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hardlyinteresting · 1 month ago

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love's never lost when perspective is earned

Jake Seresin x Reader

“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.” Peter Pan, J.M Barrie

Peter by Taylor Swift S P E Y S I D E by Bon Iver Big Black Car by Gregory Alan Isakov Smother by Daughter

Warnings: The reader is referred to as she/her, with no physical description, Parentification of eldest siblings, bad first date experience, gets a little spicy towards the end (no smut), (please let me know if you'd like me to tag anything please)

This one shot was written for @arcane-vagabond Fairy Tale writing challenge with the inspiration of Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, and the use of the word Scintilla.

Word Count: 6.7K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

She remembers that summer wrapped in a golden glow. Back when hot, humid days were spent bathed in the sun’s vivid orange. Their fingers were sticky with jammy pie fillings, stolen from his mama’s kitchen. Cold water from the garden hose always tasted better after a day of chasing themselves around the properties.

What do you want to be when you grow up?” Jake had asked her as they lay in the grass behind his house.

“I haven't decided yet,” she told him matter of factly, “But, I’m gonna have a nice house, and I’m going to go far away from here”.

“I'm gonna be a pilot,” Jake said, “And I’ll fly wherever I want”.

She knew he was entirely serious, even as a little boy he’d never failed to accomplish what he put his mind to. The gentle waiver is his voice as his statement teetered around the edges of his true feelings and fears. “I wish I could fly away,” She told him, watching the clouds shift across the bright blue sky above them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you with me,” Jake promised. And back then, a promise had felt like enough.

They were seven; her shins were always bruised from climbing trees and tackling the Seresin boy during their daily football scrambles; his cheeks were always sunburnt, and he lied every time his mother asked if he had put sunscreen on. In many ways, she thinks those two months running after Jake Seresin had been both the peak and the plateau of her childhood wonder.

September meant returning to school; finishing supper and homework before being allowed out to play, and with the autumnal turn crept in early sunsets and earlier curfews. In November, her stepdad moved in, and her mother told her to expect a little brother in the spring. The days of scraped knees and make-believe slipped away before the winter frost set in.

When he thinks about her now, he pictures her laughing like she did when they were ten years old. He misses the days when she had the freedom to forget herself.

At ten years old Jake Seresin couldn’t understand why his friend wasn’t as fun as she used to be. He watched from his kitchen window as she sat on the front porch with her little brother, settling next to her and feeding him from tiny jars of baby food. At a distance, it'd be easy to mistake her for any other girl playing make-believe with one of her dolls. But Jackson wasn't a doll, he was fussy and gassy, and he needed to be fed and put down for his naps before she had a moment of spare time to spend with her pal Jake.

Her little brother had been followed by a new baby girl two years later. Tire marks on the dirt driveway highlighted where her stepfather’s truck should have been most days. Jackson had finally gone down for a nap but Olivia had been teething and her wailing could be heard from a mile away.

“What do you want to do today?” Jake asked her as he made his way up her porch steps to sit next to her on the stoop. “I want to fly away,” she told him.

Without a second thought, he grabbed her hand as he took off running, down the stairs, across the lawn and into the field behind the house. The long grass tickled at their ribs as they ran as fast as possible, their arms outstretched on either side of them.

Circling, and jumping, hooting and hollering they made their way across the flat land with boisterous laughter bubbling from their lips. By the time they stumbled to a stop at the fence line their breath came to them in quiet gasps, their cheeks warmed by the exertion of their activity.

The sound of his pulse fell in time with her carefree giggles as she twirled around mimicking some kind of bird. Had it not been for the physical boundary of the wire fence he thinks they could have kept running forever, the promise of freedom they didn’t yet understand beneath their wings. In that moment he knew he’d chase that feeling for the rest of his life.

At sixteen she felt more like a substitute parent than she did a teenage girl. Her mind and her soul had aged beyond her years and stayed wrapped in a youthful vessel. School had become an escape from the responsibility she felt at home. While Olivia and Jackson clambered onto the school bus excited for first and second grade, she climbed into the passenger seat of Jake Seresin’s restored F-150. Each morning he'd pass her a wrapped sandwich made in his kitchen with his mother's fresh-baked bread. A replacement for the meal he knew she sacrificed to divide the last of the breakfast cereal between her siblings. He filled her with servings of farm butter and homemade jam, or ham and cheese. Their silent dialogue in brushing their knuckles during the exchange, as he always chose to ignore how she saved half for her lunch later in the day.

Pulling into the parking lot at school she had been keenly aware of the way the other girls looked at her as she walked hand in hand with Jake; the glares shot her way when he kissed her cheek as they parted ways to head to their classes.

Their jealousy rolled off them in waves, and she heard how they spoke about her in the locker room after gym class. Whispers about his gorgeous green eyes and boyish charm. What could the hottest guy in school possibly want from the strange girl in her secondhand clothes and studious persona? Surely he'd have more fun with a girl who wanted to party.

It was true. In the span of one summer, he'd grown 6 inches, towering over her now. His shoulders broadened. The lanky awkward limbed boy she'd known in her childhood grew stronger and more defined as he learned better how to pull his weight on his family’s farm. His masculine stature and maturity softened only by his flushed cheeks, and childlike grin.

And yes, he snuck beers from his father’s garage fridge and did handstands for ovations at parties hosted by the school football team. An absolute joy to be around. To know Jake Seresin was to love Jake Seresin, but didn't know him the way she did.

They didn't know he was terrified of thunderstorms until he was 12. They weren't there when he split his pants open trying to climb over a fence when they were 9. They had never had the privilege of listening to him read aloud from all his books about aircraft; his 11-year-old fingers tracing the letters as he sounded out the big words, the fear of being held back in 5th grade hanging over his head.

They had never held him as he tore into himself. The golden boy, raised in the shadow of an older brother who hadn’t lived long enough for him to remember; so deeply loved, but not enough to fill the ache in his parent’s hearts.

No one in those school halls would ever be able to tell the difference between his happiest days, and the smirk he plastered on always aiming to be better than what he believed himself to be.

He was so stubborn and far more clever than he ever let himself sound; she scolded him almost daily as he tried to shrug off his homework. “You'll need math and science if you ever want to fly a jet,” she would remind him, accepting the glass of sweet tea he offered her. Their textbooks and notes would lay spread across his kitchen table while Jackson and Olivia occupied themselves with blank paper and wax crayons, offering Jake scribbled drawings of airplanes, “wow! That's amazing, thank you,” he'd say every time.

She hadn't asked Jake to worm his way into her soul, and yet even now she knows some part of her soul belongs deeply to him. Their games of tag had slowly become time spent talking about their parents and watching the clouds; their hands intertwined between them as they listened to each other's dreams and desires for the future.

And on the nights when his life just didn’t seem to fit quite right, he’d tap on her window, willing her to join him in the bed of his truck a couple of miles from their homes; and she’d remind him who he was. The bright boy with a heart of gold, and a laugh that reminded her of everything good in the world. She’d rest her head on his chest, his fingertips tracing aimless shapes across her back, as she convinced him he was more than a collection of hand-me-down dreams.

His eighteenth birthday crept up to him before passing in a blur of candlelight and buttercream icing. His mother cried in the kitchen when she excused herself to ‘take care of the dishes’. His father clapped him on the shoulder. Their two sets of hazel-green eyes met as the older man offered a nod. The action itself did not speak to a relationship of closeness or specific affection, but still, it managed to convey a message of approval, apology, and love too difficult to speak.

She had knocked on the door shortly after dinner had been cleared from the table, the remaining half of his birthday cake being ushered into the refrigerator under a cling wrap film. Shivering in the night air, her hands clutched a package of brown paper with a shiny blue ribbon, his name scribbled in her careful writing. Quickly, he’d pulled her into the house greeting her with a kiss as deeply passionate as she deserved. “Happy birthday,” she’d whispered, pressing the gift she’d brought into his hands. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he’d told her. “I wanted to,” she insisted. With steady hands, he unwrapped the box. His question was silent, but the shocked expression on his face must’ve conveyed enough for her to be able to answer him anyway. “It’s the one from the antique store,” she grinned, “Mister Abbot let me pay for it in instalments”. He tipped the brass nautical compass into the palm of his hand, staid in his evaluation of both the physical and emotional weight of the gift. “This is too much,” he spoke after a moment.

Her eyes went wide, her smile dropping. “I love it,” he was immediate in his attempt at reassurance, “but, you’re saving for school. I don’t want you spending your money on me, darlin’”. He tried to pass the compass back to her, a woebegone ponderosity settling in his stomach at the very idea of rejecting any part of her. Insistent, yet patient, she curled her finger over his. The digits were so much smaller than his own, cracked and raw from washing dishes and cleaning tables at the local diner. The painful reminder of how hard she’d been working to climb her way out of her own life. “I want you to keep it. Selfishly,” she said, “I want you to always be able to find your way back to me”. How could he have argued with that?

Politely, she’d popped into the kitchen to see his mama, accepting a Tupperware of cake slices to take home for the kids to enjoy. His father met them at the door as Jake shrugged on his denim jacket. “Where are you kids off to?” he asked out of curiosity more than any concern. “Just going for a drive,” Jake told him, slipping his keys into his pocket. “Don’t let him get you into any trouble, ya hear?” he warned her with a teasing grin, the humour evident in his voice. “Yes sir,” she had agreed easily, knowing Mr Seresin’s penchant for faux sternness in the moments between his genuine stoicism. Seemly satisfied to see her smile grow, he had turned to Jake with an immediate pivot back to his natural sternness, “You make sure you get her home at a reasonable time. It’s a school night”. Jake’s compliance echoed her own, with no room for jest, “Yes sir”.

Parked in their usual spot, at the edge of a cleared field he wrapped layers of blankets around her shoulders, before settling down next to her. Their biggest dreams breathed between them and the night stars. “I love you,” he said. The statement was resolute, and immovable in its honesty. “I love you too, Jake,” she told him. Her words were spoken like a promise she desperately wanted to keep.

“When we graduate, I'll drive us across the country,” he tells her, “I'll buy us a house. You can go to school and I'll fly”.

“It’s a nice dream, baby,” she says.

Their drive home is silent.

She spent her nineteenth birthday sleeping in his childhood bedroom. He hadn't been home in months but the sheet still smelt like him. She scraped her knees climbing up the trellis to his window, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She’d laughed to herself examining the superficial wounds, enjoying the familiar bite of nostalgia. Memories of her childhood long since passed left tears at the corners of her eyes. Near manic laughter faded into a melancholy exhaustion.

Her eyes focused on the small book collection Jake had managed over the years. They had all been perfectly aligned in their homes on his bookshelf; set in alphabetical order by author. His need for structure despite his free spirit had been amusing until it became mildly concerning. Routine, crafted to satisfy the need to stay completely distracted from an overwhelm of feelings he had always been sure he didn’t have the capacity to express. The hope in her heart had always been that he might learn to hone his particular brand of presentiment. He’d always been so rough-and-tumble, so hard to worry after; determined to never let the mask slip as he raced through life with a smile.

1400 miles away she ached to be beside him; so lonely in her knowledge of him. She worked to comfort herself by tracing the titles on the spines of the books he’d left behind. Over and over. Over and over. With blurring vision and an unfocused mind, she slipped into a well-deserved sleep. The sun streamed so gently through the window of Jake’s room. A touch of light tugging her from her slummer had been a welcome change from the jarring wake-up call she had at home. Two siblings who had yet to figure out how to make themselves breakfast without bickering or clattering plates. The smell of fresh coffee and pancake batter wafted up from downstairs.

The bedroom door squeaked as she opened it, and underfoot the floorboards in the old farmhouse creaked, each step down the staircase punctuated with the sonance of more than a hundred years of life. In the Seresin house, the noises reminded her of the generations who had come and gone, it was easy to imagine the lives that had been lived within the walls. Across the yard, the similar shifts and groans of her childhood home echoed like ghostly calls; the whispers warning of a life liable to be wasted if she stuck around.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” Mrs Seresin smiled, setting an extra spot at the kitchen table. His mother had always been the kindest person she’d known. Despite the undisputable reality that her son’s girlfriend had all but broken into her home, she welcomed her with open arms, asking if she wanted blueberries in her pancakes.

The longer they went without mentioning the elephant in the room the easier it became for her to slouch a bit in her seat, appreciating each bite of the breakfast that had been offered to her. Nineteen years of being in rooms out of necessity rather than desire had made it difficult to trust other’s interest in her well-being.

Feeling her shoulders drop in relief left her feeling something like a stray cat brought in to shelter from the storm; glad to accept Mrs Seresin’s kindness, but uneasy all the same. She had grown used to being weary of tenderness and generosity; always waiting to hear the conditions of the beneficence.

Sipping her coffee, Mrs Seresin smiled over the lip of the mug. “If you want to stay a little longer, you could help me go through some of Jake’s old clothes. Some of them would probably fit Jackson now”. Her words reached like an olive branch across the table, and for a moment she understood that perhaps the older woman wasn’t just benevolent for the sake of it, not on this day at least. With her only living child out of the house she had been lonely in her need to mother someone, and glad just for the company as unorthodox as the circumstances may have been. She’d been glad to learn that some glint of selfishness lingered in everyone, and in a strange turn, it only made her trust the woman more.

She hadn't expected a pile of folded sweatshirts to make her cry, and yet in a blink of an eye, she found herself sobbing. A flicker of hurt rushed through her with the realization that some things will always matter more to her than they do to anyone else. Just another piece of clothing to Jake, another part of her task for the day to his mother. But she was holding the world in her hands.

She remembers that sweatshirt well, red and worn out by time, always just a bit too tight in the shoulders, the seams stretching at the sleeves. He was wearing it the night he picked her up from her first date.

Bobby Dunbar had been two years older than her, and had no idea of the meaning of the word ‘no'. She left him alone in the movie theatre after he'd tried to creep a hand up her skirt for the second time. With a quick call from the closest payphone, Jake was on his way to pick her up without questions.

Together, they drove out of town and past their homes the sun dipping down below the seemingly endless horizon. Overhead the stars had begun to make themselves appreciable against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Parked, they lay in the bed of the truck looking up at the sky ahead. He took care to trace the constellations for her, naming them as he went. In the meantime, her fingertips copied the shapes with invisible lines across his chest. The well-loved red sweatshirt was soft beneath her cheek.

He kissed her for the first time that night. Not her first kiss, but the first one that mattered. Jake always had this ability to make her world stop spinning, even if just for a moment. Sitting on the edge of his bed sobbing into the sweater she wanted nothing more than to be near him, to hear him tell her everything was going to work out for them in the end.

“I got my scholarship,” she told Mrs. Seresin, “I'll start in the fall, and I'll be able to live on campus”.

“That's amazing news sweetheart,” her affirmation, so much like her son’s.

“It's a lot farther for Jake to drive. I won't be here to check on Jackson and Olivia. My mo--”

“They'll be alright. It's high time you live your dream, honey”.

