#but then i remember my bar is set too high & i have a hard enough time getting into new fandoms as it is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoonmetogether · 2 months ago

Text

Not In the Cards Prelude pt. 1

pairing: gambler!Yoongi x !fem reader genre: strangers-to-lovers, age gap, intro to mafia/bodyguard au summary: how it all started. you won all of his money at poker, he hates you for it, but you find yourself hiding in a closet with him. (This is rlly e2l2e2l lol) warnings: alcohol, mild derogatory language, yoongi's an asshole, reader antagonizes him, motorcycle riding, gambling, smoking, drinking, smut, quickie in a janitor’s closet 🥴, insane bickering, usage of sl*t, yoongi and those red chopsticks from haegeum, a smidge of violence (not towards each other), implied parental absence, scars, reader mentions a minor injury from a car crash wc: 10.2k minors dni. 18+ only thanks to my beta reader @yoonglesyeobo and also to @syllviere for their help and support! <333

prologue l ch. 1 play nice l prelude. strangers 1/2 l prelude. strangers 2/2 l ch. 2 l

You picked a great time to fly back home - smack dab in the middle of monsoon season. Of all the light things you packed in your backpack and duffle bag, you forgot an umbrella.

And the first thing you did once you set foot on the mainland soil of your Jeju pit stop, was ask your driver to take you to the Sehwa beach on the east coast. But the cash you had got you only about three-quarters of the way there, so you were dropped off into the one part of town you’re familiar with. Memories of happier times dance around the streets as you walk down them, on your way to the place you know best. Even though it will remind you of how things once were and never will be again, you go because it’s the only place you know where you can earn money without really having to work for it.

You’re soaked to the bone when you walk into the bar. The lights are low and dimmed with a green hue and floating smoke. It’s loud with banter as men get drunk on this gloomy Friday night.

You find an ATM near the bathrooms and withdraw 700,000 won.

“Hi, sweetie. Are you lost?” one of the pretty waitresses asks as she approaches you in a short apron and even shorter skirt, lips painted a vibrant ruby. Her silky bob is curled just above a black choker around her neck, and she glances down as you slide your wad of cash into your wallet, sliding it in your jacket pocket.

“Uh, no. Can I get a drink and a seat please?”

She looks at you with apprehension laced in her polite expression. “There’s a much quieter bar a few blocks down the street. You might have a better time there.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m actually looking to win some money.”

“I see,” she says after a pause, giving you a onceover. “Are you old enough?”

Yeah, an illegal gambling ring probably wouldn’t want to get tacked on with another charge of hosting minors if the cops were ever smart enough to come snooping around a place like this. You pull out your ID and hand it to her, watching as she holds it up and you know just what she’s looking for because you’ve used a fake to get in here before.

The corner of her mouth lifts in a small smile as she passes it back to you. She turns around and beckons you forward with two fingers in the air, leading you through the bar and as you trail behind her, nostalgia walks with you.

At the bar was where you took your first shot, had your first cigarette, in spite of your brother’s protests, and the den downstairs that you’re heading to was where you won your first real hand at poker. It’s still the same old musty, dusty, probably moldy basement that you remember, but now the ghosts of your past linger in the air so it’s hard to go through without getting a little misty-eyed.

As you step off the stairs, the waitress is surveying the room. It’s much more crowded and loud than upstairs since there are high stakes all around. You strain your neck, looking for an empty chair but they’re all occupied by men with too much time and not enough money to lose.

“Well, all of the tables are full right now, but I can set you up with a drink at the bar while you wait for an opening.”

“What about the table in the back?” Her eyes narrow.

“That’s for more experienced players.” Leaning against the railing, you hum, check your manicure.

“I’ll cut you twenty percent of my win if you get me in there.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “You’re that confident?”

“This is where I learned how to play pro. I win more than I lose.”

She looks you up and down again, like she can’t figure you out.

“Make it twenty-five.”

“Deal,” you grin and she mirrors you, flashing her teeth.

“Follow me.”

You pull your damp hoodie further over your head in an attempt to shield your face as you follow her through the maze of tables towards a door in the far corner of the low-ceiling room. It’s slightly obscured by the counter and sheer, moth-eaten curtains that match the shitty wall color, and you thank the waitress when she pulls them to the side to direct you through. She then leads you into a small hallway but pauses right before the second door frame.

“I have to tell you, these men aren’t exactly their mothers’ favorite.”

You shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Alright, well if you change your mind…”

“Thanks, but I won’t. I owe you that big tip.”

She smiles. “Don’t let me down, girlie.”

“Is there room for one more, gentlemen?” Her voice carries over the cocksure babble of the middle-aged men surrounding the round, green-felt table, littered with scattered poker chips, worn ashtrays and crystal glasses of whiskey. You’re met with a thick cloud of smoke as you approach an empty seat at the table. They all fall quiet as you pull down your hood, revealing your wet hair and the fact that you are not one of them.

A collective muttering of derision rises as you pull out the chair but you act completely unbothered, unzipping your drenched coat and shrugging it off. You fish your wallet out of your jacket and pass all of your cash to the attendant who exchanges it for chips.

“What do you know about poker?” one of the men prods.

"Plenty. Deal me in. What’s the ante?”

“I think you’re wasting your time,” another cuts in. “You should go see if they have a kiddie table.”

The men shove elbows into each other in raucous laughter at your expense but it doesn’t affect you at all.

“Let her play.”

You look up at the new voice. Gravelly. Gruff. Tempting.

Shit. How did you miss… him? The youngest man in the room, the one with parts of his face shadowed by the god-awful, dim lighting, has not taken his eyes off of you since you walked in. You can tell by the way the bumps on your skin prickle every time your attention flickers in his direction and your eyes catch. His hair is orangey, as much of it that pokes out from under his black beanie, and he’s wearing a black varsity jacket with white stitching on the front that makes him stand out among the rest of the men’s unflattering suits and loose ties.

He lifts his cigarette, takes a drag, and blows it out, blinking between you and two black poker chips he taps on the table.

You glare at the subtle smirk on his lips as he says, “Easy win.”

This will be fun.

The first few rounds you do get shit hands, but you bet on them anyway, enduring the condescension that leers from the entire table each time. The only one who doesn’t laugh is the one you can’t stop stealing glances at, the one who just nonchalantly smokes and places bets and looks at his cards, and occasionally stares right back. Makes your heart flip. You’ve noticed, though, from watching him a few times, that when the flop is laid out and it’s time for the first bets, if he blinks a little erratically while staring at his hand, he folds soon after. You fold on a two-pair after checking, and the players get a kick out of that when you reveal that you had a potentially winning hand. You pretend to be super bummed. But now you’ve got them right where you want them.

So far, you’ve bet the majority of your money but you’re fairly certain that won’t matter in a few minutes. In your hand, you hold an 8 and 2 of Diamonds. On the table, lies a ten of Spades, six of Clubs, 4 and Queen of Diamonds, and three of hearts. You school your expression. One more diamond card and it’s a flush. You look up and it seems the majority of the table has folded, but ‘kiddie table’ man and ‘beanie with a mean stare’ man are still in the running. Both of their hands have been good so far, but ‘beanie with a mean stare’ has won most of the rounds. This is the last one and you’re running out of time to win all of it back. You feign a nervous glance around the table before you check. ‘Kiddie’ checks as well and you wait for ‘mean beanie’ to follow suit but instead, he scoots the rest of his chips in to raise the bet. Huh. He’s getting cocky, going all in. He only blinked once when the dealer laid down the flop, so you suspect he has a good hand. But not a great one, so you’ll raise the stakes. The men mutter in amusement when you match his bet and he lifts a brow, but the rest of his expression remains neutral. The dealer asks if that’s the final bet, and when no one responds, he flips the fifth card. Your heart jumps.

A nine of Diamonds.

‘Kiddie’ goes first and displays his three-of-a-kind. Hm. Not bad. You glance over to ‘mean beanie,’ waiting for him to make the next move but he only stares at you, unblinking, a thin line between his lips. You take a deep breath and put on a sheepish smile while flattening your cards near the center of the table so everyone can see.

“Is this a flush?” They all still, and you fail to fight off a grin when their many pairs of eyes go back and forth between the river and your two low rank cards that add up to a high rank hand.

‘Mean beanie’ is now staring at his cards, a noticeable tick in his jaw and you know you’ve won. He tosses them down with a quick flick of his wrist and you can’t help your smirk at his obvious dejection. You observe his 5 of Hearts and 7 of Spades.

“Oh, a straight? How nice.” Your head tilts mockingly. “You almost beat me.”

He frowns and you feel enthralled, resisting the urge to blow him a demeaning kiss. With a content sigh, you lean forward to scrape your scored chips towards you, holding your arms out like a hoop to move them all because there’s just that many. You stand as an attendant appears to retrieve your chips to count and trade for the table’s cash. You think you’ll get a nice hotel room to shelter from the storm.

“It was a pleasure playing with you gentlemen,” you say politely as you stand. “I’ll enjoy spending your money.”

The devilish grin you send to all of them lingers on ‘mean beanie’ who is now refusing to look at you. There’s a pep in your step as you stride up to the attendant behind the counter near the door, waiting for him to cash you out.

You watch as the men file out, glaring at you and muttering bitter curses amongst themselves. You shrug it off. Serves them right for underestimating you just because you’re a young woman. You may have been putting on an act, but men run the world.

Shouldn’t they have been smart enough to pick up on that?

‘Beanie’ is the last one to go, head ducked as he pulls out his phone. He’s still in the hallway when you exit, backpack stacked with 10 million won. His foot is on the bottom step as he types furiously on his device.

“Hey, good game,” you say in a light tone as you pass him, but there’s too much sass in your smile to seem genuine. “And you’re right. That was an easy win.”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes narrowed in a vicious glare, pockets his phone and takes a step up. It makes your heart speed when he comes nearly face to face with you, and you can see him in this mildly better lighting.

“How’d you pull that off, huh? You count cards?” He’s pretty much seething but fucking hell, he's attractive.

“No,” you blink innocently, living for the ferocity in his darkened eyes. “I just count on men to be dumb enough to believe a pretty girl like me doesn’t know how to gamble. Thanks for being so full of yourself that you can’t see through a sham like that.”

His jaw ticks as his glare rakes up and down your form.

“You’re full of yourself, too. You’re not that pretty.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it’s obvious he’s just trying to make himself feel better by hurting your feelings because he has nothing else.

“Aww, you sound like a sore loser. Do you want to go back in there? Try to win some back?”

“I’m done playing for the night.” He still hasn’t gotten out of your face and the scent of his earthy cologne with traces of cigarette smoke is doing unhealthy things to your blood pressure.

“Understandable. It would suck to get your ass beat by a girl twice in a row.”

He's radiating with vexation but it doesn’t intimidate you in the slightest. If anything, it’s making him more attractive, which makes you think you should do some deep, serious internal reflection. His nostrils flare just before he swivels on his heel to face the steps.

“Oh, by the way, I noticed that you blink a lot when you get a bad hand. You should work on that.”

His head jerks to you, seeming to take offense to that. He looks you up and down again, scowls, and starts up the stairs.

“Maybe with your money, I’ll buy some expensive makeup to doll myself up better!” You call up.

“You’d need a lot!”

Fucking liar. You cackle as he jogs up the rest of the way.

******* Upstairs, he’s already out of sight. You relocate the waitress who greets you expectantly, an enthusiastic grin breaking out on her face when you pull out your winnings. She gives you a small cheer and while you sit at the bar to count out her cut, she makes you a drink on the house.

Once you finish it, you check the time and realize you shouldn’t hang around here for much longer. And you’re starting to feel the effects of jet lag now that you’ve got your money problems squared away. But of course you left your jacket downstairs. You ask the waitress if you can go get it.

“Sure, but come right back.”

In the hallway, you falter when you hear a one-sided conversation, spoken by that low stony voice that tickles your brain. You peek your nosy head around the corner, pulse spiking with a thrill when you see ‘beanie’ standing on the other side of the room, next to another hallway.

“The fuck do you mean it didn’t go through?

As he listens on the other line, he hangs his head, fingers digging into his eyes in what appears to be frustration before dropping them on his hip.

“Shit, are you serious?... Can you just send me some for a plane ticket? I’ll pay you back...” He sighs dejectedly. “Fine. See you back home.”

He curses again, louder this time, and you take that as your cue to saunter into the room, pretending you don’t notice him as you head for the table.

“You stalking me?” You blow a raspberry, leaning down to grab your jacket from the chair and hold it up for him to see.

“As if. You’re not that interesting. And you’re a sore loser,” you tack on. “Not my type.”

(Straight up lies.)

“Well, you’re fucking annoying.”

“Thank you!” You exclaim, hand on your chest like you’re honored. “I’ve worked so hard to be.”

He glowers at you and you really want to laugh. Why is he so angry? It’s not like you stole his money. Tricked him? Maybe, but you can’t exactly be fair in a place like this. His head shakes as he passes by you for the exit.

“So I really won all of your money, huh? And now you’re strapped for cash?” He pauses, slides narrowed eyes your way, and stuffs his hands in his jacket.

“Mind your business.”

“What? It just sounds like you’re in a tough spot, especially with the big storm coming later. I’d hate to think that you’re stranded in torrential downpour with nowhere to go all because some mid-looking girl took your money.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps.

“How is that patronizing? I’m just saying, I’m sorry you fell for my dirty little trick, but I can help you out if you want.”

He strides into your space and you step back, heart pounding when he gets in your face again. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes but you’re not at all threatened.

“I don’t need shit from you.” You tip your head up and bat your eyelashes, sneaking a glance at his lips, pink and plush and enticing.

“Okay,” you shrug nonchalantly, failing to fight off a small smirk. Warmth creeps up from your cheeks to your ears when his blown out pupils flash down to your mouth. And the tension in between you transforms with a feral magnetism.

His tongue darts out to his bottom lip and your eyes widen a fraction at the sight.

“You’re really aggravating, you know that?”

“You can walk away.” His head tilts at your challenge and the magnetism grows when he doesn’t move.

Just then, your heads turn towards the stairs when voices and footsteps start to descend.

He grabs your arm and tugs you around the corner and to the end of the hallway, whipping open a small door and stepping inside before pulling you along with him. Your nose wrinkles at the odious smell of industrial cleaning agents.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” he hisses, tugging you away from the door to the adjacent side of the small and dark closet. “No one’s supposed to be down here now that they’ve closed things up.”

“Oh,” you whisper, settling against the wall. “You don’t really strike me as the type to follow the rules.”

“I’m not,” he grits, voice deep enough to not be heard easily. “But I know that consequences still apply if I get caught.”

“Well, this isn’t how I expected to spend my Friday night,” you huff with a cross of your arms. “Holed up in some janitor’s closet with a common criminal.”

“You’re one too, y’know. You committed a felony just by stepping foot in here. And then another, when you won all that money.”

You mimic that last sentence in a childish tone and his chest heaves in a huff.

“Will you be quiet?”

“Am I pissing you off?”

“You have been since the first goddamn minute you walked in.”

“If I annoy you that much, you could’ve just hidden in here yourself and left me out there to get in trouble.”

“I still have time. I could push you out now.”

“Do it then.”

A silence follows, like he’s contemplating. Hesitating. That magnetism comes back to buzz and burn.

“Or maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, you wanted an excuse to get me alone in this dark, tight space?”

He scoffs. “You’re delusional.”

“Hm. Then why are you so close? There’s more than enough room for the both of us to have space.”

When he doesn’t say anything, unease pinches your gut as you think you’ve gotten ahead of yourself and misread things. You can’t help that his whole broody, pissed off vibe turns you on for some reason. So you move to get away from him, create some space now that you’re embarrassed but his hand finds the crook of your elbow and stops you. Heat floods your cheeks for a whole different reason.

“What are you trying to get at?” You smile, heart pounding with nerves because you know his rejection would sting like hell. But you’re not about to let his attitude shit on your confidence.

“C’mon, you’re not that dumb.” His fingers dig into your arm, not enough to hurt but enough to feel that you’ve pinched a nerve.

You gasp when he pushes your arm until your back hits the wall and you stare at the silhouette of his face, his hand lifting above your head. Blood rushes in your ears when he leans in so close that his warm breath fans down to your chin.

“You wanna be fucked in here like a slut? Is that it?”

Holy mother of fuck. The way he said that - husky, dark, low but so intense has to be a sin.

“Can you even get it up this late at night, old man?”

“Who the fuck are you calling old?” He snaps. “You’ve got to be at least 30.”

He better be joking! “What does that make you, then? 45? 50?”

“Try 27.”

“Huh. You’re still a lot older than me.” You don’t find that hot.

“By how much?” he queries, a bit of apprehension in his tone.

“5 years.”

He exhales sharply, a breath of relief. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Is almost 30 too early to have ‘dysfunctional’ problems?”

Large hands on your hips force you to turn around and face the wall, and you plant your palms on it with a gasp when he grinds his clothed erection on the swell of your ass.

“Does this feel ‘dysfunctional’ to you?” he growls, grinding against you again, slower this time but harsher so you can feel all of what’s swelling in his pants. He’s big, because of course he is, and you figure by the end of this, you’ll be the dysfunctional one.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter, throat suddenly dry. He chuckles, and it’s like a jolt of thunder worthy of a hurricane storming through every seed of your nerves.

Sighing, he leans into you, chest barely brushing your back, and returns his hand to the wall above your head, ducking his chin to breathe down your neck and you gasp again as he rolls his hips once more while muttering darkly into your ear,

“Do you want to find out?” A shiver bolts down your spine, and your center starts to throb with sinful desire.

Getting fucked on a Friday night in a cleaning closet by a common criminal is definitely not something you expected to be doing on your trip back home. But you don’t want it to go in any other way.

“Mhmm.”

“Is that supposed to be a word?”

“Yes!” You whisper yell.

“Yes, what?” he emphasizes, tone gritty and dominating.

“Yes, I want to find out.”

Quiet passes for a minute and you think he’s in the middle of rethinking things, but then he manhandles you to the side of the closet opposite from the door, and you put out your hands to feel that you’re pressed into a set of shelves holding big ass rolls of paper towels or something.

He tugs at the hem of your pants. “Take these off.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m giving you a chance to change your mind,” he mutters.

Huh. You hesitate only because that was unexpected. But you weren’t planning on changing anything. Without a word, you undo the clasp on your jeans and reach back to find his hand, taking note of the insane electricity that surges through you once you touch him, and bring it back to your waist, silent permission that he can continue. Nothing is said as he slides your pants down your ass, and you wait for him to work on his own jeans but instead you feel his fingers trickle on the inside of your upper thigh, breath hitching as he inches closer to your heat. You spread your legs and arch your back to give him indication to touch you. He cups your mound, and you lurch forward with a moan, grabbing the shelf to hold onto for dear life.

“You better stay quiet,” he grumbles. “Because if you get us caught, I’ll tell them I found out you were counting cards.”

“And you were fucking me as punishment?” you challenge over your shoulder, but the vitriol in your sneer is extinguished when he glides a lone finger between your folds.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re already wet. Being a dirty slut like this turns you on?”

You don’t answer, brain malfunctioning when he starts rubbing circles over your clit, and you duck your head as it increases your arousal. A whiny moan floats out when he teases your hole and hums to himself. Your shoulders tense when he slips a digit in, shushing your louder moan as he adds another and pumps in and out to work you open. You have to hold your breath every now and then to keep your noises to yourself.

As he keeps finger-fucking you, there’s some shifting and then a slap of something falling on the floor, followed by the sound of foil tearing.

“Did you just get a condom out of your wallet?” you manage to croak.

“No, I pulled it out of thin air,” he deadpans dryly.

You roll your eyes. Men. Always staying locked and fucking loaded. And he called you a slut? You open your mouth to convey this to him, but you figure one more smart-ass comment will deny you of what you’re craving.

You salivate when you hear him undo his belt and unzip his jeans. He steps back with a faint moan, and you imagine him finally pulling himself out to roll on the condom. Shit. You know you’re in for it.

His hand finds your waist again, and he spits, loudly, before tapping his tip on your center, gathering your arousal. Your body jerks at the sensation of his head dragging through your folds and over your clit before coming back to prod your entrance, making you tense up in anticipation.

“Are you going to back out? Last chance.”

“No, I’m good.” There’s a lapse in movement and in words but then he pushes in and- fuck! It’s a stretch. You moan over a bitten tongue as your eyes squeeze shut, urgently trying to adjust.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not up for it,” he mutters quietly when your cunt refuses to cooperate, thanks to a mix of nerves.

"I am, damn it!”

“Then fucking relax.”

So you deflate your lungs, using the idea of just how good it’ll feel once he fills you up for motivation to do as he says. You let your body go almost entirely limp and he must notice because he digs his fingers into your waist and guides himself in, agonizingly slow, expanding your walls with girth so fulfilling.

A low growl resonates in his chest when he sinks in all the way, fingers flexing on your naked hips as he gives time for you to adjust. His hard dick twitching within tells you that he needs a second too. Then for a few minutes, he fucks you at a snail’s pace while you try not to lose your shit. He pulls out to bend his knees, and thrusts back up into you, breathing shakily as he increases the pace.

He doesn’t take his hands off of your waist. Doesn’t grope your tits, or cup handfuls of your ass, just holds onto your hips to keep you in place, occasionally uses them to adjust his stance behind you. A part of you wishes he would because you know his large hands could work wonders on your skin, but at the same time there’s a modicum of respect coming from his restraint. You don’t know if that’s what he’s going for or if he just genuinely doesn’t want to touch you - which, ouch - but you’re pretty sure most guys would take you letting them fuck you in a closet as automatic permission to touch all parts of your body whether you asked them to or not, but apparently he’s not one of them.

There is one place, though, that you desperately need him to put his hands on and for whatever reason, he’s not.

“Are you gonna play with my clit anytime soon? Or did you, in your old age, forget where it is?” He huffs, dark and indignant in your ear.

“It’d be nice to get off at some point ton-” A hand slides over your cheek and a pair of fingers gets shoved on your tongue, cutting you off.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Your eyes roll back at the rigid and domineering grit in his tone, and your back arches to press further into him, needy, wanting. His other hand rises to replace his fingers with a balled-up piece of fabric, and then he snakes down to in between your legs. You have to bite down on whatever fabric he used to muffle you when he easily finds your aching nub and spreads your saliva over it before stroking in agonizing circles. Your teeth clamp down harder on the mysterious material to barricade a whimper.

His hips, on the other hand, start to smack against your ass with animalistic determination, like he wants to fuck you as fast as he can so he can get this over with. Which is fine by you, because it feels so fucking good. The force of his thrusts paired with the tips of his fingers rubbing your clit in rough, calculated strokes has your nails scraping on the wall due to the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

He starts to fuck you at a different angle and you almost cry out when he spears against your spot.

“There?” he asks, rocking in the same place experimentally while you clench around him. Your thighs start to shake.

“Mhmm!” you exclaim. He doesn’t stop fucking you there until you come, and even though you already can’t see shit, you definitely black out for a second. The material in your mouth isn’t helping your breathing situation but it’s preventing you from crying.

He hisses and then yanks out, lets go of your waist, and you involuntarily drop to your knees.

“Shit, my fault,” he mutters, but you’re focused on plucking the cloth out of your mouth, scrunching it in your palm. You weakly pull your jeans to your hips and turn around when he curses again, reaching out to find his dick as he jerks himself to completion. He stops and rips off the condom, thumb sliding up your chin and into your mouth to force it open.

“Gonna come,” he grumbles. You nod and stick out your tongue, and using his thumb as guidance, he slides his thick mushroom head past your lips, filling your mouth with hot ropes of cum. He emits some kind of purring sound as you swallow it all down and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

After allowing a moment to accept what just happened, he steps back again and sighs heavily as he tucks himself in, fixing his belt while you wipe your mouth with the inside of your shirt. When he bends down to pick up his wallet, you wait for his hand to offer you help up off the floor, but he just turns around, leaving you to stand up on your own with shaky legs.

That’s not the vibe you were starting to get from him, but okay?

Swinging on your jacket with a bit of shame, you walk up behind him where he’s listening at the door for anyone outside, and realize that you just let this guy fuck you in a weird-smelling closet and come in your mouth before you even got his name.

“I’m Angel, by the way.”

“That’s nice," he says flatly, tone withdrawn.

“Did you flunk preschool? This would be the part where you tell me your name.”

“I'm good.” You scoff, taken aback.

"Geez, dude. After all that, you can’t even tell me your name?”

"Nah. Not like we’re ever gonna see each other again, right?” That stings. He doesn’t have the courtesy to do something normal after doing something so unorthodox?

“Whatever, prick.”

When he opens the door, you toss the fabric at him and shove into his shoulder, not looking back as you hurry towards the stairs, taking two at a time to get away from him.

The waitress gives you a wary look as you stomp towards her, and you offer an embarrassed apology while you gather your bags. You thank her, pass her a few more bills, and make an escape to the bathroom. You refuse to look in the mirror as you get yourself together. What the fuck were you thinking?

But as the universe would have it, he’s outside under the awning because of the rain, scrolling through his phone and smoking a cigarette with a foot propped on the wall.

Without slowing down, you walk by him, pluck the cigarette from his fingers and continue down the block. At the corner, you stop abruptly, and lift the stick to your lips, take a drag, then toss it into the street, staring right at him. He frowns and with the hand not stuffed in his jean pocket, raises his middle finger and you shoot him one right back, blowing out smoke and holding back a cough. You flag down a cab with a heavy weight in your chest that crawls up to your throat and threatens to imitate the storm pouring from the clouds above.

The rain follows you into the crowded restaurant and you do your best to shake it off of your clothes and shoes before you go in. An older male server rushes by carrying a tray of soju and shot glasses, beckons you further inside and gestures over to the far end of the room where a small empty table sits in front of the window. As you weave your way towards it, you pass by groups of friends, some couples, others colleagues, all having a good time staying out of the storm together. It makes you a little bitter and a lot lonely.

You sit down with your back facing away from the reminder that you’re the only one occupying a two-person table and order a bottle of soju and a hot bowl of noodles that will take away some of the wet chill clinging to your skin.

A motorcycle zooms by. The engine sounds like a single-cylinder with a good torque. A Ducati maybe?

As you wait, you lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and stare outside, reminiscing about old times. Old friends. All a part of memories now.

A few minutes after the server delivers you a bottle of soju and you take a shot, you head to the bathroom to wash up and finally acknowledge the shame lingering in your appearance. When you emerge, passing by the bar, you’re stopped in your tracks by the face of the man who is the reason for that shame. Your heart pounds abnormally. He’s sitting a few barstools away from you, beanie gone, unveiling orange hair and roots that could use a touch up, with a black and white bandanna tied under his chin, like it was being used as a mask. Was that what he stuffed in your mouth earlier?

You stare at him as he sips some clear liquor out of a whiskey glass and when he finally notices, he, for some reason, doesn’t look that surprised to see you.

“You again,” you scowl. “Who’s stalking who now?” He shrugs.

“This is a small island.”

Your eyes roll at his shit logic.

“Well, sorry to have ruined your whole ‘we’re never gonna see each other again’ bullshit.”

He doesn't reply, just frowns into his glass. Feeling hot all over, you stew as you stomp back to your table to retrieve your wallet, fishing out a large bill that you slap on the counter once you return to the bar. The bartender comes over and you make a point of looking over at the prick while you say,

"His drinks are on me." You prolong your vengeful gaze on him, fighting your tongue when his jaw only clenches in response, and head back to your table in a huff.

You try to let it go and not sear holes through his back, instead focusing on your wonderful meal and full glass of soju. He can go to hell.

It seems that the universe has other plans in store when mid-bite, you feel a presence approach and you think it’s the server coming to check on you, but when you look up and the presence stops at your table, your heart skips at the musk that pummels your lungs and puts you in a chokehold. Because it’s the same one that enveloped you from behind not too long ago, strong enough to mask the stench of cleaning supplies. And the source of it slaps a familiar lone bill in front of you under a veiny, slender hand. He stares down at you with an unreadable look in his eyes. Glancing at the bill, you make no move to take it back or acknowledge the fact that he didn't let you pay, even though you just won a bunch of his money. What is this guy playing at?

"Take it."

"No," you shoot back, resuming your meal for an excuse not to look at him.

He sighs and you think that's the end of it.

But then he scoots into the seat across from you. Your heart flatlines when he glances at you, barely acknowledging you or your shocked expression, and cards a hand through his hair, flipping his bangs away to showcase his forehead, clear of blemishes. Isn’t that fucking typical.

“Um, can I help you?”

“The kitchen’s closing soon and I want to order something,” he says casually as he gets comfortable.

“And you’re sitting at my table because? I thought I was annoying.”

“You are,” he replies, still not looking at you but at your bowl. “But all the other tables are full.”

You scoff and take a sweep of the restaurant, desperate to catch him in a lie - surely people have left and freed up spaces since you got here. Nope. The seat across from you was the only one empty. But why does he have to be the one who fills it?

“You could just go somewhere else.”

“It’s pouring out there.”

“Afraid you’ll melt?”

He flickers a small glare your way, then moves it behind you when the bell over the entrance announces a customer’s arrival. He’s acting indifferent, like he wasn’t just a complete dick, and you don’t know what to make of it.

“So does this mean you're done being an asshole to me now?”

“You think I should be nice or something?”

“That would be a start.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to be nice to strangers? Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

That draws a cloudy expression over your face. “I’m sure she would’ve if she was ever around.”

He looks at you and you can see a smidge of his hostile demeanor fall away. Your attention drops to your lap, waiting for him to give the little pity party you’re used to people throwing you when they find out you have an absentee parent. But he doesn’t, just shifts in his seat and lets a little tension out of his shoulders.

“Yoongi.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look across again, thrown for a loop. “What?”

He shrugs, juts out his bottom lip in what you think is a pout. “You wanted my name, right?”

He looks shy and, dare you say, cute saying that.

“Was that so hard? You know that makes us not strangers anymore,” you point out with a widening smile as he glowers at you.

You reach for the soju bottle but he leans forward and snatches it away. Puzzled, you withdraw your hand, but he gestures to your glass and mimes a pour. There’s uncertainty stitched between your brows as you pick up the glass and hold it out with two hands while he pours a shot. You can’t help but notice the scar etched in a jagged line across the back of his right hand turning the bottle, and you look away from it so you don’t gawk. But you’re curious.

Even though you don’t yet fully respect him, he is still 5 years older, so you turn to the side to knock the shot back. When you’re done, you silently offer to return the favor but he shakes his head, fills your glass once again and sets the bottle down, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, glancing between you and the table with a dart of his tongue over his bottom lip.

You stare at the liquor, tips of your fingers dancing around the rim of the glass as you debate how much of your sobriety you should hold onto for the night.

“You’re not drinking?” you ask after you down the shot, wiping your chin.

“I’m driving.” You hum in acknowledgement.

“Are you gonna eat?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“I thought that was the whole point of sitting at my table.”

“I changed my mind.” Liar. He’s been eyeing your bowl ever since he sat down.

“You’re a shit liar. No wonder I cleaned you out.”

He flips you off and you just sigh. A lost cause. You catch the scar on the back of his hand again, the skin raised but healed.

The atmosphere between you since his gesture has slowed things down, setting a new pace that’s strange but not entirely unwelcome. The liquor spreading warmth in your chest loosens your inhibitions, bringing forth your curiosity.

"What happened to your hand?”

"Bar fight,” he replies a little too quickly. You don't believe that.

"Some bar fight." He rolls his eyes at your sarcasm but then his attention flickers back with a tick of his eyebrows when you lower the collar of your sweater, exposing the skin just below your right shoulder that displays your own gash.

“I got this when I used to race during my first couple years at university.” You smirk when both his brows shoot up, clearly not expecting your story. “I was drifting and my component spun out and drove me off the road and I smashed into a guardrail. He was fine, but my windshield shattered and a big piece of glass just wedged in right here.” You press a finger against the very visible healed stitching. “It hurt like a motherfucker, dug into my bone and all that, but the scar came out pretty bad ass, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head with an amused expression, as if not expecting you to sound somewhat proud of your preventable injury.

“I’m sure you were smart enough to stop racing after that.”

“Yeah, but I still went to functions and stuff. And then one night, cops busted our spot and a bunch of us got arrested. I spent a couple days in jail and my brother had to come bail me out.” You pause to think about how irate Jin had been, flying halfway across the world to pay your bond, dragging Namjoon along to fight for you not to be charged. Jin chewed you out the entire time, about how dangerous that was and how you could’ve killed somebody and yourself. Of course you knew that, but you’ve always proved to be a damn good driver, only racing on empty roads after memorizing every wind, bump, and bend. You never let him see your scar because he would find a way to never let you see the light of day again. But then he made you transfer schools and you lost touch with your racing friends. You made sure your brothers never found out your accident didn't deter you from speed racing. You were just too good and made money off of it that you couldn't give up.

“And what was that you were saying earlier about being stuck alone somewhere with a felon?” He muses sarcastically, snapping you back to the present.

Glossing over that snide remark, you launch into another anecdote, regaling him in the story of the first time you ever raced when you lost horribly to your brother and he never let you live it down. And the time you were the getaway driver when your brother and your friends decided to add to the graffiti collection under a bridge near boarding school.

“I think you’re oversharing,” he intervenes when you bring your spiel to a close.

“Would you rather sit here and talk about the weather?”

“I’d rather not talk at all.” He looks down as soon as he says it and your eyes droop into a frown. Well, so much for that. Leave it to a guy to pull stupid shit like that.

“Right,” you mutter, leaning down to pick up your bags. “All I’m good for is a fuck.”

You get out your wallet and a large chunk of the cash that you won, leaving a sum for the bill on the table. As you rise, you fold a larger wad in half and slam it down next to his hands. He glances at it before dragging his gaze up to you, blinking a few times as you harshly stare him down. You sniff, swing your bag onto your shoulder, and turn your back on him.

“Stop.” You do and turn, slowly. “I know I’m an asshole, but I wasn’t implying that, okay?”

Blinking at his response, you step up to his edge of the table. You tilt your head, waiting for him to elaborate but when he doesn’t, a mildly disappointed sigh leaves your lungs.

“If that’s your idea of an apology…” He stares up as you hold him in suspense. “Then I’ll take what I can get.”

The tiny quirk of his lips has you plopping back in your seat, albeit a bit reluctant. As you set your bag back down, he slides the cash back over.

“Well, I’m not taking your money.” You frown.

“Well, at least order something to eat, I don’t mind treating. Unless you have that weird masculine thing where it’s offensive if a girl pays for food.”

A light smile threatens to break out on his face and you think it could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Nah, I’m never one to turn down a free meal.”

He finally orders and you try not to watch him eat, finding it endearing the way he rests his fingers holding chopsticks against his cheek while he chews. So you just return to quietly sipping your drink and watching the rain beat down on the pavement, illuminated by the street lamps. Occasionally, bumps rise on your skin like they did earlier when you feel his eyes on you. You just let him stare because it makes you feel warm.

The bowl slides to the middle of the table and Yoongi sits back with a satisfied sigh. You look over and smile, getting ready to tease him about his appetite but then the bell rings and Yoongi’s expression drops completely. He straightens in his seat, pulls the bandanna up over the lower half of his face and a dreadful feeling sinks into your gut when he grabs the chopsticks and holds them with a tight grip, veins popping and knuckles paling. You look over your shoulder, blood stirring with anxiety when you see a few men from the poker game heading straight for your table.

“Get your bag,” Yoongi mutters, shifting so his feet are turned to the side. Swallowing thickly, you bring up your backpack and wrap your arms across it, pressing it into your chest.

“So you decided to catch up to her before us. Well done, my friend,” the man says, clapping Yoongi on the shoulder. A cold front moves in on the tips of your fingers, settles a tundra in your gut and freezes you in your seat when Yoongi doesn’t look at you, just stares at the man above him.

Was this all just a ruse? He was just keeping you here so his friends could come and mug you? You’re not that naive.

Right?

Just when you start to doubt all of your life choices, Yoongi smacks off the man’s hand, leans forward with his eyebrows furrowed at you.

“I’m not with them.” Your heart races as you look between them. For once, you feel backed into a corner.

“Yes, you are, pretty boy. Because if you’re not, then it seems to me that you both plotted to set us up and that means you’re both in trouble.”

“No one plotted anything. I’ve never met him before,” you declare, catching onto their lie, washed over with relief that you haven’t been duped.

“You just underestimated me and that’s not my fault.”

The man looks at you with an ugly lip curl.

“Oh, yes it is. You never should’ve been there in the first place, so hand me and my friends back our money and this all goes away. No one gets hurt.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding his teeth. “That’s not what I heard,” he mutters.

Your clutch anxiously onto the sides of your backpack, not wanting to know what he means. You slowly reach under your chair to grab onto your duffle, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

The stranger bends down to lean towards you. “Give me the money. Now.”

“Get out of her face, man,” Yoongi spits, standing with a hand on his shoulder to push him back. You stand as well, holding tightly onto both of your bags as you look back at the door, but for all you know, there are more men out there waiting.

You jump when the man attempts to snatch your bag but promptly withdraws with a shout in pain, and you don’t expect to see Yoongi piercing his shoulder with the chopsticks. As your heart and mind race, he yanks the utensils with added red out, keeps them in his fist, and shoves back the two men who crowd him, sending them into the tables behind. Dishes crash and customers leap up in exclamations of surprise, and Yoongi takes the opportunity to push you away and get behind you, hand flattened on your spine to compel you in the direction of the kitchen.

He seizes your duffle bag so you have an easier time moving, and you both ignore the protesting shouts from the chefs and servers as you run through the hot kitchen. As you stumble outside, the rain cascades over you, and your heart stops for a moment when you realize you have no plan to escape. But then he wraps his free hand around your forearm, glancing up as more shouts echo from the restaurant. He pulls down the bandana. His face looks radiant in the blurred street lights.

“This way.”

You both take off down the block, and in the midst of the sprint, Yoongi slides down his hand to instead curl his fingers around your wrist and leads you across the street. It’s not the rain that makes you shiver.

The scent of the storm washes over you as your feet hit asphalt, a few honks blasting from cars you dart past. Yoongi puts himself between you and the vehicles that shout profanities at him and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you when he shouts right back and throws up a middle finger. You slide your hand into his palm to give him a good tug so he won’t end up in another squabble with an irate driver and he turns back to you. For some reason you’re smiling and when he looks at you, your heart pounds, but it could easily be mistaken for exertion. But when you spot the crinkle at the corners of his eyes that tells you he’s smiling too and your pulse skips a beat, you know it has nothing to do with running.

You have no idea where he’s taking you and it’s freeing. And nothing like you’ve ever felt before.

You run until you reach the end of the block where a black Ducati motorcycle is parallel parked in between a stretch of cars and he picks up a matte black helmet from the seat and holds it out to you.

“Here, put this on. Hurry up.” The fiberglass is covered in droplets of rain. It means safety, but from this man who gave it to you? Who keeps confusing you?

A dilemma.

“Why did you come after me?”

“What?” he half-shouts over the loud pattering of downpour. “We don’t have time-”

You step up to stand face-to-face with him and he blinks confusion down at you, mouth open as his chest heaves, panting, orange hair darkened and drenched. You glance down at the chopsticks still trembling in his hand. Adrenaline. He snaps them in half and throws them into the street where they get carried into the storm drain.

It’s raining, but there’s a fire. You repeat your question, keeping the helmet down at your side so there’s not more than an inch between you. He holds your gaze - doesn’t blink or look away. Darkness surrounds you, but there’s none in his eyes.

“I just did.”

He gives no reason, so neither do you when you bunch the front of his soaked black crew-neck and yank him into you, into a kiss that will be seared into your mind like a core memory. He doesn’t lean into it for a split second, like you caught him off guard, but when he does, grabs the side of your face to take over and opens your mouth with his tongue like he’s always meant to taste you, it’s messy and desperate, teeth clacking and mouths moving uncoordinated. It’s the hungriest you’ve ever been kissed. Drinking in the rain, drinking in each other, the helmet slips from your fingers and you don’t notice for a second until he breaks away from your swollen lips and holds it up to you.

“We gotta go.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, regret taking over. He shakes his head and places the helmet into your hands. You frantically look over your shoulder where a few men are catching up, pointing their fingers and shouting as they spot you.

“Come on,” he urges and you slip on the helmet, facing back to see him swinging his leg over the bike and starting up the engine. He sits with your duffle slung around his neck in front of him, chin on his shoulder as he glances back just as you slide behind him.

“Hold tight.” He barely gives you enough time to circle your arms around his waist before he kicks off the curb. The bike roars to life and he speeds it away from the pavement, taking off down the street and into the night. Full of possibilities. You rest your head between his shoulder blades, unable to see the way his fingers tighten around the handle bars. Staring off to the side, you watch the night go by, road illuminated by street lights filtered through the rain, and your heart hammers at the adventure of it all.

The engine still purrs when it comes to a stop, now far enough away from danger. The rain has reduced to a drizzle and your heartbeat thunders within the fiberglass. You flip up the visor so he can hear you marvel,

“You stabbed him.” For you. He stabbed a man for you. And you think that’s why you kissed him.

“I know.”

“That was fucking metal.” His chuckle travels through his chest, so you can feel it in your own.

“I’m glad you think so.” ******* “So, where you headed?” he asks once he comes to the next stoplight. The smell of salt wafts in the air, tell tale sign of the beach.

“My hotel.” “Do you know the directions? I’m not google maps.”

You laugh against his back and tighten your hold around him. His muscles tense up beneath you. At this point, you think you’d let him take you anywhere, but you’re feeling bad about the kiss.

“You don’t have to take me all the way there. Just drop me off at a bus stop, it’s around here somewhere.”

“Buses don’t run this late.” You know for a fact that they do, but you don’t want to dispute him. Especially if it means you can hold onto him like this for just a little longer. Damn. You hated him just a little bit ago. Crazy how fast things can change in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll take a cab then.”

A rev of the engine fills a pause. “It’s late.”

“What?” He clears his throat, talks over his shoulder.

“I said it’s late. And it’s raining. I’ll just drop you off.” A spread of heat in your chest makes this chilly night a bit bearable.

“I thought you’d be itching to get away from me.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” he mutters, hanging his head, sounding dismayed. Or bitter.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Trust me.”

“You just want gas money, huh?” He huffs and tosses his head back, strings of wet hair allowing you a glimpse of his undercut.

“Just give me the damn directions.”

******* All too soon, the venture comes to an end when he pulls into the lot of the beachfront hotel. Quietly, he parks and shuts off the engine and it takes you a second to come down from your rush and realize you’re still holding onto him when there’s no reason to anymore. You snap yourself out of your daze of wishful thinking that this night will never end and remove your arms, immediately missing his warmth and touch. A little too quickly you move off of the seat and he straightens as you stand, removing the helmet and you miss the way he watches you shake out your hair. When you meet his gaze, your heart starts racing again, butterflies multiplying beneath your diaphragm as he stares at you for a moment before glancing down to the helmet you hold out to him. He accepts it with a subtle nod and rests it in his lap while you internally panic, trying to find something not stupid to say so this whole ordeal with him doesn’t end.

“Well, thank you. I half-expected you to ditch me on the side of the road and ride off with my money.”

He leans forward with a soft snort, resting his wrists on the center of the bars, and your heart starts to do gymnastics at the notion that he finds you amusing because it gives you hope that he’s interested enough to not leave yet.

“I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“No, but you’re pretty close.”

“And yet you got on my motorcycle.”

“You told me to trust you and I do.”

“You just said you expected me to ditch you and take your money.”

“Half-expected,” you emphasize. “There’s always room for doubt.”

Just the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile and you don’t want to see it leave.

“Speaking of room, do you have a place to stay?”

“Not around here,” he shakes his head, leaning back to stuff his hands in his jacket pockets. “But I have a friend across town who’ll let me crash, so I should probably get going.”

Tonight, with this man, has been an entire amusement park of emotions. From obscene attraction, to utter loathing, to being enlivened and now to just being plain disappointed. You don’t want to get off this ride just yet.

You squat down and drop your bag to the ground, digging into the front pocket for a pen and notepad. After you find one and rip out a page, you straighten and stride up to the bike without looking at him, writing down the number of your room. You fold it up once you’re done, passing it over, and watch him hesitate before accepting it.

“In case you change your mind,” you say, pointing at the page with your pen as you cap it. “Or if your friend doesn’t want a felon crashing on their couch.”

“And you wouldn’t mind a felon crashing with you?”

“I let a felon fuck me in a goddamn closet. What do you think?”

He holds your stare for a moment before a subtle smile breaks on his otherwise unreadable expression.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he says, shaking his head, and looks at the note for a second longer, then stuffs it in his jacket.

You sense an impending ‘but.’

“But-” You hate being right. “I think I’ll be okay. You should head inside, it’s starting to rain again.”

Not knowing what else to do besides stare at the ground and contemplate if you should write down your number too, you awkwardly hold out your hand, and then upon realizing how weird that is, quickly change your mind and retract it. Embarrassment flooding your cheeks, you reach down to snatch up your bag and turn around. You don’t wave, don’t say anything because what else is there to do? You don’t want to say it was nice to meet him because you’re still trying to figure out if it was, nor do you want to say ‘see you’ because you’re not sure if you ever will after this.

You don’t look back, and as you head towards the main entrance where you can pick up your room key, the sound of the motorcycle revving into gear echoes around you and it’s only when it disappears in the distance do you turn around, wishing you weren’t watching him go. More like you were still on the back.

thanks for reading!! let me know what you think! i love to yap!!

xxx - claret p.s. i wrote the poker scene after watching a ten-minute wiki-how video on how to play texas hold 'em lmao

masterlist

taglist: @rinkud @taegijns @viankiss @polarnightmyg @futuristicenemychaos

@busanbby-jjk @lixies-favorite-cookie

132 notes · View notes

zoesshortstories · 1 month ago

Text

The Party (Fancy Pants chapter one)

Words: 2.3k

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x actress!fem!oc Ava Radmall

Thanks to Cam, Paige and Ava meet and have an instant connection. Slow burn and rising tension, mutual pining but idiots who won't admit feelings.

TW: discussion of religion (Christianity)

Paige

I answer the knock at the door since Cam is busy with other hostess duties. It’s 8:15 pm and her house and yard is already bustling with people. Her holiday parties are always a hit.

On the other side is a woman with big beautiful brown eyes and long swooping brown hair partially held back in a clip. Her face is practically glowing in the light, but I’m sure she’d look angelic in the dark too.

“Hi, I’m Ava” she says and reveals almost perfectly straight and white teeth with a smile. She reaches her right hand out to shake mine. It makes my fingertips buzz.

“I’m Paige.” I muster and return her smile, coming to my senses. I step to the side so she can come in and try not to stare as she slips off her big black scarf shawl to reveal that her long red longsleeve dress she’s wearing has an open back. I can’t help that my eyes linger on the curve of her spine that practically points down to the way the fabric gracefully gathers at her hips before flowing to her ankles.

She must notice me staring because she says, “It’s from Reformation.”

“Uh, what?” I say, feeling caught in the act.

“My dress, silly.” She says with a smile and then Cam comes up to hug her from behind. Cam is still a good height taller than her despite Ava’s sleek black heels.

“Ugh it’s so good to see you!” Cam squeals when she releases Ava from her grasp.

“Oh my gosh I know! I’m so glad I made it back from Montana in time. It was snowing so bad that when they delayed my flight I thought they were gonna cancel it and I was so worried!”

She goes to hug Cam again and they sway back and forth.

Eventually Cam seems to remember I’m here too and introduces us, despite remarking it looks like we’ve already met.

“We were roommates at Stanford,” Cam mentions. That helps me bridge the gap as to why the Ava Radmall was here. An on the rise star currently in the middle of her huge rise to fame. I don’t know how she has enough hours in a day or days in a year to be the love interest in the next Marvel movie and the funniest character in the latest season of Wednesday. Not that I was paying too much attention to what she was doing, it’s just hard not to hear her name thrown around.

“You already know Paige’s a rookie on the team, but come and I’ll introduce you to the rest of them out back!” Cam exclaims and they walk through the party arm in arm. I decide to walk behind them.

We reach her backyard with the pool and the high top standing tables. Ava gracefully shakes everyone’s hand and then Cam points her to the open bar.

“I’ll have a dirty Shirley, please.” She asks the bartender as I stand next to her.

“Ooh make that two please.” I add. “Another dirty Shirley fan, that’s kind of rare.”

“Yeah well I had a 24-48 rule and Cam’s season didn’t align with mine so I figured why not just add alcohol to my go-to?”

“Oh what sport did you play?” I ask. This makes her even more interesting. An athlete?

“Soccer. Midfield.” She answers as our drinks are placed. We thank the bartender and head back to the team, continuing our small talk.

Ava

When I step into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water (and maybe to check out the snacks Cam didn’t put out for the party), I can feel Paige following behind me.

It brought me this warm feeling. I’m excited to talk to her again, especially outside of the group setting. There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on but that’s so compelling to me.

“I like your necklace,” she nods towards the pearly white cross outlined in shiny gold that has hung from my neck everyday since my mom gave me the it when I was sixteen. Some days I wore it more for her than for its meaning.

Then I get to watch unabashedly as her slender fingers dip into her crisp white dress shirt. She pulls out a plain silver cross of her own to show me, like it’s our little secret.

“How long have you been a Christian?” She asks, looking like she’s burning this memory into her brain.

“I was raised Presbyterian but had a bit of a hard time in high school before coming back to it.” I responded. The alcohol flowing through my veins seemed to have made me extra talkative since I normally wouldn’t even say that much to someone I just met. It took me two years to tell Cam that and we were roommates practically glued to the hip.

Paige doesn’t say anything but her face looks like she understands. Before my mind convinces me not to, I open my mouth to speak again.

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask and she says yes both quietly and with her full chest. We both lean slightly closer and I drop my voice. “Well it’s not really a secret, most real people in my life know, but I’m not like out out. But I’m not really in either. So just like please don’t go running right to the media about it.”

Her blue eyes bore into mine and she crosses her heart, zips her lips, and throws the key behind her back. The gesture of it all makes me giggle.

For some reason it makes me suddenly shy about telling her my “secret.” I take a sip of my drink. She quirks her eyebrow asking if I’m going to just finally tell her.

“I’m gay or something,” I say and wave my hands around.

“Or something?”

“Not really or something, I’m just gay got nervous.”

She laughs. The sound does something to me that’s more intoxicating than any drink a bartender could make.

“Well can I tell you a secret that’s also not really a secret?”

I nod.

“I’m gay too.”

For some reason when she says this it makes me smile. She’s trying to ease my nerves and relate. Although she hasn’t spoken on it publicly, it definitely did not seem like a secret. Especially considering how hot she looked in her dress shirt and navy pants, it would be a shame if she wasn’t at least a little bit gay.

For another (maybe related) reason it makes my whole body feel warmer than it normally does when I drink. It’s like my Asian flush acting double.

“And what about your faith?” I ask. Now it’s her turn to take a sip of her own drink, but she finds it empty and I don’t stop her when she reaches for mine. I’m either way past my limit or there’s something about Paige that’s knocking all my walls down. I don’t want to tell her my classic charming stories, I want to tell her the truth.

“Also raised in the church.” She nods her head down but brings her eyes back up to you. “Never had a problem with my faith and sexuality though. I pretty much knew I liked women since I knew what a woman was.”

“How?” I ask.

“How did I know I was gay?” She asks, although it’s clear she knows what I’m asking about. I purse my lips and she leans back from the counter to hold her hands up in fake surrender. “Aight I’m just playing. My parents probably knew before I did but definitely before I told them, and I think because of that they were always very strong on teaching me my faith is between me and God and that He made me in His image as His child just the way I am.”

“That’s beautiful, Paige.” I say and my eyes start to feel a little more teary than when our conversation started.

“You alright, Ma?” She asks and places a warm hand on my shoulder, her pinky finger falling off the fabric of my dress and making contact with my skin. Her hand is warm and yet it still sends a shiver through my body that I try my best to resist.

“Oh yeah sorry that’s embarrassing,” I gush. “I think it’s just a sign I’m reaching the end of my night.”

I place my glass in the sink and make my way towards the hidden stairwell in the side of the kitchen.

“Where are you going, Ava?” Paige asks and I turn on the second step to look at her.

“I always crash in Cam’s guest room after these parties.” I notice the crinkle in Paige’s brow this seems to cause so I keep going. “don’t worry I always do this so she knows, we like to debrief in the morning. What’s a night out without a roomie debrief?”

“No it’s not that, it’s just I thought I was staying in her guest room.”

I pause for a second before turning back to the stairs. “Don’t worry, I’m not a cuddler.” I tell her and continue unbothered on my way.

Paige

When Cam knocks on the door the next morning I feel like she’s hitting me directly in the head. I roll back over and ignore it, glad we’re in the off season.

But when the door opens I hear the covers shift next to me as someone sits up.

Ava.

I fully lean into this whole fake sleeping thing as I eavesdrop on their conversation. But some nagging questions are coming back to me. Did I sleep with Ava Radmall? In Cameron’s guest room? At her holiday party? No. I must have more class than that, right? And I sure hope I would remember if that ever did happen.

“So are you gonna let me in bed so we can debrief?” Cam asks.

“Just a second let me sit up.” Ava says and I hear her yawn. “Wait a second. If you’re wearing your Sparks sweatshirt, then whose am I wearing?”

So that’s where my sweatshirt went. I had come back a few hours later than Ava had and patted down the armchair I thought I tossed it on but couldn’t find it. I was drunk enough to leave it to the morning, I guess.

Cam gasps and I can only imagine her eyes going wide with it.

“Paige!”

“Huh?” I mumble and turn over to face them.

Somehow this sends Cam into a fit of laughter and she’s leaning her hands against her knees with tears in her eyes before she speaks again.

“I totally forgot that I said you could stay in my guest room and that Ava was coming! I’m so sorry guys,” she says.

Ava pokes me in the arm. “Scoot over so Cam can cuddle up for the debrief.” She commands and so I listen.

She props her pillow against the headboard and sits up, lifting up the comforter so Cam can get in too. I scoot to the edge and turn on my stomach to face them, remaining horizontal.

I let the two of them chit chat away about Cam’s last few weeks of off season and her wedding planning, followed by Ava’s two weeks shooting in Montana and her plans for flying her mom out here for Christmas. Then they get around to debriefing what happened at the party. At multiple points in Cam’s story about one of her fiancé’s friends jumping fully clothed into the pool, Ava’s jaw drops. At the punchline she throws her head back and lets out a deep belly laugh that gets Cam laughing too.

I smile at the sight of Ava and her laugh instead of laughing at Cam’s story that I wasn’t listening to in the first place. In the morning LA light her hair looks more golden bronze than the brown it was last night. It’s barely messed up from sleeping because she didn’t move once. Her bare skin was bright without her makeup, and I could see the tiny marks on her face that only made it more interesting. I want to memorize them. Then she tucks her hair behind her ears, exposing her neck, and against my better judgement I allow myself to imagine the sweet taste of her skin and what it would be like if she let me leave a mark.

Ava leans into Cam’s shoulder and sighs.

“I missed you. We need to hang out more.”

“I so agree.” Cam says. “It’s both terrible and great we tend to be busy at the same time.”

“I’m pretty free in January. Not even press outside of LA.” Ava says and Cam seems to squeal again.

“I better get back,” She says and peels out from under the covers. Cam starts talking to me as I try not to look at Ava’s pretty long legs as she looks for her dress on the ground. Her black seamless underwear has lacy sides that hug her hips just right. It looks so effortless, because of course Ava Radmall would look so fucking fantastic in her underwear, but I have this sneaking suspicion she worked to find the fit because it’s almost too good.

She finds the dress and pulls it over her hips and then up under the sweatshirt, which she tosses off and onto me.

Then the three of us make our way downstairs, hug Cam goodbye, and make our ways to our cars parked next to each other somehow on the curb.

“Hey, thanks for letting me borrow your sweatshirt. And sorry for borrowing your sweatshirt.” Ava says as she opens the door, standing in the crease. I unlock my own car and turn to her.

“Hey anytime. See ya around, Ava.”

“Goodbye, Paige.”

#wlw #paige bueckers #Paige bueckers x oc #fanfic #Cameron brink #wbb #Paige bueckers x fem!oc #religion #christianity #TW: religion #TW: christianity #slow burn #mutual pining #friends to lovers

72 notes · View notes

givethemsmut · 4 months ago

Text

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter One

Summary

I was hellbent on finding love in all the wrong places when I tripped over the one person who wasn't buying the rebellion act.

He saw right through me...

Details

Cody Rhodes X Reader

Enemies-to-Lovers

Age Gap (taboo)

18+ (Trigger Warner applies)

WWE mixed with real life

I don’t own WWE characters, IFKYK, etc.

Tons of Smut

Waiting on the side of the road for my bestfriend I knew tonight wouldn't be any different than any other night. We were walking, talking, trouble.

We both would escape our ivory towers where we were forced to wear uniforms to school and behave like the young ladies our parents believed us to be. Together we would sneak into bars and clubs just to get a taste of freedom. Something we weren't going to have until we turned eighteen and left our toxic mansions behind.

Yardbird was a popular bar in Georgia, full of cigar smoke and people trying to feel more important than we actually were. Everything was leather, broken in and full of sin. There were privacy greens and a giant bar. Getting in was easy but not getting thrown out was our problem.

Slipping inside past the security guard that my fellow wild child had fucked made it easy. Our pinkies lacked around each other’s before we grin in each other’s direction. This was where we parted way, making our own trouble, finding someone to love us the way privilege didn’t.

The only difference between us was I was a virgin who liked the chase more than the end game.

Standing at the bar, I ordered myself a vodka soda with cranberry and watched the bartender’s eyes shift down my body strategically.

My cleavage was on display in a low cut bodysuit and my tight black jeans showing off the curves I had. It wasn’t much but I had a butt that sat high and taunt.

“Drink is on me, beautiful.” Laying it on thick, I smiled back but I wasn’t willing to settle.

I had a little game with myself, I would scan the bar and look for the one person I knew would be hard to get and that was my target.

He was blonde, not naturally but bleached, toned muscles that resembled a Greek God instead of a muscle head, surrounded by friends, and I knew I had to have him. He wasn’t flirting with girls or even looking. I wanted the one person who didn’t want to be wanted.

Twisting towards the second bartender I whispered loud enough to hear over the music. “Who is that? People are starring.”

“Cody Rhodes, signed to WWE. They’re celebrating. Wanna send over a drink?”

Bless bartenders for their bad ideas that sound so good when you’re desperate for it to go your way. “Bottle of your best tequila.”

His eyes widened, “That’s $300, easy.”

Slapping my black card on the bar top he suddenly had no more questions. My privlage came with funds, it was the least they could have done.

I sat at the end of the bar, watching him deliver the expensive bottle and point to me at the bar specifically. Ignoring the credit I waited for Cody to swoop over when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

Setting the heavy bottle down his voice felt like an old song you vaguely remember. “I can’t accept this. It’s an expensive bottle but thank you.”

“I heard you were celebrating. It’s not a big deal, keep it. You deserve it.” I smiled sweetly, pushing the bottle closer to him.

His blue eyes sparkled in the dim light and I felt myself swoon when he leaned into me, “You look a little young to be here. Stay out of trouble.”

He completely chalked me up to a child when he took the bottle back to his table, dismissing any flirting and nothing pissed me off more. No one ever asked me my age before, let alone cared. The fact that he cared about me being too young to be chewed up by the men here only made me want him more.

That’s when I knew if I wanted him I had to get his friend’s attention. It wasn’t hard when Layla and I started dancing together, holding our second drinks, and swaying our hips against each other. There wasn’t really a dance floor at this kind of bar but we made one anyways.

After the song ended, we took a seat at the bar, just waiting for them to bit the way they always did.

My second drink in I could feel the buzz working its way up my body, starting a small fire inside my stomach when one of his buff friends stood next to me. “Another drink of whatever she is having.” Pausing, he looked down at me from his tall height, “Absolutely beautiful”

Offering a smile you couldn’t resist I twisted in my seat, my legs colliding with his and his hand slipping up the outside of my thigh.

I let my eyes look around him, trying to find Cody, and see if he was watching. Coming up empty I slipped off the barstool, my ass pressed against his crotch and grabbing my leather jacket on the back of the stool.

Cody was sitting a few seats down, surrounded by friends, when I noticed his eyes glued to me. Giving him a mischievous smile, I spoke to his friends even tho my eyes were locked with Cody’s. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Standing up when he heard my words, I tried not to look accomplished when he stomped over to me. “Austin, a word.”

“Seriously, dude? I’m a little busy right now.”

He looked right at me, “She’s under age. You’re stupid but not that stupid.”

His friend was too drunk to even care. “It’s one night, bro. Don’t worry so much.”

The weight of his arm slung around my neck felt like a work out when he started to lead us to the door. Cody’s hand on his shoulder stopped us again, “See the blonde at the end of the bar? All yours. She’s already primed. This one is mine. Throwing his hands up like Cody’s word was law he moved on without so much as an apology. “Where do you live? I’m getting you an Uber.”

“No, thanks. I’m having too much fun ruffling your feathers,” I said before shooting back another shot. I was way more tipsy than I had ever been before and trouble felt a lot more dangerous with Cody’s hand around my arm. “I saw you watching me.”

“More like protecting you. These guys aren’t boyfriend material. How old are you anyways?”

“Keep it down, buzzkill.” He dragged me to the side of the bar where the entrance to the bathroom was hidden. It was perfect place to not be seen. Pushing me against the wall, he crowded me, our bodies almost touching. “No one is looking for a boyfriend,” I snapped back.

“How old are you?” He asked again.

“Almost legal. A few months away doesn’t change how tight my pussy is.”

I watched his throat bob with a hard swallow. “Not my type, I prefer legal.”

“Then why were you watching me all night?” The shots were half the reason for my sharp tongue when I kept poking the bear.

“Because I feel bad for you. I used to be you. Fighting against all the privilege just to make them pay attention more. Hoping a string of wrong guys pisses them off so you choose to be a slut. Am I close?”

Chewed up and spit out the same way he claimed to be protecting me from.

“You’re an asshole,” I wanted it to hurt but I knew it didn’t hurt as much as his words. Pushing past him, I didn’t even look back as the sting of failure settled in.

The cold air of evening hit my face but it wasn’t enough to sober me up. The bell above the door chimed when I looked over my shoulder to see Cody bringing me my leather jacket. “Let me take you home at least.”

I knew there was a sliver of hope and the liquid courage was only cheering me on to make bad decisions. “I’m the F150 across the street.”

Cody’s big ass truck sat along the curb all murdered out, completely black on black. Opening the door for me I climbed in thankful I was wearing pants tonight otherwise everyone would have gotten a show.

My hand found its way to his thigh and I watched his head drop forward in frustration. “I’m just driving you home. That’s all.”

“What if I’m already a slut? What if you aren’t the only older guy I’ve been with?” My hand didn’t leave his thigh, sneaking high and high while he drove.

“Doubtful. What are you, in high school? Why don’t you find yourself a jock boyfriend?”

I sighed loudly, taking my hand back, “Not my type. The next hotel is fine.”

I knew I couldn’t go home like this and I was used to crashing at hotels instead of going home. Every weekend was a blur of mistakes and men that I would never follow through with. I would get right up to the line only to call it a night.

“Hotel? I’m not leaving you in a hotel. I might as well let Austin take you back to his place then.”

“Maybe you should have. I’m not going home wasted, hard pass. It’s either your place or hotel.” I said sternly while gazing out the window.

Making a hard U-turn against the gravel he headed the opposite direction. “I’m not fucking you. Let’s make that clear right now. I’m not leaving you at a hotel to get date raped by some perv.”

“You sound like a lot of fun…” Sarcasm dripped from my mouth as he kept driving towards his home. Once we finally got there he parked in the driveway of a cute house with brick accents and a big yard. Rounding the car he opened the door for me and helped me down like a gentleman. