?” Lottie asks.

Your face is pulled up from your book, and you are met with her soft, big, brown eyes. They held this gentle curiosity…maybe even mischief. “You look too serious to be thinking about French Conjugations.” She deduces by motioning to your face with her pencil.

You let a chuckle slip from your lips and then let your hand comb through your head out of habit. You felt caught, and you couldn’t tell her exactly what you were thinking.

“Uh, honestly?” You gauge.

“Honesty is definitely preferred. Especially if our French conjugating is gonna work.” Lottie teases with a smile.

Her lighthearted comment makes you relax a bit. You give her an appreciative smile. “I honestly feel so lost. I picked French because I didn't want to take Spanish, and I think it sounds hot, but what the hell does any of this mean? I can barely speak English! I feel in over my head…you know? I would drop this class if it weren’t for the fact that I needed it.”

Lottie purses her lips into a thin line. Her eyebrows raised in a thoughtful concern. You think she would tell you to drop the class. Switch to Spanish. You are convinced. She doesn't miss a beat when she huffs, “Well, of course you’re in over your head. It’s the second week of learning a new language. It takes time and patience to get good at anything, especially this.”

She grabs your hand, and you swear electricity shoots up your spine. “But we’re in this together. We’ll ace this class, and then I’ll fly us to France to talk to all the sexy French people.” She says with humor lacing her tone.

You laugh, a deep belly laugh, for the first time in what feels like weeks. The image of you two in France, sipping espresso in tiny cafés and flirting with strangers in half-broken French, is ridiculous… and yet somehow, when Lottie says it, it feels like something that she might actually make happen.

“You’re gonna fly us to France, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow, your confidence returning just a little. “Big talk for someone who still needs their mom to sign their field trip slips.”

Lottie gasps in mock offense, clutching her chest like she’s been personally wounded. “Excuse you! I’ll have you know I am very independent. I only need her signature because legally I’m underage.”

You snort. “Wow. Such freedom.”

She grins. “I contain multitudes.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

She taps her pencil against her lips, considering. “I’m a straight-A student. I make an excellent grilled cheese. I know all the lyrics to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. And-” she leans in, fake whispering like she’s letting you in on a national secret, “-I’ve been told my French accent is very sexy.”

“Oh yeah?” You tilt your head. “Let’s hear it.”

Lottie straightens up like she’s preparing to perform at the Paris Opera, then purrs out in her very best seductive attempt: “Je voudrais… un pain au chocolat.”

You blink. “Did you just order a croissant like it’s a pickup line?”

“Excuse you,” she scoffs, her tone laced in sarcasm and humor. “That was flawless. And it worked, didn’t it?”

You shake your head no, trying not to smile, but you’re already smiling. She sees it.

“See?” she says triumphantly. “Told you. We’re gonna crush this class.”

You glance down at your notes, then back at her.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think we might.” And at the very least, you knew you were going to have a lot of fun.

The next day after French class, the hallway was its usual circus, slamming lockers, friends shrieking over weekend plans, the distant blare of a late bell, but at Lottie’s locker, it felt oddly peaceful.

You leaned against the beige metal beside her, watching Lottie dig through her mess of a backpack with unbothered chaos.

“I’m just saying,” you said, “if Ms. Nelisse docks me one more participation point for not pronouncing the R in ‘Paris,’ I might defect to Spanish.”

“You? In Señor Martin’s class?” Lottie gasped. “You’d combust by week two. He makes people salsa for extra credit.”

You snorted. “Please. I can barely survive conjugation. You think I’m rhythmically equipped for salsa?”

“Oh yeah? I bet your rhythm is on Lisa Frank levels of chaos,” Lottie teased, finally yanking out her binder. “Like, sparkly dolphins breakdancing across a rainbow.”

You shook your head, grinning. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means you’re a disaster,” Lottie said, closing her locker with a soft thud, “but at least you’re aesthetically on point.”

You bumped her playfully. You wiggle your eyebrows. “Say that again, but slower.”

Lottie raised a brow, a laugh playing on her lips. “Trying to flirt and fail French? Bold.”

You were still smiling when Jackie appeared.

“There you are,” Jackie said, all calm command and bouncy curls, like she’d stepped out of a tiger bop magazine. “Smalls, come on. I got you a meeting with Tindale before lunch. She wants to see your portfolio.”

You blinked in confusion. “Wait, what?”

“Yearbook and the school’s newspaper,” Jackie said, as if that explained everything. “You said you were interested. I pulled some strings. She’s down to give you a shot.”

You straightened, touched despite yourself. You knew Jackie had talked about making this happen. But the fact that she actually did made your heart stutter, and warmth spread within you. “Wow. Thanks.”

Jackie shrugged, casually. “You’ve got an eye. She’ll see it.”

Lottie watched the exchange quietly, still hugging her binder. After a beat, you glanced at Lottie. “Wait, you should come with.”

Lottie’s brow lifted. “Me?”

“Yeah,” You said with a small smile. “I don’t know, I feel like I need moral support. What if she asks me about aperture settings and I panic and say… Lisa Frank?”

Lottie’s laugh was immediate. “I’d say that’s a bold, creative direction.”

You grinned. “And you’d back me up.”

“Obviously.”

Jackie’s lips curved, something between polite and confused. “Ms. Tindale’s not that intimidating.”

You looked at her, appreciative but firm. “Still wouldn’t mind backup.”

Jackie nodded, but the way she turned and walked ahead said plenty. You chose not to think too deeply about it. You and Lottie trailed behind, shoulder to shoulder, with Lottie whispering, “Okay, but if she does ask you about aperture, I’m absolutely saying it’s French for glitter dolphin exposure.”

You laughed, low and quiet, the kind of laugh that didn’t feel so rare anymore. The mixed media room buzzed with quiet energy, the scratch of pens against layout paper, the hum of ancient computers rendering low-res thumbnails. You lingered just inside the door, scanning the cluttered space like it might bite. Lottie was beside you, slightly behind, fiddling with her backpack strap.

Jackie, of course, owned the room before she even stepped into it. “Ms. Tindale?” Jackie’s voice was sweet but assertive, a practiced tone, warm like honey but efficient like a well-placed corner kick. “I have someone for you.”

Ms. Tindale looked up from her cluttered desk, blinking through her oversized glasses.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Jackie announced, her hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. “She just transferred. She’s brilliant with a camera. Film-trained. Eye for light. I’d bet the whole soccer season on her.”

Your stomach flipped at her words, heat flushing to your face. “Wow, no pressure or anything,” you muttered, half under her breath.

Ms. Tindale raised a brow and stood, motioning you forward. “Let’s see your portfolio.”

You shuffled out a small stack of prints from her bag, a few black and whites, one of Shauna mid-stride on the field, the ball blurred in motion beneath her cleat.

“Oh, this is sharp,” Ms. Tindale said, holding it up. “Did you shoot this?”

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip.

Jackie beamed. “And she can talk sports. She played when we were younger. She knows the rhythms — how to track it.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. You played one summer of YMCA, everyone gets a trophy, soccer. You were ten, and you only did it because Jackie begged you to do it with her. Your single claim to fame was that you kicked the ball from one end to almost half the field. Which keep in mind you fell face first and ate dirt as soon as the kick was made. Jackie caught your eye like she could read your mind and simply grinned.

“She’s not wrong,” Ms. Tindale said. “We could use a strong lens on fall sports.”

Lottie stood to the side, watching all of it unfold. She let her eyes move from your nervous fidgeting to the way Jackie leaned closer than she needed to, how she took over the room for you, not just beside you. Lottie knew that tone, that effort. Seen it play out enough times to know it. Jackie only turned it on for people she really cared about… or people she wanted to keep close.

Lottie crossed her arms loosely and leaned against a nearby table. Her gaze didn’t waver, but her mind spun quietly behind it. Jackie turned suddenly toward Lottie. “You know she’s a Hello Kitty girl, right?”

You groaned. “Please don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. Her folders used to be covered in tiny pink bows and pastel everything. You should’ve seen her pencil case that year—”

“Okay, I was twelve!”

“It had ears,” Jackie added, grinning. “Actual little cat ears.”

Lottie let a soft laugh escape. “Honestly? I respect the commitment to the aesthetic.”

You rolled her eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed the amusement you couldn’t hide. “Remind me why I agreed to come here with you again?”

“Because I know talent when I see it,” Jackie said. Then, turning back to Ms. Tindale. “She’s your girl. Let her shoot for the team.”

Ms. Tindale looked you over once more, nodding. “Welcome to the mixed media club, Y/N. You're officially our sports photographer.”

You had to stop the gasp that wanted to escape your lips. You blinked. “Wait, really?”

Lottie watched her expression shift, surprised, a little shy, but undeniably happy. She tucked that moment away like a secret.

Jackie grinned and bumped your shoulder. “Told you I had your back.”

You smiled, then glanced over at Lottie, a look quick, curious, like you hadn’t forgotten she was there. “You staying?” you asked.

Lottie shrugged one shoulder, trying to keep it casual. “I mean, someone besides Jackie's gotta keep you from misspelling ‘soccer’.”

You look from Lottie to Jackie, a smile widening on your lips. "Oh?" You ask, trying to hold back a laugh. Jackie shook her head and laughed. “That was one time.”

As the others gathered around to look at your work, Lottie found herself lingering by the bulletin board, pretending to read old headlines. She wasn’t part of the club, not really, but she could've been the way she was watching. And learning. Like a journalist.

There was something between you and Jackie. Not just history. Not just friendship. It wasn’t fully formed yet, but it was something. And Lottie wasn’t sure if that made her jealous… or just suddenly, deeply interested.

[fluerchive]

⭑｡𖦹°‧ㅤㅤBLUE ㅤ— ㅤㅤjay x f.reader ㅤㅤ wc 0.7k

where your boyfriend always knows a way to make your worries melt away

★ — hurt/comfort angst estd. relation fluff academic pressure :( jay being the sweetest bf

you looked at all the books and notes spread out in front of you, and the painfully waiting cursor of the blank document, as if urging you to start the assignment. but it felt… all too much, too overwhelming for you to even think about your pending works.

and before you knew it, a tear dropped down on the page, staining your messy handwriting. good here it goes again. you were tired of feeling tensed and worried about your studies.

your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapid knocks and the bell. you turned to look at the time, 11pm. who could it even be at this late hour?

sighing, you got up to open the door before the person could ring the bell once more, only to be met with a very familiar face.

‘jay...? what are you doing here at this hour?’ you asked, unsure of how to approach the fact that your boyfriend was in front of your apartment at near midnight. the said boy who was standing quite tensed your doorstep, visibly frowned upon seeing you

‘yn, i was worried tensed! why did you not pick up my calls? you even left me on seen?! do you know how stressful that was? wait, are you…’ he trailed, finally getting a proper look at your face.

oh shit you had forgotten that your tears hadn't dried yet and he was met with a red and blotchy face.

jay quickly stepped into the apartment, his hands going up to your face, softly holding them.

‘what… happened?’ his voice was laced with concern. ‘uh, you were worried, for me?’ you refused to meet his eyes.

‘of course, babe! you are usually so active and present but all i have got are just a few messages and no calls, i thought you were sick!’ and his eyes held this earnest look, that almost made you want to start sobbing again.

as if sensing your emotions, he engulfed you in a hug and before you knew it, you were in his arms, tearing up yet again, your forehead resting on his shoulder.

‘i… i– i am sick, of this work and study and…’ you spoke through your tears, ‘jay, i don't think i can do this anymore, i feel so-so tired, it's…’ you could feel him rub small soothing circles on your back, nodding to your every word and never interrupting you, as if you could vent out all the frustration and pressure you had building in you.

the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, slowly calmed you down as you broke apart to look up at him, with a small pout. you mumbled a small sorry.

jay broke out in a smile, caressing your cheek, ‘it's okay, yn, you've been so strong and dedicated. it’s okay to let yourself catch a break, hm? it's okay to feel sad and unmotivated sometimes, right? because i know you can do it.’

‘b-but i’ ‘ssh, i trust you.’ and maybe that was all you needed to hear.

you could feel a small smile form on your face, heart a lot lighter than it had been a few minutes ago. and you couldn't thank jay enough for it.

‘okayyy now let's see how my girlfriend is doing, secluding herself like a saint, tell me the last time you had eaten, yn?’ he questioned you in a serious tone. you knew how serious he could get if you neglected your meals.

‘eh, yesterday i think…?’ ‘i'm pretty sure it was ramen.’ you guiltily nodded.

jay shook his head, not surprised but placed a firm kiss on your forehead. ‘ok, so, you, my girl, are going to sit down and relax while i make you something healthy and edible to eat. okay?’ he said, more like commanded.

you blushed at his actions before following him to the kitchen.

it was a common routine you both had fallen into, jay would cook, you would, well… try to assist.

and even though, jay protested about you helping him, you shrugged him off, just happy to spend time with your boyfriend.

‘and from now on, yn, please don't ghost me like this. i'm always here for you, love’, whispered close to your ears, pressing another small kiss to your cheek.

NOTES. hi i wrote this down cuz of the high level of procrastination and unproductivity ive been having despite my finals starting in a month :( it isnt the best feeling and i for anyone else who's going through the same, don't worry we'll get through this rough patch together >< tysm for reading this

div cttoㅤㅤ work belong to @ rainytapestry do not steal