At nineteen years old, she struggled to understand that sometimes the beginning feels like the end. A pit growing in her stomach, she clutched the bags of hand-me-down clothes as she headed home. The sky above was dotted with the same stars Jake had taught her about years ago, she stood still for a moment trying to remember the feel of his lips, or the comfort of his hand in hers, but only felt the cool evening breeze.

Twenty-one felt like wearing a costume. Joining the Navy. Getting good grades. Helping on the farm whenever he had an ounce of free time. Being a good son, being a good boyfriend. He was playing dress-up in a life that wasn’t built for him, and yet he found himself so desperate to play the part.

The first few months away had been excruciating. Most nights he chugged Pepto-Bismol before going to bed, hoping that the tearing feeling in his chest was just heartburn, and not just his soul stretching across four states. It had been the longest they’d ever been separated; smashing the previous record of the one week he spent with his aunt and uncle when he was ten.

He won’t blame her for the divide that grew between them, but he knows that the ache in his chest cracked into a chasm sometime after she moved onto her college campus.

The commute to see her was longer, his back was stiff, and his eyes were tired after driving hours, and crisscrossing state lines. The time they spent together was almost exclusively spent sleeping or skipping around their desperate need to return to what they once were, all while refusing to give up their dreams.

Two years into her degree he was exhausted. On base, his bed was assembled for practicality, not for comfort. Hard, uneven mattress and nights spent cold beneath the covers without the warmth of her body tucked against him. His bunkmates all snored, and the hustle and bustle of those still working during his allotted sleeping hours kept his mind alert even as his body dosed. In her dorm room, her duvet was plush and cozy, her pillows smelt like her shampoo, and she snuggled as close to him as physically possible on the nights he managed to make it to her. But her roommate was nosy and made it almost impossible for him to love on his girlfriend. Unable to touch her as freely as he yearned to-- and even worse, unable to speak as freely as he needed to, his feelings threatened to choke him. Lost without the level of communication that had become their life preserver for years, he felt as though he was drowning.

At twenty one he asked his father for his grandmother’s engagement ring. A family heirloom he’d always known he’d propose with one day. He would make good on the promises he made. They would get married and he’d buy them a house-- he had already managed to save quite a bit. It was not a lack of love that broke them, but perhaps an excess of it. A shared desperation to do more, and be better; both of them hell-bent on clawing their way out of the ruts they’d found themselves stuck in. And with so much to prove it had been impossible to climb without letting go of each other.

He was down on one knee when his heart was ripped from his chest. For a moment he felt it was impossible to breathe. His mind was silent, too stunned to think and too confused to speak. She was still shaking her head when he finally found the strength to look up at her again. “No,” she said. “I thought--”

“I’m sorry-- I can’t. I won’t. It’s not fair,” she told him. Certainly not fair, he thought desperate to understand. But when had life ever been fair? “I can’t,” she repeated. He watched, hopeless, as she shrunk in on herself. The bright, brilliant girl he’d spent more than half his life loving shied away from him, hiding behind a shame he couldn’t find a source for.

As he slowly made his way back to his feet, with the ring box shoved back into his coat pocket, she spoke again. “I think it would be better if we spent some time apart”. That he had not been expecting, and the words nearly had him keeling over; a brutal blow that knocked the air from his lungs. He found himself helpless, unable to do anything but nod. All his fight sat on the tip of his tongue, pinched between his teeth, betrayed by his pain, and misunderstanding. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. For anything. For everything. But the words never came out. “I’m sorry,” she wept as she ushered him out of her dorm room.

With one hand, and no force he held the door frame for a moment, one last longing look at the girl he knew he’d love forever. “One day we’ll be enough for each other again”. He hoped that was true.

She carries a spark of regret in her chest, it grows when she thinks of him, and it shrinks when she remembers she freed him too. She thinks now that her denial of Jake Seresin may have been hasty. Fifteen years older, and with more perspective than she had at twenty-one, she thinks their lives could have been different if she had been brave enough to talk things out.

Her fear of stagnation had been her only motivation for so much of her life. His proposal had been on the surface a desperate attempt to cling to a bond they had begun to outgrow. And while his intentions at their core had been pure, getting married would not have saved their relationship. She had only begun to live for herself, and he still didn’t understand that his life was his own. Their marriage would have only served as a new way to masquerade and play pretend; years of running away from the fears that kept them both up at night. He would have grown to resent her inability to live without planning, and she would have hated his unintended absenteeism. Being married would not have kept his side of the bed warm, nor would it have given him any new ability to quell her anxieties.

She still thinks of him often. From her apartment on a clear day her view of the sky seems to span for miles and miles. She pictures him up there, carving through the clouds with the dedication and precision she’s always known he’d be capable of. She imagines him happy, living his dream. She hopes he’s proud of himself, and she prays that he knows that she’s proud of him too.

Sometimes, she lets herself wonder if he ever settled down; offered his grandmother’s ring and his heart on his sleeve to some other lucky girl. She’s tried to move on herself a few times, but never made it close to feeling like she was in love. The last guy had been a year ago now, he was nice enough, handsome, had a good job, and a good sense of humour. On paper he was flawless. He’d take her out for dinner, and walk her to her door. Sometimes he spent the night. He bought her flowers, and held her hand. But on one too many occasions she felt inexplicably lonely sitting next to him. He complained that she wasn’t any fun. She struggled to explain the sense of responsibility she’d never been able to shake. She asked him about his dreams. He never seemed to have any.

And so the hint of any spark that had been there fizzled away into nothing.

She tells herself she’s happier on her own and decides to keep moving forward, ignoring the cracking of her heart. She uncorks a bottle of wine, dancing alone in her kitchen, looking out at the vast evening sky and the setting sun. As much as she enjoys the view from her rental, she’s been in California long enough that it might be worth buying into the housing market. Nothing fancy, but something she can truly call her own. She’s been making good money for a while now, and her siblings have made it through college themselves. Jackson moved to New York with his sights set on being an architect. Olivia moved to Austin and became a nurse. Her mother hasn’t bothered to call in ages. Her shoulders relax without the added pressure of caring for others. For the first time in a very long time, her mind is quiet--it’s finally time to write the last chapters in her own story and stop running.

He keeps an old photograph of her in the inside of his flight suit, right over his heart. He’s living his dream, and he won’t allow himself to forget that she’s the reason why. Driving home from base at night he passes houses much larger than the bungalow he’s been renting. He wonders where she went after she graduated, and what kind of job she has now.

He chooses to picture her happy even at the expense of his feelings; a devoted husband coming to wrap his arms around her while she stirs a pot on the stove. A scintilla of guilt makes itself known as he grows somewhat jealous of this life he's envisioned for her. The truth is that he knows she was right for turning him down. They were too young, too naive, and too frightened. Breaking up with him may have been the first time he had seen her truly put herself first, and in hindsight, he’s glad she did. He knows he’d never have been able to live with himself if he had been what stood in the way of her making her dreams come true. It took him a while to understand the gift she had given him when she sent him away. The freedom to be the man he wanted to be, and not the man anyone else needed him to be.

He’d fucked it up more than once along the way. At work, he had become too brash, too cocky, too full of himself. He put his walls up and wore the self-assured mask he thought people wanted to see. Unwavering confidence, and determination. His return to Top Gun had been a wake-up call. He’d been forced to adapt, to let his guard down and learn how to let people in again. And for the first time since he was a teenager he appreciated the difference between being valued and being important. The realization had come with a sense of belonging and camaraderie that he hadn’t expected but couldn't afford to forget.

In his personal life, he had failed time and time again to form long-term bonds. One-night stands didn’t hurt, but the idea of waking up next to someone left him nauseous. But the truth is he yearns for that connection. He wants to be seen. He wants to be understood. He stopped going home to visit his parents two years ago, the weight of self-placed expectation chewed through him and left him hollow; guilt filled its place.

Last week he stood back straight, with his heart full of pride as he accepted his promotion. The new rank came with a new role, and a new more permanent position. He'd be stationed in San Diego for at least five more years. He called his mother. He booked a flight home for his next break. He started browsing real estate pages. It’s time to stop running.

She’s only made it to a couple of open houses so far but she hasn’t been able to find anything she likes yet. Most of the houses she’s seen are out of her price range. Others have been too modern, some too outdated.

She remembers the Seresin’s kitchen, the buttery yellow walls and linoleum tiles. Their house wasn’t flashy, nor had it been renovated anytime in 1980, but it was cozy. She can remember the smell of Mrs. Seresin’s baking. In her mind's eye, she recalls the feel of the cabinet doors that Mr. Seresin had built himself when they moved in, and his wife’s initials carved into the bottom corner of the cupboard over the sink. In every way possible they had made that ordinary farmhouse a home, and she wants the same for herself now. Like everything in her life, she decided her house has to be perfect. She’ll know it when she sees it.

The house is a two-story craftsman, built circa 1935. The siding is a garish kind of coral colour, faded by the sun, and the trims stand out in a soft vanilla colour, chipped at the edges. She’s driving home from work when she sees the sign for the open house standing proudly on the front lawn. Without a thought she pulls over, throwing the car into park. Inside, it smells like freshly baked cookies-- a real estate trick she’s learned over the last few weeks. It’s easy to imagine a house is your own when it smells so inviting. She's come to expect this, and won't let it blind her.

Her heels click across the hardwood floor, the sound echoing through the empty house. She moves past the stairs into the surprisingly spacious living room. A large window looks out onto the quiet cul-de-sac, and the room sits bathed in the soft glow of the street lights outside. She imagines the room furnished, with soft drapery, a plush sofa, tv hung above the fireplace, and she can imagine herself unwinding here. The dining room is a fair size, and the kitchen has a sliding door that opens up to the backyard. The cabinets are brand new, and the owners have spent time renovating while staying true to the charm of the house. On the countertop, she picks up the real estate agent’s pamphlets about the home, amenities and nearby schools are listed, and she wonders if she might have the chance to raise a family here.

Overhead the sound of steady footsteps, and a pair of heels make their way down the hall and then the stairs. “If you decide to put in an offer, do not hesitate to call, in this market the early bird gets the worm,” a woman speaks. “I appreciate it, thank you,” a man replies in a low southern drawl, “do you mind if I take a look at the backyard before I head out?” “Not at all! Take your time, I’ll be out front just getting my signs if you need anything else”.

He’s barely stepped into the kitchen when he hears his name. “Jake?” a familiar voice wonders, her arms coming immediately to wrap around him. She hits his chest with a thud, but it does move him an inch. Her name is sighed into her hairline as he holds her close. “You made it-- all the way to California,” He smiles, pulling back to get a good look at her. She’s as gorgeous as he remembers, if not more so. Her features have sharpened over time, and he thinks her hair might be darker now, but she’s glowing. Her grin is wide and her shoulders relaxed as she reaches to trace his name and rank on his uniform. “You’re flying, Jake,” she all but whispers. He nods, his eyes softening as his hand comes to rest over hers, his heart racing beneath her palm. “Turns out I’m pretty good at it,” he jokes, and is rewarded with his favourite laugh.

His free hand lowers to rest on her hip and she steps closer, familiarity allows them to skip out on formality. He’s missed this; a shared closeness loud enough for them to speak without saying anything. He knows her like he knows the back of his own hand, and even with years passed between them, he’s able to fill in the gaps. Her clothes are well made, and well fitted. Office wear. Her shoes leave her standing tall, reminding him of senior prom and the time they spent slow dancing. He knows what she’s overcome, and he’s never had any doubt about where she would end up. Clearly successful, and if the way her smile meets her eyes is any indicator, she’s happy too.

In all honesty, she’s not sure who leans in first, but she knows she’s kissing Jake Seresin for the first time in fifteen years. He kisses with hesitation at first but allows himself to give in to a passion grown with time. He’s more skilled than he was the first time they kissed, and she tries her best not to flush with jealousy. His cropped hair is soft where her hand reaches up to hold at the back of his head willing him closer.

One step at a time he backs her across the room until her back meets the wall. With fingers gripping the collar of his shirt she begs him to crowd her space. She swears he’s taller now. His shoulders are broader, his arms far more defined. He’s always been handsome but the boyish charm has been replaced by something far more deadly, and she’s convinced she’d die happy if it was him stealing her breath away.

She melts beneath him. His hand moves across her hip, down to feel the round of her ass, before his grip tightens at the flesh of her thigh, warm in her cute little dress slacks. Neither of them bothers to suppress the moans or sighs that leave them when begins to kiss down his neck. His knee slots between her legs, thudding when it makes contact with the wall, startling them both.

“Careful. You break it you buy it, Jake”.

“I think homeownership will be good for me,” he grins catching his breath.

“Not if I buy it first,” she quips, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she blinks up at him. He groans, his knees weak as her smile grows. “Let’s talk it out over dinner,” He manages his counteroffer.

***

Their house smells like chocolate chip cookies, made from the recipe Jake’s mother passed down. The window in the master bedroom offers a gorgeous view of the San Diego sky. On weekends, she wakes up to the smell of coffee brewing, and Jake sliding back into bed, his hands greedy as he pulls her from her sleep with warm kisses and the promise of breakfast if they manage to make it down the stairs.

The floorboard creaks when he comes home at night, the weight of his day shed at the door. He greets her as if he's been gone for months even when it’s only been a few hours. And he holds as if he’ll never see her again when he returns from a deployment.

The gentle breeze that blows through the open windows of their little home carries away their lingering anxieties, and they allow themselves to soften in each other’s presence.

They lay in the grass in their backyard, paint smeared across their clothes, brows sweaty from a hard day's work. The siding is now a fresh, pale green, the trims glow in a soft white. Above them, the stars shine. The same stars they watched as children, and loved as teens. He watches her, enamoured, as she points to the North Star tracing her way around the night sky, recalling the stories he told her about each constellation. He wonders how many lifetimes are painted in the sky above them, how many lovers have admired the stars as they have.

She pulls him from his thoughts, rolling to settle with her knees at either side of his hips, her left hand resting on his heart. He looks at her as if he’s in awe of her, his wedding band cold on her back as his hand slides underneath her shirt. Leaning down to kiss him she’s certain this is the life she’s always been running towards.

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin #FTWC #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun hangman

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goldsbitch · 9 months ago

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BEEP

First night in a shared apartment with Lando. All is idyllic - until there is an unidentifiable alarm sound, which brings out insecurities buried safely inside under normal circumstances.

fluff, anxiety vibes, one shot

Y/N was a baths type of person. In fact, Lando suspected her being a part-time mermaid. Always in a body of water, if possible. For hours and hours. Many times he had come to her home only to find her sitting in a bathtub of then already cold water on her "home office" hours, with a laptop on her precisely curated set up. He would come to her, chat a little and playfully splash some water into her face, before having her drain the tub and joining her after another set of hot water was in it. Even after that, he could only last about 20 minutes before getting uncomfortable.

He was glad water bills were not life or death for him when they moved together to their first official shared apartment in Monaco. Making it their own was her priority, so a bathtub was an absolute must. Pool nearby as well.

As far as moving houses goes, this was a hectic one. Lando's schedule making it hard for him to participate, so she had to organize it all with the help of movers. Cleaning out two apartments into one. She was few years younger than him and this was the first time she had actually moved on her own, making it a classic test of adulthood. There were few pseudo panic attacks involved during the process. However, the feeling of accomplishment? Being able to prove to herself that she can do it alone was something nobody could ever take from her. Another level of adulthood conquered. But she didn't want Lando to know about this little insecurity of hers - with him having to grow up faster than most of his peers, she sometimes felt like she was lacking behind. Though Lando never made any comment about that, in fact this did not cross his mind at all, until their first proper evening together in their new apartment.

Lando was excited for that evening, but he was proper tired. Physically and mentally drained. Few weeks of constant travel and racing drama had him totally off.

She managed to get most of things ready for his arrival. They hit the bubbly bathtub immediately upon him coming home. Lando was smitten. Coming home, it felt really refreshing after months of "your place or mine?".

It was raw, both of them naked facing each other in the tub, legs entangled, their bodies touching at multiple places. Hot steam coming out of the water filled the room, curling Lando's hair more that usually and the scent of her latest favorite vanilla bath salt gave into the relaxing atmosphere. They casually caressed each other, engaging in a light simple conversation, carefree and intimate.

All of that went out of the window when there was an excruciatingly loud and sharp beep alarm noise suddenly out nowhere.

BEEP

Y/N eyes went wide. Lando knew that look all too well by then. Pure panic. He knew there were few moments he had to stop her spiraling.

"What was that? Did you hear it?" she asked, boring her eyes in his for answers he did not have.

He smiled and tried to pass on some relaxing energy onto her. "Yes, I did...Calm down, it's probably nothing."

"Probably?! How can you be sure?"

Lando reached for her hand. "I'm sure. All is good and fine, let's not get bothered by anything. I missed you so much," he said truthfully. She was what he wanted to focus on. Not some nonsense sounds.

She eased a bit, her fingers still feeling tense in his hands. "I miss you everytime."

"Oh, so it's a competition now?" he smirked, happy he got her distracted.

BEEP

The two stared at each other in silence for few moments.

"Honey, ignore it," he said trying to sound more demanding than a plea.

Y/N took a deep breath in. "I am ignoring it."

"I can see that, clearly," he said sarcastically. "Tell me about your week instead. Were the movers ok? Did they do a good job?"

"Well, we're sitting here and we have a bed to sleep in, so I'd say it was a success," she replied dryly.

"You're my little nervous peach, aren't you?" he said, leaning closer to her so that he could caress her face. Oh boy, was he drowning in love with this strange human sitting across him.

She let go of her pout. "Yes...But, you're the one to talk! You always get nervous before a car upgrade."

He was truly fascinated how she was unapologetically able to compare new McLaren upgrades with a random beep sound. He'd already made a mental check of the things that could have been making that sound and figured all the important alarms made a completely different sound. For a moment, he imagined his girlfriend sitting in a formula 1 car going over 200 kilometres, freaking out in the style only she knew how. He'd never admit this to her, but he found her "freaking out" face irresistible.

He calculated his response. "It's perfectly fine to get nervous. But trust me, this in nothing."

BEEP

Her question was almost immediate. "What if it's the gas. What if we have a gas leak. A guy came here to do an inspection yesterday, what if he didn't close the vent or whatever?"

"Honey, the gas is not even on now..." he looked at her perplexed.

She was unstoppable at this point. "I don't know that! I don't understand these things! It's all gas heater there, air conditioning here, water boiler this and insurance that. Did you know we need to have a property insurance for the lease?"

"Yes, I knew that." He was not sure how to keep responding at that point. The last thing he wanted was to make her spiral more.

"Well, I didn't! Felt like an absolute idiot talking to the guy, I thought these things were part of leases."

Lando squeezed her hand. "It's fine. Once we get out of the tub, we'll go and search for the sound. Hey, maybe it has already stopped."

She was staring at him, waiting for her cue, expecting a beep sound any moment now. He returned her look, challenging her, making a battle of who was right. And the sound? Suddenly, not even a little ding.

"See?" he said, really hoping it was not going to come as he finished.

Tension was high in the bathroom, making it the opposite of relaxing. Yet still, there was no place other than these two would rather be. Well, Y/N would rather be at the source of the forsaken beeping, but, that was not happening now.

"Ok. Maybe you're right," she said, visibly tired as well.

"We'll get out of this bath in few mins, have dinner in the bed, watch some nonsense and go to sleep, ok? I need your cuddles, desperately," he said softly and leaned to kiss her.

BEEP

"Oh my god, what is that???" she screamed in utmost annoyance.

"Honestly, it sounds like it's coming from outside the house," he observed - and she was not having it anymore.

She gave him a sassy smile. "So, what. Is it the apocalypse now?"

"It's not the apocalypse."

Flustered wave hit her face, having her melt down completely. "Why would someone install an alarm somewhere and have it beeping for no apparent reason? People don't do that."

"I don't know, my love..."

"That's ok, but I should know! I took over the apartment from the realtor - I should have asked!"

"And what would the question be? What are the things that could beep?"

She threw her arms out, splashing water everywhere and not even noticing it. "I don't know! That's the thing! I just don't know. And I don't have a single idea where people find these out. How come everyone around always seems to know and I'm here just sitting, vibing and hoping we're not going to burn the house down."

"Y/N? What's this about?" he asked, concerned. Was she ok? Was there something he'd missed?

She was on a roll, words just flowing out of her mouth, the way only speaking to Lando made her do. "I just feel so out of place some times. I'm doing all these adult things, far away from family and from you as well. And I want to be able to do it, I want to be a good adult. But I just don't know."

He tried to hold her hand once again, but she was busy having her arms crossed around her chest. "You're still young, this is growing up. I also don't know yet, many times..."

"I don't want to be your burden, I want to be your support."

"You are my support, what are you on about?"

"I was suppose to be in charge of the whole moving thing. And here we are and I can't even tell you what's beeping."

BEEP

"My god! Can it just stop! Please!"

Lando was still thinking about what she said previously. The familiar feeling she described.

"You did a great job with the move, by the way. Honestly. It would not happen without you. I wish I could be here more," he spoke slowly, hoping she would subconsciously join in his tune.

She sighed. Might as well get everything out now. "I love you, you know that. But it gets lonely sometimes. And there is no end of your nomadic lifestyle in sight. And what if you get bored of me once you stop traveling? We've never spent a month without a break together. What if when you're older, you decide I'm actually pretty boring and you leave me for someone younger. And I'll be old, pass my best years and alone once again."

She stopped, surprised a little bit by the words that came out of her. Now that it was out, it was impossible to ignore.

Lando was hyper focused now. Every word a calculated decision. This was no longer a chill chat.

BEEP

"Y/N. I love you too. And I love you the way you are and I can't imagine loving anyone else. I'm also excited for the older version of you to come one day, to accompany my older self that I have yet to meet. I want to be with you. My job is making this harder, but I hope this will not be an obstacle for you."

The last thing she wanted was to make him feel guilty. She got mad at herself for tangling things up together so much that it stopped making sense to her. "Of course not. I love your passion and the fact you dream big. Sorry, this got a little out of hand."

"No, I'm glad you're finally phrasing your worries. Is there anything more?" Lando was keen on continuing this impromptu chat.

"What if we grow apart? People change all the time. What if we stop wanting each other? How long can love last?"

He smiled. "For me it's impossible to imagine it now. I can only speak for my present self. But what you described it the last thing I'd ever want to happen."

Y/N took a deep breath once again. "Do you want children? Because I don't know yet. Yet, unlike you, I don't have the luxury of decades to decide. My time is slowly running up. And here I am, not even sure if want them?"

"Honey, plenty if time for that. I'm sure I do not want children in the next two years anyway. It must be real fun in your head sometimes - in one sentence you're too young to know adult stuff and in other you're too old for having children?"

She finally laughed. "Yeah. It is confusing sometimes."

"I hope you don't get offended, but you look absolutely gorgeous when you're flustered. Don't be too hard on yourself, please."

"I'll remind you of that when you're on your typical self-hate trip after a bad race."

"Touché." Got him there.

"Shall we get out of the bath? Would you mind searching with me for the alarm?"

"With you I'll be happy to do absolutely anything."

He got out and reached a hand for her when she was getting up, almost as a metaphor for her current state. They helped each other dry out, put on new matching bathrobes that Lando brought as a gift and searched the whole apartment for anything that could or would beep. There were few more beeps coming their way before they suddenly stopped. The two figured it really was coming somewhere from outside. Once Y/N was finally convinced they checked everything, she agreed on getting to bed and cuddle. Lando offered going out to get her ear buds for sleeping, but by that time it had already stopped.

They never found the source of the beeping. But, that's ok. Sometimes things just make unexpected noise and it's fine.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #ln4 imagine #formula 1 #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #fluff #lando norris fluff #formula 1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x y/n #lando norris x y/n #formula 1 one shot #f1 one shot

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sugarlywhispers · 5 months ago

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a.n; SMUT, oral sex (fem receiving), izuku is pussy-drunk because we know no other izuku than the one who LOVES eating pussy. lol i had an izuku itch that needed to be scratched so here it is *wink wink*<3

You and Midoriya Izuku have been friends for a long time now. He's such a good friend, always attentive, kind, funny and respectful. Yet he becomes cheeky, flirty and sometimes sarcastic when there's more trust in your friendship.

Friendship. It's just friendship. You have to remind yourself of that everyday. Push your stupid little –strenuously huge– crush on him very deep inside and lock it away. He's fucking Number One, Pro Hero Deku. How could you not have a fucking crush on him?

Still, when he gave you the opportunity to be friends, you didn't doubt it. You dug your feelings very deep and just accepted what he gave you; a funny, sincere friendship that you honestly didn't want to ruin. Especially because Izuku was also very intentional in watering this friendship with you.

It got to a point where you even slept in each other's places with complete normalcy sometimes. He had clothes in your closet for when that happened, and vice-versa. Izuku even talked to you about the dates he went on, and so did you.

He even held your head after a hard night out with friends, where you found the guy you were in a “relationship” with snogging another girl. Too much alcohol trying to bury what you have witnessed and an ugly date with the toilet as you threw up. Izuku held your hair back and caressed your back with patience and care that early morning. Even dried your tears and hugged you through the feelings. No, you didn't love the guy, but you could have if he hadn't been a fucker.

No one would ever fit into the standard Izuku had made you build around men. But you had to try and find, considering that the main standard was not interested in you that way, and would never be.

It's exactly why, here you are. Waiting in your car after texting said man “oi!, i'm here!”, after he expressed that he has had an awful week and was so stressed he could throw a train towards the sky, up to the atmosphere. Holy fuck. The imagery made you laugh at the moment, but also sent a shiver down your spine at his tone because damn, he was so frustrated and angry. So, you didn't doubt it. Told him to get ready, that you would pick him up in 20 minutes to take him out.

There was no other intention other than pamper him, help him distract his mind from all the troubles that stressed him. Like a friend would.

It had been a lovely night, filled with lots of laughter, jokes and accomplished smiles that felt too normal by then.

You suddenly feel his eyes on you, his body directing his attention towards you as you ride the car, softly mumbling to a well known song that it's playing.

“What?” You ask a moment later, stopping right in front of Izuku's building and looking back at him.

“I just realized… You took me out to dinner. We had ice-cream as dessert and even some cocktails after. You drove and paid for it all. And now you took me back home…”

You snort, “And? What's the problem with that?”

You are a bit confused, especially because he's talking looking dead serious, like he has come to a realization that makes him even imagine in his head whatever it is that he is thinking. Jesus, even his eyes look so determined and shiny it makes you feel weirdly nervous.

But of course, you were not expecting at all what he said next.

“Do I have to suck you off?”

You look directly into each other's eyes for a full minute. Death silent. Song playing in the background. A car passes, its light making Izuku's face become clearer and exposed for the second it took until it drove away. Both your breathing suddenly heard loud inside your car.

And then you both laugh your hearts out. Almost to the point of crying.

It's so ridiculously funny. The way Izuku asked it was so sure and ready for it and also keeping a serious tone. This type of humor with him has become so funny and comfortable to portray, you can't help but to answer back, “I mean… if you want to.”

You obviously mean it as a joke. It's not the first time you joke with double meaning in your words. It has become normal by now between you two.

Yet Izuku suddenly stops laughing. Again looking dead serious as you slowly come back from your laughter. You clean a small tear that threatens to fall from your left eye as you look at him. His expression is... alert, attentive; eyes are on you, shining, waiting, excited. And as time passes, you realize with a quiet and small gasp; he wants to suck you off.

Next thing you know, you’re sprawled over Izuku’s big and expensive couch, your jeans and panties thrown around somewhere in his living room. Legs open, exposed, as Izukus delves into the taste of your cunt. Both his hands, callous and a bit raspy due to his injuries and in contrast to your soft skin, hold you down by the waist as his mouth doesn’t even separate a millimeter from its place, tongue dancing all around your very wet pussy.

His eyes are closed and he lets a few grunts here and there that travel up in your body and make you shiver in pleasure, followed by a tongue movement that makes you roll your eyes back. He's fucking enjoying having you like this.

Finally.

#mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #mha smut #mha midoriya izuku #mha midoriya izuku x reader #mha midoriya izuku smut #mha midoriya izuku x you #mha midoriya izuku x yn #bnha midoriya izuku #bnha midoriya izuku smut #bnha midoriya izuku x reader #bnha midoriya izuku x you #bnha midoriya izuku x yn #bnha smut #midoriya izuku fanfiction #midoriya izuku smut #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku x you #midoriya izuku x yn

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ghostlyferrettarot · 6 months ago

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♥︎PAC: 💐✒️Channeled Letter from your Soulmate✒️💐

•Pile 1 •Pile 2 •Pile 3

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🩵If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!🩵

💐Masterlist💐

🧡Pile 1:

"You're in my thoughts, and I want you to know that I'm here for you. Life may have its ups and downs, but remember that you have the strength to overcome any challenges that come your way. Keep pushing forward, and don't let anything dim your spirit. Your light is truly inspiring to me, and I believe in you, I'm cheering you on every step of the way.

So please, take some time to appreciate how far you've come and the progress you've made. You've worked hard, and you deserve to celebrate your accomplishments. Embrace this moment of joy and let it grow with your motivation for the future.

Remember, I'm always waiting to meet you and share my happiness. Keep shining, my dear, because you are loved and cherished.

With love, your soulmate"

•Your person has such a sweet energy Pile 1! They are your #1 fan. A truly loving and healthy person.

🧡Song:

🩷Pile 2:

"Hey beautiful! Every day I see you becoming even more gorgeous, and people deserve to see you and your talent. You are absolutely stunning! Lucky me, am i right? ;)

Although I am currently occupied, I want you to know that you are always on my mind. It feels like you are already here with me most of the times!

I eagerly await the day when we can be together because with every passing day, I become more infatuated with thoughts of you. I want you to understand that I am trying each day to become the best version of myself for you. I only want to offer you the very best. While others may not understand our connection, it is our understanding that truly matters. I love you and continue to rock at life!

Yours Truly ;)"

•Your person has such a fun and sassy energy pile 2! Lucky you. This person has eyes for you and cant wait to share moments together. This person is truly the life of the party.

🩷Song:

🩵Pile 3:

"Hello my love, I'm thrilled to be with you. You may not believe it, but I'm always looking out for you and making sure everything is set for us to meet. It's crazy, isn't it? How i am always around, in some moments i know you can feel it.

Thank you for being my rock, even if you don't realize it yet. I'm your biggest fan and you are my greatest source of joy. Never let anyone steal your happiness and your light; and if they try to, they'll have to deal with me! Just kidding, but im always ready to defend you!

I know you're waiting for me and I'm on my way to you, we're almost there; just hold a little longer.

Take good care of yourself, I love you like crazy.

Your Favorite Person"

•I feel like your person is so unique pile 3, a truly beautiful soul. They love you a lot and i think you are gonna meet them soon than what you expect.

🩵Song:

💐Thanks for reading and tell me if it resonated 💐

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nixnight1 · 1 month ago

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(That one beautiful best woman speech I love to hear)

Pandora: I'm Panda, the best woman. I'm not a maid, Regulus' room is a mess and I never want that honour

Regulus: *blushes*

Pandora: mh yeah. About a year ago I received a text from Regulus saying "Panda, can you check if this three hotels have availability for November 2024 for a wedding?" I asked if he had gotten engaged without my knowledge

Everyone: *laughing*

James: *smiling and caressing Regulus' face*

Pandora: *tearing up* to witch he responded "No, but I'm getting married next year with or without James" and at last here we are today. The journey to this joyous occasion has been nothing short of incredible. I can't imagine life without Regulus. I realized how lucky and how rear is to have a cousin who I consider more so my best friend and a brother. You accomplished everything you set your mind to and that's why I reached for the moon because I've seen you conquer the universe.

Regulus: *tearing up*

Pandora: our bond goes beyond just family. We're a package deal. When I told Regulus I was allergic to apples, the next day he was too. When Regulus told me he was dating a guy from Gryffindor...I did too

Everyone: *cheers up*

James: *blushes*

Pandora: James, I used to think no one in this world deserved Regulus' love until you entered his life. During the worst days and months of his life I witnessed how you looked at him as if he was your home, yours to cherished. It was in that moment I felt immense comfort knowing his heart is safe with you.

James: *tearing up*

Pandora: I hope you love having the opportunity to grow old with him, the same way I loved seeing him grow. Now it's your turn. Happy wedding day.

#regulus black #regulus deserved better #sirius black #james potter #jegulus #the marauders #marauders era #starchaser #black brothers #james x regulus #regulus and evan and barty and pandora and dorcas #pandora and regulus #pandora rosier #pandora lovegood #regulus and pandora #incorrect slytherin skittles quote #incorrect marauders quotes

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nausicaaandhermouth · 2 months ago

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Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

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ken-dom · 1 year ago

Text

Ken’s First Orgasm

Ken x reader

1.1k words

Summary: Since Ken entered the real world, he’s been experiencing some… feelings (AKA a good orgasm might calm him down)

Author’s Notes: It’s smutty, it’s tongue-in-cheek, it’s a little bit silly… just take it for what it is, enjoy the Kenergy and have fun 🩷

This was my first Ken fic, originally posted to my main blog under the title 'Ken's First Time.' Due to a tagging issue on my main, I'm reposting my works here to have everything in one place.

Warnings/content: NSFW, 18+, first kiss, first orgasm, making out, dry humping, hand job, gn!reader, Ken’s self doubt and nerves (and crying)

‘I’ve been getting these… urges, like, there’s something stirring deep inside me that I can’t seem to tame,’ Ken uttered huskily, fingers toying with the hair by your ear. ‘I think it might be because I’m craving… this.’

Biting his lip, he stared deep into your eyes, the heat of his gaze dropping down to your lips before slowly leaning in.

When you followed his lead, breath quickening as you tilted your head, he faltered, pulling back with a quiet growl and balling his fists in frustration.

He had hung on your every word all day, never taking his eyes off you for a single moment. And you’d noticed the way he lit up every time you looked at him… but now, you began to wonder if you’d done something to put him off.

‘Ken?’ you breathed carefully.

‘I- I’ve never…’ he hesitated.

Oh. That’s all it was. You dipped your head to meet his sparkling eyes again.

‘You’ve never kissed anyone?’ you asked gently, lifting your palm to rest softly against his handsome cheek.

Ken cleared his throat and forced a smile. ‘I’ve tried. Lots of times.’ He lifted his chin with mock confidence, as though trying to kiss was some sort of proud accomplishment. ‘You know how it can be.’

‘It’s alright,’ you soothed, rubbing your thumb soothingly over his cheekbone. Your mind raced with what else he probably hadn’t done either, the thought causing heat to pool at your core. ‘We’ll take it at your pace.’

The silky tone of your voice and the comfort of your words made him feel… dizzy? He blinked his gaze away, blushing. Feeling it again. That pull of something deep in his gut that made him want to submit himself to… whatever it was his body was craving so much. Damn it, he really needed to just get over it and kiss you.

You smiled warmly, leaning in again with pause enough to allow him time to decide. To your delight, he pressed forward, lips crashing soft and wet against yours, and as you parted your lips to encourage his tongue, he moaned loudly into your mouth while his fingertips drove hard into the flesh at your waist.

Lost in the intensity of the moment, it was suddenly hard to remember to breathe, his needy whines and desperate grabbing clouding your thoughts, causing your legs to tremble, but eventually you pulled away, panting.

‘Wow, Ken… that was-’

‘Terrible! I mean, you… you were great. I had no idea what I was doing. I'm not made for kissing, I’m only good at Beach.’ He shook his head, frustrated. ‘I shouldn’t have- mmh!… mmm…’

You shut him up instantly, diving back for more and inadvertently pushing him to lay back on the bed. You straddled him naturally, conscious thought still lost in the haze of excitement.

‘You- you liked it?’ he breathed huskily as you pulled up to get a look at how pretty he was, breathless with anticipation beneath you.

You nodded, humming in approval. ‘And it feels like you did too,’ you smirked, grinding down against his already aching erection.

The noise he made was unearthly, a growl and a whimper and a groan and a desperate exhale all at once. The pressure he had been feeling there released ever so slightly with a small pearl of precum, affording him a moment of bliss between the aching neediness.

You stilled, worried you’d hurt him somehow, but his eyes widened revealing pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates, and you realised it had been a sound of pleasure, not pain.

‘What… was… THAT?’ he cried out breathlessly. ‘That felt incredible! Sublime! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been craving?! Do it again? Please-’

The last word tapered into a whine as you rolled your hips to grind against him again, and he flopped down onto the pillow, eyes rolling back with overwhelming sensations he couldn’t find the words for.

‘Ken?’ you asked softly, leaning down, ‘you’ve never had an orgasm before have you?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you want to?’

He couldn’t catch his breath and his reply came out as a husky whisper. ‘Will it feel like that again?’

‘Better,’ you grinned wickedly.

‘Oh fuck, yes,’ he mumbled, not even realising he’d sworn. ‘Please.’

You leaned in to kiss him again, igniting the flames inside him that had been roaring since the first time you held his hand. Ken moaned in anticipation, closing his eyes tightly, composing and preparing himself.

You rocked your hips only once more and he exploded, fists bunching the sheets while you continued to writhe against him, his back arching off the bed and tears prickling at his eyes as his orgasm tore through every fibre of his being.

It was like nothing else. How had he never so much as wondered what this would be like until he had entered the real world and discovered human feelings and thoughts… and needs.

His chest heaved as he came down from his high, lazily lifting an arm to rest over his forehead in complete surrender while he tried to claw his way back to the present, with you.

When he opened his eyes, he was met with you smiling down at him, nothing short of smug.

‘Was that- did I-?’ he stuttered.

‘You sure did,’ you panted, heart pounding and heat rushing down to keeping your own arousal simmering. God, he was a picture, mussed hair and pink cheeks and heavy eye lids.

‘Oh… oh, that was, it was-’

You chuckled, climbing off him to settle at his side, where he turned to face you.

‘Should I have… you know? Was there something I didn’t do? You didn’t…’

The concern in his eyes was endearing, but you laughed again and he relaxed. Another tear slid down his cheek as you caressed his arm tenderly.

‘Don’t worry, Ken, we have time for that. I get the feeling you’ll be great at… doing stuff. Besides, that wasn’t quite the whole thing. I’m glad it felt good, but there’s a lot more I can show you. If you want me to…’

Ken snorted a disbelieving laugh. ‘Well, good, because these urges I’ve been getting? I think they might have actually been for-’

‘Orgasms,’ you interrupted with a smirk. ‘Yeah, humans tend to get that a lot.’

‘I’m not surprised! How do you get through the day without doing that at regular intervals?’

You laughed, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks. ‘It will calm down when you’re a little more used to it. In the meantime… let’s make the most of your libido, yes?’

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed eagerly, as though the word libido meant anything at all to him. Nevertheless, he was as eager as anything for another round.

‘I’m going to start undressing you this time… if that’s alright?’ you muttered seductively, kissing at his collar bone while your fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt.

‘Of course. You don’t have a body like mine for nothing. Well, I suppose it’s main purpose is for Beach, but-’

‘Ken?’

‘Yeah?’

You didn’t use any more words, and he suddenly lost all concept of his own thoughts when your hand slid inside his beach shorts.

‘How does this feel?’ you whispered as your fingers wrapped loosely around his thick length and pumped slowly, lightly. You didn’t want to overwhelm him too soon.

‘R-real- f-fucking- oh!- good, hnnng…’

#not s f w 💀#ken #ken x reader #ken x you #ken smut #ken x y/n #ryan gosling x reader #ryan gosling x you #ryan gosling!ken #ryan!ken #ryan gosling #rg!ken #ryan gosling ken #ken barbie #barbie movie #barbie 2023 #ken-dom writes #ken fic #kenergy

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jaytalking · 3 months ago

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Spoilers for the fop: a new wish ending.

TW for vague-ish allusions to child abuse/neglect

(I've never written for Tumblr before. Go easy on me.)

----

His interrogator is a child.

Timmy had started to think today was just not his day somewhere in between "coming home from vacation to an invaded Fairy World" and "Being captured by anti-fairies minutes away from the chip and tied to a chair with iron chains". Dale Dimmadone and fucking Foop (Irep. Oh who cares.) of all people being his captors had been the confirmation.

Now there's a child with sunglasses scowling at him, and he's just bracing himself for whatever this damn day throws at him next.

"Why didn't you talk?"

Timmy considers the question for about 5 seconds before deciding he doesn't care enough to weave a lie.

"Fairies can't break the rules, not directly. It applies to revealing secrets too, not my fault they couldn't figure it out."

"But you're not a fairy, the nets didn't work on you, only iron seems to have some kind of effect."

He gives the kid a wry smile. "Burning sting" was definitely An effect.

"Not that hard to figure out; once-human, means exactly what you think it means. So yeah, Maybe I just don't want to give that idiot answers, considered that?"

The kid gives him an angry look, Timmy just raises an eyebrow.

"Don't call my dad an idiot. Do you even know who he is? He seemed to know you, that's for sure."

"Did he ever tell you about a lemonade factory? I pulled him out of there, I knew THAT Dale. Whoever the golden-toothed asshole outside is he's not anyone I care to know, that's for sure."

The kid looks somehow angrier, Timmy continues undeterred.

"I do want to know your name at least, I'm getting tired of calling you "kid" in my head."

"You first."

"Smart. It's Timmy, Timmy T-... Fairywinkle-Cosma."

He's not surprised to feel a spark of recognition from the kid, the sunglasses hide his face but for the average fairy any emotion, especially a kid's, is as visible as ever. What he IS surprised to see is a curl of dread.

"Dev. Dev Dimmadone- why don't you just give up? We've got all the fairies under nets, the chip is gone so they can't do magic anyways, and you're in chains with no way to escape. Dad even offered you-"

"There's nothing he could offer that would make me give up on my family."

There's... a picture, that's starting to be painted in Timmy's mind, and he doesn't like one bit of it; Dev must be the kid Irep used to accomplish this plan, there's no other explanation for the kid being here and knowing so much about fairies otherwise. Dev is a Godkid. Dev is Peri's Godkid-

"What about letting your family go? Would that be enough?"

"... You don't know anything, do you?"

He might have put too much venom in those words by the way the kid visibly flinches and goes silent, but in that moment he doesn't care.

"Do you know what happens when a fairy doesn't grant wishes? Their magic begins to build up, bit by bit- it gets harder to breathe, to do anything without feeling absolutely horrible- and then they're gone, just like that. Without the Big Wand, without the ability to grant wishes, that's what awaits all of them- all of US. Your dad is a short-sighted idiot who doesn't realise I'm not exempt from this- so even if I did tell him how to become like me, he'd have the exact same fate. We'd both be dead and the Anti-fairies would have a grand ol' laugh about it."

"Irep-"

"Irep doesn't care about you. I don't give a damn what he told you, but it's obvious he kept you in the dark about basically all of this and now he's off to do the same to Dale. You need to accept you've been used, kid."

Dev is quiet, eyes fixed on the floor. Timmy's anger deflates slightly; the true mastermind here is Irep, he should reserve his anger for him, not for the kid he strung along.

"... He told me it would make him proud."

The question leaves his mouth before his mind can process it.

"Would that be enough? To justify all of this?"

Something has snapped, an echo of the ignored child who wished so badly his parents would pay more attention and was called selfish for it, who lashed out and wanted more, more, and more to fill a bottomless hole in his heart, felt vindicated when the truth was made evident: that love and attention is not a damn privilege, it's the right of any child.

"It wouldn't, and it wouldn't last for long. You know this, we both know this."

Dev is shaking. Timmy clams his mouth shut. He's shaking and his grip on the iron key is tight.

"There's no way they'll forgive me."

And he has to laugh at that, a short burst cut off by the pain of the chains moving and reaching new skin.

"That's the worst part- they always do. And before you even realise you're in the wrong."

#fopanw #batt's writing tag #fop a new wish #timmy turner #fairy timmy #fopanw spoilers #the battle of the big wand #dev dimmadome #dale dimmadome #fop dale #fop dev

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lexxiisstuff · 2 months ago

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𝑰𝒕 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Rindou Haitani Drabble

**************

"Come on sweetheart give us a smile" You kept your head down walking silently with your books in your hand. You had just finished a late Uni class and really didn't have time for this. Not to mention you absolutely loathed confrontation. The men on the the street hollered and yelled at you loudly.

"You're a bit of a bitch aren't you babe!" You tensed at that comment and wished you had earphones.

"Come on then show us that pretty face"

"Lift your skirt-" The comment was abruptly cut short and all the men had suddenly became silent. You lifted and turned your head curiously to see the purple headed boy you'd known for months. He walked past the men twirling his favorite knife. You let out a breath of relief.

"Nothing else to say?" He asked the middle aged men that were sat on plastic chairs. They were probably drunk. "That's a shame. I wish I had a better reason to cut off your tongues, although I'm sure she's not the only woman you've done this too"

The men stumbled and you stood watching them apologize over and over shaking and trembling. Rindo only tsked. He tapped the knife lightly against one of the men's heads and gave a malicious grin you'd never been on the receiving end of. "Go. and if I see you any of you near here again I guarantee you will not appreciate the outcome" They took off instantly.

Haitani crossed the road approaching you. When he was about a foot away he gave you a soft assessing look.

"You okay?" He asked grabbing the heavy book bag from your shoulders and slinging it on his own.

"Yes thank you" You smiled up at him and watched his eyes soften even further.

Rindo Haitani would never ever admit this but he had a weakness. A weakness that came in the form of a beautiful, bright, intelligent girl. You. From the moment he saw you walking home from Campus one day he'd made it his mission for you to notice him. To befriend him. To depend on him. And he could confidently say mission accomplished.

The two of you had formed an odd friendship. You saw each other almost everyday as he'd always wait for you to get off the bus and then walk you the rest of the way home. Sometimes you would eat a meal with him and others he'd keep you company while you did your homework on a park bench.

You were desperately in love with him and he had no idea.

He was head over heels in love with you and you were clueless.

"I'm sorry I was late" He whispered as the two of you fell back into a comfortable rhythm of him walking you home.

"You don't have to apologize. I'm sure you're busy plus you don't have to walk me home anymore Yunno" you told him and he glared down at you.

"Don't start that again. I like walking you home. Talking to you is the best part of my day" Fuck. Shit. Had that really slipped out.

You blushed furiously. Surely he meant in a friendly way right? "You're sweet sometimes"

"Don't fucking tell anyone" He muttered playfully "I have a reputation to uphold"

"Yes sir Haitani sir" You mocked saluted and he couldn't help but smile. Adorable girl he thought fondly.

"Don't be cute" He grinned. "I'm in the mood for ice cream"

He grabbed your hand and interlocked your fingers and you felt the butterflies swarm your tummy. It was the first time he’d done something like that

“You don’t mind do you?” He teased

“No not at all” You squeezed his hand

“Good because I’m going to do it more often” He bumped your shoulder playfully

“Well Uhm I don’t hold hands with just anybody” You whispered

“You do with your boyfriend”

You sputtered “My boyfriend?!”

He grinned

“Haitani this is not your confession” You released his hand and blocked your ears “You have to do this when I’m not wearing ratty clothes and you have to ask so take it back”

He laughed loudly “Fine I’ll ask you tomorrow. Wear something cute”

“Haitani! You’re supposed to surprise me!”

He took your hand again and kissed your palm “You’ll pretend to be surprised”

You rolled your eyes

#rindou haitani #tokyo rev fluff #headcanons #tokyo rev x y/n #rindou x reader #tokyo revengers rindou #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev x reader

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sabertoothwalrus · 1 year ago

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hi !! just curious because i was looking at your adventure time episode guide and i love hearing other peoples adventure time takes !! how come you don't like finn's characterisation in together again?

I've talked about it before here and here!

But also I'm gonna say more and share some art I did in 2021 for a rewrite comic that I never got around to doing

So again to reiterate: Adventure Time is usually VERY good at making it feel like time passes, even when you're not watching. It's something about what they don't show that tells you everything you need to know.

Together Again did not do this.

It really really felt like they were avoiding showing Finn as an adult, as if they wanted to leave his post-show life ambiguous. Which, now that Fionna and Cake has shown us literally that, it makes Together Again feel even more wrong?? Like. imagine you have to pick a moment from your life that represents You™ the most. Together Again said that Finn, after living his whole life and dying as an old man, feels most represented by how he was at 17. I do not buy this. I am 25, and I cannot fathom identifying by my 17 year old self. I was a completely different person then, I was still cooking. I can imagine most people feel the same. And ok, so maybe Finn DOES for some reason feel stuck at 17? Explain to me why!! What needed to happen to him that made him feel that way?

And before you just say "it's because Jake died," there's still too much that was left out. How old was Finn when Jake died? What was Finn like, at that point? What else had they accomplished? What was he doing at the time that was on the forefront of his mind? Where/with who did they spend most of their time? Where were they living after the treehouse got destroyed?

It was like,,, it was like the story Together Again actually wanted to tell was about Finn's grief, and how poorly he copes, and how too much of his identity is tied to Having Jake, and how he struggles to move on. But that's not the story we got. I honestly think-- as interesting as it was-- everything with New Death and Tiffany and Lich just did a disservice to the focus, which was Finn trying to get over Jake.

I think Together Again should have gone like this:

Finn and Jake had always planned that whoever died first would wait in the dead world for the other to die so the two of them could reincarnate. Jake dies first. Jake would be able to "watch over" Finn as he lives the rest of his life, so Jake wouldn't miss Finn as much as vice versa, since he'd feel like he's still there with him. Eventually, Finn dies.

Finn's appearance would change with his emotional state. I thought it'd be interesting to show different phases of his life through the stages of grief.

There'd be a room where they could watch Finn's memories. Finn would walk Jake through the events of his life. We SEE exactly how Finn dealt with grief, with heartbreak, with love, with friends, with community. All the good and all the bad.

By the end of it, Finn is quiet. "Jake... when we reincarnate, will we.. lose all of this?" "Well, do you remember anything from any of your other past lives?" "No.. But that's the point. I don't want to forget you." Finn, despite their promise, despite Jake waiting for him all this time, declines reincarnating. He doesn't want to move on, because that would mean forgetting everything. He wants to say with Jake!! He JUST got Jake back!!

“What if— in the future— what if they forget about us? What if they don’t know about all the stuff we did?” We see Ooo in its current state. It’s changed, but it’s clearly been affected by the two of them. Every person they’ve saved, every civilization they helped build, every hero they’ve inspired. They’ve left their touch everywhere. “They’ll know,” Jake says with certainty. “We’ll know.” We see the future, with Shermy and Beth. We see the Finn Sword, and BMO with all their old belongings. Everything stays, but it still changes. Will happen, happening, happened. These have always been the themes of the show. They reincarnate, together.

#adventure time #together again #my art #finn the human #finn mertens #jake the dog #distant lands

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earenwen-leafwhisper · 5 months ago

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The handmaid and the dragons

Pairing: Child Daemon Targaryen x servant mother nature fem reader, Baelon Targaryen x servant reader, Child Viserys x servant reader, Alyssa Targaryen x servant reader (All platonic)

Summary: Life at the castle can be most enjoyable as a servant when you can take care of two young dragon princes.

Author’s note: Viserys and Daemon are 4 years apart. Daemon was born in 81 and Viserys in 77

Reader are not describe, in my mind she is chubby/plus size, but she can be of all shapes.

English is not my native language, i'm sorry if mistakes were made. I will correct as soon as possible.

After a few months without writing fully, here is the first written of a multitude of ideas that I have in mind for some time. This One-shot could be continued in the form of headcannon or other One-chot, or multiple chapters.

---

The life of a servant was not easy, apart from early morning wakes and short nights due to requests from some residents and guests, not always very understandable and sometimes almost impossible to accomplish (as this noble woman, who wanted to enter one of the princes' chambers in order to try to seduce and marry the man she desired; it was as if that had ended with the dismissal of the said noble woman) did not allow you to have a good quality sleep.

But this life of servant, you would not have exchanged it for any other, because beyond the rebukes of some older servants and lords and lady, who could be haughty. You were in the service of the Targaryens, and although some nobles and peasants did not carry the members of this house in their hearts. You were not treated badly, on the contrary, you were considered better than servants of other smaller houses.

Since your early childhood you remembered having met people with Valeryan blood. Your parents had served under the late reign of Maegor and survived him because of their good labours. They then served Jaehaerys. You had followed their ways, as was customary for the people. You had become multi-tasker, allowing you to be better paid, and help your parents who were beginning to get old to serve the Targaryen house as well. You could go from kitchen to floor scrubbing, from washing clothes to helping princesses dress or hairdressing.

But more than that. More than this work. There were in that castle two small heads with silver hair, for which you had taken affection.

A few years ago, you had become a servant of Princess Alyssa when she was pregnant for the second time. You were one of many servants, but you always did your best to allow the princess to have everything she needed, in order to make it easier for her to wait for the birth of her second child. Being a hectic life, the rest offered and almost ordered by the masters, bored her to the utmost point, towards the end of her pregnancy, she could no longer ride on Meleys and was irritated for nothing, whether it be on the servants, her ladys in waittig. But when she calmed down, unlike other nobles, Alyssa apologized, knowing that she would not have reacted in this way if she was not pregnant.

But even in those moments, you loved the princess, not that you envied her, no, you loved her because she always behaved with respect.

---

When you seen the baby Daemon, you had taken a liking to him, how many times did you manage to give him gifts, however humble? You hadn’t counted, all you liked was to see Daemon play, or eat the cakes that you had prepared in the kitchens during your working hours. Just seeing him smile and recognize you made your heart warm. You didn’t forget the princess or Viserys when you made the cakes, but your favorite was always Daemon.

You always had a maternal nature, to care about others, but that nature is just manifesting more greatly towards Daemon. You never disrespected Alyssa, on the contrary, you worried about her, even though she was your age, you sometimes nursed her slightly, just out of concern for her health, like the day when she took baby Daemon to fly on Meleys’s back, you were worried.

“Princess Alyssa... are you sure you want to do this?...” The masters have advised against your health...”

Would you be afraid that Meleys would face evil against Daemon? Or would you not trust me?

“I have faith in you, princess... I know that you did the same thing with Prince Viserys.... It’s just that...”

“Fear not, Meleys will do nothing against Daemon, it’s only a little theft after all. It won’t hurt me.”

It is the close heart that you watched the princess go towards the dragonpit.

During the whole morning of labor, your mind was not focused on your spots. Every moment you could forget about Alyssa’s flight, something made you think of her or the children. Some servants with whom you shared your time of work, found your behavior strange, not understanding why you showed so much kindness and devotion to the royal family, that family which did not spank attention to the servants and people of the people, At least according to them.

All your stress went away when you saw Alyssa and baby Daemon return, it is with a sincere smile that you welcomed the princess, taking care of her and Daemon with the other servants.

Although you were a simple and humble servant, you had become close to Alyssa over the days, months and years, even when travelling for tournaments or festivities in other parts of Westeros. Alyssa ordered you to accompany her, the other servants did not see this in a good way, nor even the nobles who found it unnoble approach on the part of the princess. For they thought the nobles should stay among them, the others were nothing but nothing.

---

You saw the children grow, the first steps of Daemon towards Alyssa even gave you a small tear in your eye, so proud of Daemon’s progress. Not forgetting the progress of Viserys, He was 4 years old when you met him and now from his future 7 years, he loved playing with you, loving his wooden dragons by lending one only when it was sure to get it back later. He was a rather easy child, even more so because of his attraction for food, asking for cupcakes, the masters had more than once ordered you not to give any more to the young prince, but behind their backs, you gave one or two to please him.

You were not in direct contact with other members of the royal family, except Baelon, whom you saw radiating to the coast of Alyssa, as well as to her sons.

When the news of the new pregnancy of the princess. Everyone was happy, it took three years, but all hoped that the future event would be happy.

Oh... Alyssa...

---

You were awakened in the middle of the night, guards had come to fetch the princess’s servants. The corridors of the castle were dark to the limit of gloom, although they are illuminated by torches. To the right and left you could see servants, midwifes, guards and masters running through all the censes.

You felt a cold sweat through your back, a wind of panic engulfed you. Midwifes, was a sign that the princess was in full labor and about to give birth. But the presence of the masters, was bad omens, they came only when the birth was complicated to see serious. Alyssa was the only known person in the castle who was pregnant and about to give birth.

You passed in the corridor of the princess' apartments, horrible screams pierced ears, spanking you stop at the door, heart pounding, fear to sell, guards took you by the arms to force you to continue walking. You were assigned to the supervision of children while other servants were assigned to take over the orders of masters.

When you arrived, Daemon and Viserys were sleeping, unaware of who was going on in the castle. You sit on one of the chairs, watching the children, while trying to calm your breath, reassuring you as much as you could, praying to the gods, for the survival of Alyssa and the baby (whether you are a believer or not).

It was only in the morning, when you helped the children to prepare (make sure that Viserys does not wear his tunic upside down, tie their shoes), that Baelon entered. His hair was glued to his forehead by the sweat, his breath saccader. You turned your head to look at him before getting up from the ground on which you were kneeling, in order to bow down as required by protocol. But before you got up, Baelon raised his hand to stop you and walked towards the boys.

"My prince..." Your heart was beating, the anticipation of the news was great.

"The work was hard..." Baelon knelt before Viserys and Daemon, before taking them in his arms.

"Work?" Viserys looked at his father with questions.

"Your mother giving birth to a little brother..."

"Little brother?" Viserys’s eyes lit up, while Daemon seemed to be a bit soft.

"Yes, you will soon."

Baelon was happy and reassuring, he gave them each a kiss in the hair before raising his head towards you.

"Alyssa will need you, for now she needs to rest."

"Of course, my prince..."

"I know you’ll look after her."

You shook your head gently, your head was full of questions, all revolved around the princess and the newborn baby, the cries remained in your memory.

You only saw the princess when she was awakened after several hours of being unconscious. She was so full of life, she looked like a living dead, almost diaphanous. Her simple vision gave you a terrible desire to cry. Alyssa, seeing you, smiles softly, feverishly. You walked towards her before sitting down to lean out of her bed and gently take her hand, holding her company, explaining that Viserys and Daemon were happy to see her soon and have a little brother.

Alas, Alyssa’s health did not improve much, after almost a year the princess was very weak.

---

One morning, the nannies who took care of Daemon and Viserys had not been available, between one who was falling ill and the second who had to return to King’s Landing for family business, Baelon, whom you saw rarely, He ordered one of his servants to find you, so that you could look after the children. It was now days that the masters watched Alyssa, who slept more and more, ate less and less. Worrying everyone in the castle.

You decided to please the children, to make them stretch their legs in the company of guards, in the gardens of the castle.

The sun was shining, the light breeze of wind was refreshing, and you had placed yourself at the side of one of the fountains, watching the boys running in the garden gates gave you a smile, temporarily preventing you from thinking of Alyssa, and allowing you to live a little in carelessness. When Daemon fell to the ground after having tripped, he started to cry slightly before watching Viserys continue to run, he watched you with his eyes. You smile gently, before he gets up and walks towards you with tears in his eyes, he showed you his hands, covered with dirt and gravel.

“Y/nickname! Its hurt!”

“It’s all right, my little dragon, I’ll look.”

You gently took his hands, leaning gently to observe his hands, before taking a cloth, for the soaked in water to gently clean Daemon’s hands, he sniffed softly after moaning on contact with the cloth.

"That’s right, my little dragon, you are brave, like a proud warrior.” The tone of your voice was sweet and comforting to the young Daemon.

Daemon looked at you, then looked at his hands red with rubbing against his palms. When you laid a kiss on each of his palms, his eyes lit up, all forms of pain and sadness had withdrawn from his face. After all, soft drops on the little bobos are always miraculous remedies for children.

“Do you want to continue playing?”

Daemon shook his head, a big smile on his face, he went back to join Viserys, laughing as he pursued him.

You only came back at the time of dinner which could not be taken outside, the children in the company of members of the house Targaryen present at the castle, except Alyssa and Baelon, who was at his bedside. As for you, you were eating in haste in the room dedicated to the servants, talking with your friends, discussing the latest news while walking through the dark corridors.

The servants' dinners were often more courtly and of lesser quality than those of the nobles, but it was enough to give energy for all the day’s work.

“Apparently, Prince Baelon refuses to leave his wife’s bedside...” One of the king’s servants had just spoken.

Yes, her health is in perpetual decline, the masters fear that she will not pass on the next moons. One of the servants who had been looking after Alyssa had just answered her.

You listened to the exchange with attraction, trying to get information that had not yet been disclosed. But their discussions stopped when they noticed you. All knew of your closeness with the princess and children, taking care not to tell you about the royal family, lest you speak about it with the princess. You shrugged before looking at your friends and talking to them. It would have pleased the servants who did not like you, to show them that their behavior touched him. It was only when you were called to serve the young princes that you went out into the corridors, arriving near the dining room, Daemon ran in your direction, followed by Viserys. You took them in your arms before walking, a hand in the small hand of Viserys, while Daemon clung to your neck, while you carried it. The guards would follow you, ensuring the safety of the children.

Once in the children’s shared room, Viserys settled into a pillow that covered part of the floor in one of the corners of the room near one of the windows.

You settled down beside him, Daemon sitting on your legs in the direction of Viserys. It was a sweet evening, punctuated by the preparation of their bath, and some childish quarrels.

It was only when the guards opened the doors, and you looked in their direction. that you had a cold sweat.

The queen herself entered, she seemed paler then before, she almost wore a sick complexion. Your heart began to beat, your intuition told you that something serious had happened and how much you would have wished to have been wrong.

---

Tag list : @avalyaaa

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #Daemon Targaryen x chubby reader #Daemon x chubby reader #Baelon Targaryen x reader #Alyssa Targaryen x reader #Viserys I targaryen x reader #Servant reader #chubby reader

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hb-writes · 5 months ago

Text

Drunk Shakespeare

Summary: It’s Summer 1925 in the Little Lady Blinderverse. Isiah and Clara decide to end their work day early to escape the heat of the betting shop, but find the heat in the air between them is harder to escape than they thought.

Characters: Clara Shelby x Isiah Jesus, Finn Shelby pops in for a moment.

Prompt: Almost caught

Content Warnings: Just vibes and a little kissing.

Tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Peaky Blinders (Non-Shelby!Sister) Masterlist

Clara watched the long hand of her brother's old pocket watch as it moved around the clock face, the quiet ticks and tocks seeming to mock her as they seemed to slow and delay in her mind.

After what had seemed like an eternity squashed into a mere morning and early afternoon, she was basically caught up on the books. Or at least, if she wasn't precisely caught up, Clara wasn't feeling particularly motivated to keep working on them. Not that she'd been doing anything that could really be considered ‘work’ for the last hour and a half.

Shoving the pocketwatch away, she glanced at Isiah. He was across the room in Finn’s office, twirling a pencil in his fingers. Clara wasn't sure what he was meant to be ‘working’ on in her brother's office, but she assumed pencil twirling wasn't it.

It had been a slow afternoon. No one had been keen on laying bets or working, so the shop had emptied early. Everyone had finished up their day's work and gone home.

In this heat, Clara didn't blame them. Despite the mound of work she had to complete for her brother, she didn't want to be here either.

Clara had already shed her sweater. She couldn't respectably lose any more layers or she'd be left in just her slip, but she longed for it. She longed for a breeze or dip in one of the ponds on the grounds of Arrow House. She longed for a chunk of ice from the ice box in the kitchen. She longed for the end of this Friday afternoon, the end to this stale, sticky existence.

Clara pushed herself back from the desk—Tommy's desk, though he never used it anymore. The chair was more hers than his these days. Tommy had once said it could be Clara’s one day—the boss's chair—but even though it was her who sat in it more than him, Clara wasn't the boss. Today, she felt no better than any other working person staring at the clock and waiting for the end of their shift. It seemed that was all she’d done all day.

She'd have to come back and finish what she hadn’t accomplished before the end of the month—over the weekend or early before she was due at the Jamaica Row office on Monday morning. It wasn't smart putting it off, but Clara didn't care. The heat had zapped any sense of caring from her system, leeching all of the diligent conscientiousness she was known for straight out of her.

"What are the odds we get caught out if we lock up early?”

Isiah's foot fell off the desk and slammed against the floor, Clara's sudden presence in the room startling him more than it should have considering a wall of windows lined the office and he’d faced that way, his glossy gaze set out toward the empty shop she crossed over on her way to get to him.

"Christ, Clara—Trying to stop my fucking heart, eh?"

Clara sighed, rolling her eyes at Isiah’s dramatics out of nothing more than habit. The whole bit was familiar. He usually would have wrapped her head in an arm, ruffling her hair as retribution, but today he barely moved, barely even allowed the muscles of his mouth to pull into a smirk.

Clara was glad for it because if Isiah laid a hand on her, Clara thought she might scream. The idea of him coming anywhere near her in this heat, of his warm hand in her already frizzy hair…she felt warmer just thinking about it.

"The only thing I'm trying to do is stop working."

"You're finished?”

Clara shrugged. She didn't have it in her to lie, but she didn’t quite want to admit she’d been doing close to nothing all day either. "Are you?'

"I've been done for hours."

"What are you sitting in here for, then?"

She could see that she wasn't the only warm one. Isiah had rolled his shirt sleeves. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She couldn't imagine why he'd choose to sit here when he could be anywhere else.

Isiah raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

"Fucking hell. You’re babysitting. Tommy's such a—"

“Finn," Isiah interrupted.

"What?"

"It was Finn’s idea. Said 'I've got a meeting across town. Keep an eye on her.’ Not Tom."

Clara hummed, filing that annoying development away to complain about later. For today it was an order from Finn’s mouth, but before Finn, it had been John, and before that, she knew the order had originated with Tommy and Arthur. Tommy, who Isiah no routinely called 'Tom' and defended, as if they were friends. On the same side of things. Clara let the thought go, too hot for the annoyance that came with thinking too hard on her brothers.

"Where'd Finn go, anyway?'

"Meeting across town," Isiah answered, repeating the words with a smirk.

Clara breathed deeply, stifling the urge to hit him. She could imagine herself doing it, the satisfaction of her open palm—all clammy and swollen with the heavy moisture of the air—smacking against Isiah’s stupid, sweaty forehead.

“I just said.” Isiah added, stupid grin still on his face. “The heat getting to you, there, Miss Shelby?”

It was hotter in Finn's office than it was in Tommy's. There were no windows to the outside here, no airflow. Clara pulled at her dress, the fabric sticking to her collarbone as she tried to catch some relief.

“I meant who’s he with?”

Isiah shrugged. “Afraid that's above my pay grade. Can’t be asking after the boss’s whereabouts now, can I, love?”

Clara rolled her eyes. Finn wasn’t any sort of boss, not really, even if he was acting like it lately. And the amount of things that fell above Isiah's pay grade had dwindled over the last few years. She was nearly certain Isiah knew exactly who Finn was meeting with and what it was about, but she let it go, figuring that if it was important or relevant to her, he'd have just told her. The fact that he was playing with her told her it wasn't either of those things.

“Fine. Tell me, love, does the 'boss' have anything good in that drawer there?�� Clara nodded toward the desk and Isiah shook his head, chuckling.

“What are you shaking your head for? What’s he going to do?” she asked. “Fire us for borrowing his whiskey and skiving off?”

“Tom—”

“I don’t care what Tommy or Arthur or John or Finn has said. It’s hot and there’s no reason for us to be cooped up here. I’ll take my chances with the lot of them.” Clara reached down, pulling out the bottle of whiskey. She opened it and took a slug before she handed the bottle to Isiah. After he drank, Clara held a hand out to him.

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the hand they both knew was clammy and damp with sweat. Clara ran her hand down the side of her dress before presenting it again.

Isiah rolled his eyes as he slipped his hand into hers and Clara groaned, dropping his slicked hand in an instant. Isiah smirked as he ran his hand down the side of her skirts same as Clara had just done. No other man would’ve dared to slide his hand down Clara Shelby’s side like that, but this was Isiah and they were alone in the shop—no prying eyes to watch over them for a change.

“You’re insufferable.”

Isiah chuckled. “You’ve said so plenty enough.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Well, between you and me, it’s mutual.”

Clara yanked his hand then, pulling him out of the chair and to his feet. Isiah stumbled for her benefit.

“You’re testy today.”

“I’m hot,” Clara answered, walking towards the staircase. She tugged Isiah along up the first few steps, her arm straining as Isiah stopped on the third step from the bottom.

“And we’re going to the second floor to cool off?”

Clara took a deep breath before stopping and turning back to Isiah.

“We’re all locked up?”

Isiah nodded. He'd gone around to check all of the doors after Finn headed out. “Have been for hours.”

“Good, now shut up and do what you're told.”

Isiah snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

Clara smirked at that. At least someone respected her. Even if it was just Isiah, and even if he was only playing, the telltale smile tugging at his lips, a bit of glee right there dancing in his eyes. Because even with those things present, Clara knew some part of it was genuine. Isiah respected her more than most people in her life. Believed in her more than most, too. And he had always offered up a bit of his power in the context of their relationship, allowing her to win on most things.

Not every single thing, but most.

Enough of the time that Clara knew when he was doing it.

As they moved up the stairs, the heat wrapped around them like a blanket. Someone had shut all of the windows, the air up there even more stale than it had been down in the shop.

Clara had a moment of doubt while the stifling heat grew, smothering them both and challenging Clara's breathing. Sweat collected on her back and chest under her clothes. She cursed in her head that maybe Isiah was right. Maybe there was no relief to be found on this Friday afternoon, not unless she wanted to give in and head out to her brother's house.

But Clara didn’t want to. If she did, Tommy would have questions about the books and whether or not she’d caught up yet. She didn’t have it in her to try to lie to him. If she was being honest, she didn’t have it in her for much of anything except simply being.

Walking the stairs of her childhood home with Isiah’s hand growing sweaty in hers, Clara was reminded of simpler days. Of times when she’d been just allowed to be. Even then, she’d been an anxious child. Overwhelmed and feeling like she was pulled in a million different ways, but looking back on it now, Clara was nostalgic for a certain freedom inherent to childhood. A certain freedom that came with not fully understanding the actions and motivations of the adults surrounding her.

She had always sought to understand, had always wanted to be a part of things, and now that she was—now that she and Isiah both were thoroughly integrated parts of the things they’d once begged to be included in—Clara would give anything for the two of them to go back to before.

To be reading together from a book, or pretending to be Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. To be just two kids in their own little bubble, just the two of them against the world. It was a lovely thought, accompanied by a lovely feeling of nostalgia and as they stepped onto the second floor—just the two of them there within the walls of number 6 Watery Lane—Clara thought maybe it could still be the case.

The times were less frequent these days, but there were still moments when Clara would catch Isiah's gaze across the room, the two of them immediately caught up in some secret conversation that no one else even knew was taking place.

And sometimes, the two of them would dance, and as Isiah spun Clara around, she could’ve sworn there was no one else in the world. On those occasions, it was as if the music played of its own accord, no one needed to pull the strings or croon the melodies, the two of them feeling anonymous and alone even though they were surrounded by other couples.

“Come on, Siah,” Clara said as she tugged Isiah’s hand, some part of her certain that she could reach out and grasp that feeling, as if it was something she could trap and hold onto, keeping it close to her heart.

Isiah smiled at Clara’s impatience, his body so near to hers that he could feel the heat radiating off her back, a warmth separate from that of the air around them, almost pulsing between them.

Clara dropped his hand as she stepped into her bedroom, still neat and tidy and kept as if the 12-year-old girl she once was still lived there. As she moved toward the window, Clara pressed the whiskey bottle into Isiah’s hand, not bothering to look back to confirm it was within his grasp before she let go.

Isiah leaned against her dresser, watching as she struggled with the window, the wooden frame stiff and swollen and thoroughly stuck from the heat and years of disuse.

As he watched, Isiah wondered...when was the last time Clara Shelby had climbed out through her bedroom window? When was the last time Isiah Jesus had climbed out with her?

Neither of them could remember, and it seemed like the room had forgotten as well, the window remaining belligerently shut even as Clara dug in her heels and leveraged all of her strength in trying to raise the pane, a new layer of sweat gleaming at her hairline as she struggled.

“Alright,” Isiah started as he eased off the dresser, the whiskey bottle set aside. “Let me—”

“No!” Clara answered, her voice booming with the strength of her struggle as she kicked a leg out in Isiah’s general direction to keep him back. “I’ll get it. You choose a book.”

Clara sent her foot out again, this time directing it toward the other side of the room, and Isiah turned to follow the direction of her kick, straight to the chair beside her bed where a stack of books sat piled dangerously high.

The pile was a mix of old and new, a selection of books from her childhood and few of her more recent favorites interspersed with a few of the books Isiah remembered as coming from Tommy’s shelf. Those books had once been forbidden to Clara, but Isiah supposed they were far beyond forbidden books at this stage. And Tommy Shelby had far bigger concerns than what types of books his sister was reading.

Isiah fished a book out of the pile before returning his attention to Clara. He was about to sit down on her bed to watch the show of her struggle when the window flew open, the sudden movement accompanied by a rush of air and a celebratory shout from Clara.

“I told you I would get it,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow as she turned to him.

Isiah rolled his eyes fondly and crossed the room to grab the whiskey, a swallowed comment on the tip of his tongue because even though Isiah and Clara usually passed quips back and forth, he was more interested in getting out on the roof, more interested in the reprieve of fresh air. Isiah pressed the book and bottle into Clara's hands before swinging himself out through the window.

Isiah was through in a small span of seconds, but it was certainly a more difficult maneuver than he remembered now that his body was all long limbs and the window seemed infinitely smaller than it once was.

Reaching back through the frame, he took the book and the bottle Clara handed off. Isiah set them both aside before holding his hand out back through the open window.

“I can—”

“Just let me help, won’t you?” Isiah interrupted. He wiped his hand down the front of his pants before holding it out again. “Gotta fight me about everything.”

“I’m not—” Clara grasped his hand, allowing Isiah to tug her through, and letting go once she was steady on her feet. “—fighting. I just—”

“Can do it yourself,” Isiah answered. “I know. Doesn’t mean you should always have to.”

Clara huffed even though a part of her appreciated the sentiment. She tried to be independent. She tried to do everything for herself. She tried to prove how smart and strong and capable she was to just about everyone, but she didn’t have to prove any of that to Isiah.

Clara unbuttoned the top of her dress, gently fanning herself with the loose fabric as she looked over the courtyard. She took a deep breath, grateful for the grey and cloudy Birmingham skies that shielded them from the heady rays of sun she usually craved.

The roof outside of her bedroom wasn’t exactly the reprieve she had imagined, but it was marginally better than the dense staleness of the shop and her bedroom.

“Romeo and Juliet?” Clara asked as she lowered herself to the roof and reached for the book. “Really, Isiah?”

While Clara enjoyed her Shakespeare, the play hadn’t exactly been her favorite, and her memories of the piece were tainted by the fact that she’d first read it at school, with Juliet’s role going to a girl she wasn’t particularly fond of. Clara would’ve preferred to revisit Sherlock Holmes or one of Tommy’s old books.

Isiah shrugged and sat down beside her, reaching for the bottle. “Reminded me of when you tried stepping out with that Italian kid.”

He said it as if he didn’t remember the name of the ‘Italian kid.' As if it had been nothing but a blip. As if her social connections hadn’t gotten her into nothing but trouble that year and been the source of arguments between her and her family, and her and Isiah.

Clara shoved Isiah’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t stepping out with anyone.”

It had been a friendship. Maybe with a hint of a crush, but there had been no stepping out. Nothing close. Her brothers' reputation had seen to that.

“And anyway, it’s more like when you were stepping out with that Cheapie girl.”

Isiah raised an eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

“Ruth,” Clara answered. “Practically Wally Bartow in a dress.”

He snorted. “It was one dance, Clara. Didn’t even know her name. Had no clue she was a Bartow.”

Clara shrugged. “You looked awfully cozy if I remember properly.”

“Well, that’s just how I dance, love.” Isiah winked at her before taking a swig from the bottle. “You know that better than anyone.

“And I'm sorry to inform you, but if either of us is destined to have a love life like these two—” Isiah nodded towards the book. “—it’s you. No matter who you end up with, it’ll be like Montagues and Capulets. Shelbys against whatever poor sap you choose.”

Isiah knocked her shoulder, the touch telling her it was only a joke. Clara stayed leaning against him as long as she could manage in the heat before prying the bottle from his fingers to take a sip.

“Ada says us Shelby girls are cursed that way.”

Isiah reached for the book, thumbing through the pages rather than answering. He had an idea about that particular curse. He had been old enough to remember how Ada’s marriage had been handled, and even if he hadn’t been, Isiah knew how Clara was being managed.

How they both had been managed for years now.

Isiah reached out for the bottle, taking another swig before he started reading.

“Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene…”

They passed a few hours reading and talking and sipping from the bottle, the pair moving on to gentle conversation interspersed with quotes from Shakespeare’s catalog once the pages became too difficult to read in the dimming light. Lost in the throes of conversation, easy laughter and the cooling night breeze, Isiah and Clara were suspended in what felt like a world that was just their own, their sense of time and place and awareness pushed aside.

Clara was giggling at some obscure quote Isiah had pulled seemingly out of nowhere when Isiah sensed suddenly that the world was no longer theirs alone, his attention gone to the far end of the shared courtyard, a familiar chorus of boisterous laughter reaching his ear from across the space.

Isiah was faintly aware of Clara naming the play he’d quoted before she shared her next quote, a gentle laughter lacing her words as she spoke, but the awareness of his heart pounding against his chest was stronger, a sudden urge to quiet her—to shield their presence there on the roof—taking over.

Overcome with that urge, Isiah could’ve shushed her or set his hand over her mouth to stifle the words.

Or he could've taken a breath and calmed himself and simply let her finish.

It wasn't as if they were doing anything wrong. There was no reason to hide.

Isiah could have let Clara tell him, ‘I do desire we may be better strangers,’ before dissolving into giggles. He could’ve then told her the quote was from ‘As You Like It,’ a quote which he was intimately familiar with because Clara had directed it at him and Finn a number of times before, sometimes in jest, sometimes because she wished to hurt them.

No one would question Isiah and Clara being out on the roof with a book and a bottle of whiskey, least of all Finn. People were plenty used to their antics, but something felt different tonight so Isiah only let Clara get half a sentence out before he placed his hand at the back of her head, drawing her in close and pressing his lips to hers in the dark, catching her words and quieting her so efficiently that it was nearly silent on the roof as Finn and the junior Peaky Boys passed over the back threshold of no. 6.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but Isiah felt Clara’s whole body relax within his touch. She leaned into the hand he cradled behind her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss he hadn’t intended on giving in the first place, her hands reaching out for him, her fingernails grazing his scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine.

Isiah pulled away, but even so, for a moment, he forgot where he was. He forgot why he’d kissed her, or at least he’d forgotten whatever justification he’d initially provided himself for pressing his lips to hers. He forgot about Finn and the boys. He forgot about Shakespeare and feuds and consequences. With his warm hand still on the back of Clara’s sweaty neck, barely able to see the details of her now flushed face, it was once again just the two of them there in the world.

With their faces still so close that Clara could feel Isiah’s warm whiskey-tinged breath on her face, her eyes shifted to his lips. She couldn’t remember what they were talking about before. She didn’t know why he’d kissed her. She had heard the back door slam, some part of her aware of her twin's proximity, an awareness Aunt Polly had always tol her was part of her gifts, but as Clara pulled Isiah's lips back to hers, she found she didn’t care to remember there was more to the world than the two of them and this.

She didn’t want to question it, and yet, Clara was first to pull away this time, her ears far more sensitive to the familiar sound of someone turning the handle of her childhood bedroom’s door than Isiah was. With a sudden swiftness, she removed herself from Isiah’s hold and pushed him back against the roof as she extended her hand up to the sky.

“There you are,” Finn said, sticking his head out the open window to see what Clara was pointing at. "What are the two of you out here for?"

Clara tilted her head back to her brother. “Constellations and Shakespeare. Would you like to join us?” she asked, the words feeling odd to her as they passed through her swollen lips.

“No,” Finn snorted. “It's payday. We’re heading to the Garrison, and then maybe to a few other—”

“No, thank you. I'm staying here,” Clara answered, even though it wasn’t exactly an invite Finn had extended, but more of a declaration. An order.

A flash of something passed over Finn’s face. Clara could barely see it in the dark, but she figured it was a bit of annoyance, maybe, or a touch of shock at being refused. It seemed like more and more, Finn was coming to expect the same sort of compliance from Clara that the others did, forgetting that it was mere minutes that separated their births rather than years.

“It’s too hot, Finn,” Clara added, her tone a bit softer. “I have no desire to be holed up in the snug, squashed between you lot.”

“Alright, then. Isiah?” Finn tried.

“She’s got a point, mate.”

Clara heard someone shouting from the floor below, the details muffled by the shut door, but Finn seemed to recognize their meaning well enough.

"Are you sure?" Clara sensed the question was for Isiah even though they could barely see each other's faces in the growing dark. "Drinks are on Shelby Company Ltd. tonight," Finn added, as if Isiah's drinks weren't usually on the house, anyway.

"It's alright. You go ahead with the boys," Isiah offered. "I'll keep an eye on Clara."

Clara's elbow twitched, the desire to ram it into Isiah's ribcage surging as she caught the hint of a smirk on Isiah's face, but Clara stopped herself knowing that it had been the right thing to say.

Finn nodded his understanding in the dark, his attention pulled to the stairs once again by a sudden noise.

"Don't fall asleep out there, Clara."

Clara heaved a breath to stop herself from telling him he had no business telling her where she could or couldn't fall asleep, but Isiah beat her to it, telling Finn he would handle it.

No matter that Finn would likely be the one who needed assistance finding his bed before the night was through...

"Have a good night," Finn said as he stepped away from the window, leaving Isiah and Clara alone. They leaned back against the roof, the two of them staring at the sky in silence as they listened to the sounds of Finn and the boys heading out through the back door, their shouting and laughter echoing as they traversed the shared courtyard.

When the echoes died away, Clara stretched out her fingers, seeking the familiar roughness of Isiah’s palm.

“That was bad,” Isiah said, his fingers closing around hers. “Close...we almost got caught.”

Clara heaved a breath before turning to face him. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

Isiah snorted. He glanced briefly to his right to meet Clara's gaze in the dark before tipping his head back to the sky.

"Hamlet," Isiah answered softly, squeezing her hand gently before releasing her fingers.

They had been through this time and time again, the two of them dancing around the label of what they were. Friends. Best friends. Something more. They had settled on friends as far as most of the world was concerned, but that didn’t mean the lines weren’t still blurry at times, their belligerent feelings tangled and confused and persistent. For years now, they had maintained a mostly unspoken agreement that they’d keep anything beyond friendship hidden—from themselves, from one another, from everyone else.

Most especially from everyone else.

They'd learned early on that it wasn't worth the strife. It wasn't worth the fight. Any resistance had been squashed down time and again. Somehow, this felt easier. Less painful.

If it was up to the two of them, perhaps things would be different. Perhaps they’d have tried at love and failed, and moved on by now. Or perhaps they would have tried and it would have been easy. Smooth.

Perhaps there would be no confusion or jealousy or hiding. No dismissing their closeness as nothing more than echo of a childhood friendship, no stinging comments on who the other had stepped out with—the slights used both as a weapon and a protection to guard their tender hearts.

But as it was, Clara and Isiah had never been given a proper chance at something more. A boundary had been set for them at the outset, a series of orders they’d both been too young to fight at the time. They’d been at the mercy of the powers that be, and even though they were older now, they were still at the mercy of that power.

Or maybe they still danced around the boundary because it felt easier, somehow safer for them both to keep that prescribed distance between them.

“Perhaps I am destined for tragedy, Isiah.” Clara mused. “Or simply to be alone. Unloved for eternity.”

“You’re not alone, love.” Isiah reached for the hand he’d dropped only moments before. “I’m right here.”

“And you know I love you," he added as Clara curled toward him, resting her head against his chest.

Clara sighed and nodded.

“I love you, too,” she added, and Isiah’s chest fell with the breath he’d been holding.

“Can we not just pretend that’s enough?” Clara asked. “Just for tonight?”

They were dangerous questions and Clara asked them without turning to observe Isiah’s face. She could feel the tenseness of his body beneath her, the fear her questions provoked.

“Like it’s just us in the world and no one else?” she tried, a question and a wish because the house was empty and the roof was dark and it was unlikely they’d be caught.

Isiah feared that a little, but more than he feared getting caught—for they’d successfully explained away so much over the years and he had no doubt they could manage it again—Isiah feared the two of them getting caught up in things. He feared getting caught up in the true feelings between them, the ones they’d so carefully worked to keep a hold on all of these years, a carefully manicured relationship that allowed them to be close, but not so close that they fell over the edge.

For even though Isiah dated other girls, and even though Clara insisted that Isiah Jesus was just a friend, they both knew there was something more between them. A magnetic pull, something in their hearts that they both knew to be true love.

In the moments when the two of them could be honest with each other, when the rest of the world fell away...on nights like tonight, it wasn’t especially unusual for their lips to meet. It wasn’t unusual for Clara’s hopelessly romantic naïveté to make a showing. For some part of her to feel that it could be easy. That it could work.

And it wasn’t unusual for Isiah to agree. For every part of him to want the very thing they spent the bulk of their days denying and shutting down.

They were both craving it now though, both barely able to remember why they ever did hold back. It was just the two of them there on the roof beneath a blanket of smog-covered stars, both of them still hazy around the edges due to the whiskey and the heat and the memory of their kiss, the memory of his hands on the back of her neck.

Those things made it easy to hope. They made it easy to forget.

Because if they were surrounded by friends at the Garrison or out at Arrow House or under the watchful eye of a Blinder, Clara and Isiah wouldn’t even entertain the thought that they could be more than friends. Under those circumstances, they’d be easily convinced that regardless of the feelings between them, it was much too complicated, much too difficult.

“Maybe we should just run away. Find a place in the world where there are stars in the sky and no Shelbys.”

Isiah snorted. “Not even you?”

“Well, just me,” Clara amended. “Just me and you and no one else we've ever met. It could be easy.”

“Maybe,” Isiah hummed, his hand tilting Clara’s face up to his as he spoke. “but the course of true love never did run smooth, Clara Shelby”

“A Midsummer Night’s—” Clara started, only for the rest of the play’s title to be caught up by Isiah’s lips.

They both knew it wasn’t a good idea, dabbling in love when neither was ready to commit to the war it would be. Neither was quite ready for the consequences of them moving beyond friendship, moving against her family’s wishes and decrees, but they let it happen anyway, some piece of their hearts holding on to the hope that someday they wouldn’t be hiding on a rooftop, stealing hungry kisses in the dark.

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Peaky Blinders (Non-Shelby!Sister) Masterlist

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #isiah jesus #isaiah jesus #isiah jesus x shelby!sister #isaiah jesus x shelby!sister #clara shelby #little lady blinder #shelby!sister #lovefest2024

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xiaosfiance · 6 months ago

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mha x fem! reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ ¡! sypnosis;;❞ ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤Your life is nearing its end with only a handful of days left to your name. Before you meet your untimely demise, you’re determined to check out everything listed within your bucket list. Although, to truly complete the objectives listed down, it seems like you’ll have to enroll into a hero school…

Or: a girl with 3 years left to live enrolls into U.A to complete her bucket list before dying.

"So, how is my condition?"

The fan hummed, filling the void in the air. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

The silence seemed to stretch out for an eternity until the doctor fixed his glasses and spoke.

"I'm sorry." he lowered his head.

"Based on the recent tests your-" his facade of professionalism begun to crack "It- it's progressed significantly. I'm afraid that based on our current assessment you have about..."

The smile on your face slipped for a moment, but you quickly regained it and giggled lightheartedly.

""It got worse, I presume?" You asked, cutting him off before he could continue. Perhaps you did that on purpose. "Don't tell me how much time I have left, I can already tell I won't like the answer."

"I just wish there was more we could do for you miss [Last Name], I'm truly sorry." Dr. Shojin's voice shook, and he quickly looked away. "I apologize, this is unprofessional of me."

"Didn't I tell you to call me [First Name]?" The doctor almost asked how could you be so calm right now while he was on the verge of tears.

"I...I promised...but in the end-" he choked.

"I'm sorry."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ⋆ ★°

The chair creaked as you rocked back and forth absentmindedly. From the years of overuse, one of it's feet was left worn down and noticeably a length shorter, which caused the chair to awkwardly tilt to the side if you pressed too much weight against it. You've grown fond of using it as a makeshift rocking chair, even if it wasn't intended for that purpose.

But today, you're not sat upon it to admire the scene outside the window— but to stare at the nearly-2-meter-long-list of objectives that you were supposedly meant to check out before your deadline.

...

Just how on earth and the heavens above were you supposed to do all this within such a short time?!

Your eyes trailed down the length of the paper. Might as well just add 'die before completing everything' to the list! But that kind of defeats the whole purpose of this in the first place...after all, dying before being able to check everything off would be something that you'd regret. And that is the opposite of the goal you ultimately wish to achieve through this bucket list:

To pass on without any regrets.

Sighing, you scratched your head with the back of your pen. Some of the things written here are close to impossible (but you're the one who wrote everything down so the only one to blame is yourself) to achieve without breaking a few laws here and there, though living in a society built on heroes makes that hard to accomplish. And some of the tasks require you to become a hero yourself! (Then again, who's fault is that?)

It's been quite some time since you've begun your conquest of taking down the challenges listed in your bucket list one by one. So far, you have completed about-

...Break an expensive relic in a museum... go shark diving... go bungee jumping with an electrical extension cord... gaslight a stranger into believing they are your sibling...

You have completed approximately about 0.4% of the list in the span of 2 months!

...

The pen fell to the ground with a thump as your arms fell to your side in hopelessness. At this rate, you're never going to be able to complete this list.

Truth be told, as you were listing down the things you wanted to do before dying, the question 'Is it humanely possible to do all of this before my deadline?' never even crossed your mind.

As each second passed while you pondered about the different ways you could finish the list, the clock on the wall ticked, its hands moving while time went on.

Tick. Tock.

You started to feel like you should get up and find something better to do before you regret not doing so sooner. A familiar feeling started to take root within your stomach at that thought.

But...technically, you were doing something, weren't you? You were thinking. Thinking about how exactly you'll pull this off. So you technically weren't wasting time, right?

Tick. Tock.

The birds outside your window chirped as they took off in a flight, their feathers slowly descending as they left.

Tick. Tock.

Actually... you might have an idea...

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ⋆ ★°

"Haha! Good one, kid," The man chuckled, but a beat passed. "Wait...are you being for real right now?"

Your blank stare gave him the answer he needed.

"...A hero school, huh?" He muttered. "I think it's nice you want to be one and all. I'd be happy to help you enroll in one, but it's abit too late, ain't it?"

He leaned into his chair, spreading his bright vermillion wings out while he scratched the side of his cheek. "The entrance exams for all hero schools in Japan ended weeks ago. Even if I wanted to, I can't."

The brows on your face were knitted together as you frowned. "I'm sure you have the connections and status to get me into one, don't you?" You insisted.

"Geez...did you seriously call me here just for that?" He sighed as he shook his head in mock disappointment. "I don't have a lot of free time these days, ya' know. Asking me to use my status as a hero to enroll you into a hero school... what an underhanded method— that's pretty bold, even for you." The man before you crossed his arms and looked into your eyes, as if he were trying to study you.

That suspicious look in his eyes quickly went away as soon as it appeared.

"Don't you think it's kinda unfair to the attendees who actually worked hard to get into those schools if you just mysteriously enrolled thanks to my help?" He asked, going back to his usual lax tone. "And it practically goes against the values of being a hero, too."

Running a hand through his blond locks, he looked off into the wall in deep thought. "Makes me wonder why you're suddenly so determined to become one now. Why didn't you just enroll while the entrance exams were ongoing?" He glanced back at you briefly, his eyes filled with curiosity instead of the wariness that previously occupied his mind.

"But, if you want to experience being a hero that badly, I'm sure I can pull some strings to get you into my agency. Or, better yet have you as my sidekick, ey?" He gave you a smile. "You won't have to deal with homework, it won't be unfair to the students in hero courses, and most of all— you get to work with me!"

His idea was met with a scoff, but he seemed persistent. You couldn't tell if it was because he was trying to steer you away from the idea of taking advantage of his status and fame to forcibly get you into a hero school, or if he just really wanted to spend more time with you. It was more likely the former.

"And how often is it that you get to work alongside Japan's No.3 hero, Hawks, huh?"

"No thanks." You quickly refused.

You wanted to enroll into a hero school to complete your tasks; atleast that way, you will be able to avoid the responsibilities that come along with it more easier. But actually working? No. You simply don't have enough time for that, and quite frankly, you won't even live to see the day you become a full fledged pro hero within the ranks like the obnoxious guy Infront of you.

"Aww," Hawks flashed you a mock frown, but behind his yellow visors, his golden eyes were tinted in amusement. "Don't you want to work with— or for— lil' ol' me?"

"Absolutely not. I hate— no, detest the idea of doing so. Enroll me into a hero school."

He took a bite of his chicken with a sour expression as he grumbled something that fell deaf to your ears. "Well, it doesn't matter," Hawks shrugged it off.

"What's with the sudden request, anyway? Last time I remember, you dropped out of school."

You averted your gaze and crossed your arms. "It's none of your business."

Hawks smile faltered for a quick moment.

"None of my business? Last time I remember you were my business." His tone remained playful, although it had taken an edge that suggested that he was anything but that.

When you chose not to reply, the silence in the atmosphere was so palpable it was like you could cut through it with a knife. Although, the silence between the two of you couldn't even compare to the day you got the news from the doctor.

It continued on like this for a few moments, staring at you with that same calculative gaze he'd use when interrogating criminals, but without the tenacity or menacing glare he would use to get the villains to spill their secrets. Seeing your unbothered response, Hawks sighed reluctantly.

"Okay, okay, fine. Keep your secrets close to yourself, if you want to hide them that badly." Hawks shook his head, once again going back to his usual self. "Still, though, there's nothing I can do about it. You either join my agency, or wait next year to enroll."

Nothing you can do about it? Huh... that sounds familiar.

You didn't realize you said that outloud until Hawks raised his eyebrow. "...What?"

Well, since you've already said it, might as well go with a flow. You need to find a way to enter a hero school, no matter what.

"Nothing you can do about it?" You took a deep breath for what you were about to do. "Are you sure about that? You have the power to do do so, though. But you won't."

"Seriously, I can't, kiddo. It's not good for me to use my status like that-"

"You can't? You can't do anything about it; like the day you couldn't do anything for my parents?"

And just like that, Hawks expression fell and twisted into a painful mix of guilt, confusion and despair that he desperately tried to suppress.

You arose from your seat, and made your way towards the exit. "Didn't know you were a man who clung to his values that tightly."

"Atleast do this for me, because you couldn't save them."

When Hawks came back to his senses, you were already gone.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ⋆ ★°

2 days later, the doorbell to your apartment rang and you opened the door to see a mailman handing you a letter.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ⋆ ★°

HI :33 this story and all the OTHER CHAPTERS are available on quotev!! If u liked this one shot (or prologue, rather) check it out<33

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hwanchaesong · 7 months ago

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┗🖋️ Behind the victory is a spice / Ball tagged onto the prize / Then the touch is nothing but a vice / Inhaled not once, but thrice 📖

🎧: Taylor Swift - The Alchemy

wc: 1.6k

genre & warnings: fluffff, tinier than a dust angst, college setting, football player!Riki, inaccurate game of football, cursing, mentions of beer, appearnce of other enha members, bisco and konon as special guests, etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The Tortured Poets Department series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

The incessant knocking on your door made your head ache even worse, the scowl that greeted the person behind the annoying sounds disappeared when you saw who it was.

"Riki, I told you I don't want t- oh? Konon? What are you doing here?" you frowned apologetically at the girl, to which she only shrugged off.

"I'm here to give you this." she hands you a piece of clothing, a familiar one and you can't help the nose scrunch.

"Uh.. thanks. Take care on your way back." you mumbled, not believing that your boyfriend has to send his sister here in order to accomplish his mission.

"Wait!" she hurriedly says, stopping you from closing the door, "I know that my brother is an idiot for doing what he did. But he does love you, given that he's been sulking since your fight."

You laughed a bit at the snitching, imagining the tall boy pouting, "Thank you so much, Konon. Don't worry, we'll work things out."

She waves her hand, "I'm not worried in the slightest!" she giggles, "He deserves the silent treatment, but I do hope that you'll attend his game."

You nod, bidding each other goodbyes and you sigh. Looking at the item in your hand before spreading the oversized fabric out, a small piece of paper falling from it.

You raised an eyebrow, picking the paper up and examining its contents and it gave you a major facepalm moment. Still, finding it uniquely endearing.

Good day to the prettiest girl who is reading this! You have been given the honor to attend my (Nishimura Riki aka your boyfriend) game tomorrow at exactly 4 PM.

Please encircle your answer from the following options:

1. Yes

2. Yes

3. All of the above

Thank you! (ily)

You rolled your eyes at the silly content of his letter, tucking it gently on your coffee table and proceeding to your room to match the jersey with fashionable pants.

He basically wants you to come, so might as well give in. Besides, their team calls you their lucky charm. So you do have to attend either way, or else those rowdy boys will bust your ear out at uni.

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

Riki nervously looks around the stadium, eyeing for the familiar figure that he hasn't seen for days. (and it kills him deep inside but he would NEVER admit it)

"She'll come." one of his teammates, Heeseung, pats his back when the older noticed his anxious expression, "We explicitly told her to attend our matches because she brings us good luck. She'll come."

"True that." Jake butts in, giving the younger a comforting side hug, "Now stop pouting and let's do the huddle."

Riki gets hauled into the middle of the field, joining the nestle of hyping the team up, but he couldn't fucking concentrate.

Focusing was proven difficult if he hasn't seen or felt your presence before a game, and it shows.

It was clear to anyone with eyes that their japanese star player had something in his mind- you.

He is getting icky, his teammates were exasperated as well. They are 5 points behind and they are all shouting for Riki to get that touchdown.

Can he do it?

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

You took a deep breath when you heard the loud cheers inside the stadium. Wiping your clammy hands on your denim pants and boosting yourself up to go in there.

Finally, you entered the arena, the bright lights blinding you for a second as you took some time to adjust. Moving through the plethora of watchers is a damn journey, finding the VIP spot that is always reserved for you.

You sighed out of relief when you saw the seat was not taken because for real, you did overthink that someone might have stolen your place.

Your eyes scanned the area, gazing at the scoreboard then towards the players. You hear their coach yelling, then you focus on the man that you had been avoiding for a while.

Football is something that you never truly understand, sports in general, but your beloved is passionate about it. That is why amidst your studies, you put in the maximum effort to learn about it. That is why you can confidently say that you somehow understand the situation after analyzing what is happening.

Expanding your lung capacity, clutching on the metal bars that separate the bleachers from the field, you did the unexpected.

“Nishimura fucking Riki! If you don’t score a touchdown, I will not cook your favorite bungeoppang anymore!” you screamed like a madman, and it was like thunder struck the stadium as your voice echoed throughout the field.

Who knew that L/N Y/N has the power to momentarily stop the whole crowd from cheering and the players to stop moving.

Riki grins widely, scouting the bleachers and seeing you in the same seat that he has always saved for you during his games.

The boy gave you a salute and even if you can’t clearly see his face due to his helmet, you know that he’s sporting a smug and victorious expression because you can’t resist him.

Blood rushed into your cheeks and you tried to hide your embarrassment, concentrating on the game instead as the world started spinning again.

You watched your school team defend like their life depended on it, more importantly, you stared intently at Riki’s running form, getting nearer to the end zone.

You clasped your hands together, adrenaline coursing through your veins, praying for him to go for it. To win this and make you proud.

And he did.

Before the time ended, Riki successfully reaches the ball behind the plane of the opponent’s goal line. The side of your university in the arena went nuts when the broadcaster announced an overdramatic: "Number 10, Nishimura Riki, scores a touchdown! That makes Decelis University our champions for this year's league!”

You clap your hands in celebration, beaming in happiness as you witness the chaotic scene in the field. The whole team is popping beers and splashing water, removing their shirts wildly, throwing their helmets, squawking like crazy and lifting the man who set the winning shot up in the air.

Just then, Riki’s eyes meet yours and he immediately runs over to you, ignoring the trophy that was being handed to him by their coach. He does not give a fuck about the barrier separating you two, hoisting you above it, making you squeal around his arms.

“Oh my god! Riki! No, let me go!” you laugh, gripping his shoulders for support as he walks back to his teammates.

“No can do, princess.” he smirks, raising you even further and declaring you as the team’s personal four-leaf clover.

All members howl in excitement, agreeing with his statement because truly, ever since they met you, everything has been going their way. You are an amulet that blocks any ill-fated situations that might fall upon them.

“Put me down, Riki! This is embarrassing!” you covered your face with your hands and he finds it incredibly adorable how the tips of your ears turned pink.

He follows you though, smoothly setting you on the grass field and gently removing the obstacle that interrupts him from getting a peek on your gorgeous face that he missed dearly.

He holds your hands in his stupidly large ones, his fingers caressing your knuckles and he leans down until your noses are touching each other.

“Thank you for coming, my princess. And wearing my jersey too.” he mumbles and you disconnect your intertwined hands, reaching to push his sweaty hair back and resting your palms on the back of his neck.

“I can’t possibly miss an important game of my MVP, right?” you chuckled and it was such a tender moment. Like no one was around you, well, in your point of view they are all blurry as the man in front of you invades all of your senses.

Riki hums, holding your waists and pressing your lips together without any further ado.

He can’t help but smile into the kiss, the reality of having you in his arms like this outweighs any shiny prizes that he could ever dream of.

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

You giggled when your boyfriend kept on leaving feathery smooches on the expanse of your neck, frowning when he suddenly stopped to look at you with such sassiness.

“By the way, you have to explain yourself, missy.” he says, tightly holding onto you as you two cuddle on the sofa.

“About what?”

“About why you’re late at my game yesterday.”

It was like a light bulb turned on in your brain, a wicked smile on your face that it somehow scared Riki despite being a menace himself.

“Well, I still haven’t forgiven you for the shit you pulled last week.” you admit and he groans, complaining that he only lent the jacket to some unknown girl to make you jealous.

“Exactly!” you pout, grabbing his face and squishing his face, making him look like a baby duck, “So I have to do something about it.”

Riki raised an eyebrow, suddenly curious at your story.

“What did you do?” a question that Riki regretted when you spilled the answer to it.

“I went and retrieved the jacket from the girl,” you put a finger on his lips, “don’t ask how I got her address. Then I gave the abomination to Bisco. He really loved playing with it, turning it into tiny little pieces of fabric. Very artistic.”

Riki’s movements came to a halt, his eyes slowly moving towards his pet who is currently chilling on the carpet, giving him a nasty side eye when he lightly glared at the Maltipoo. Then his gaze returned to you, gaping like a fish.

“That jacket was expens-”

“The jacket smelled like a girl, unless you want it back?” the tight smile you gave Riki was enough sign for him to shut up.

“No, princess.” he hugs you closer to him, leaving a peck on the crown of your head, “I don’t want it. I can always buy another one.”

taglist:

@ramenoil @shakalakaboomboo @slutforjeno

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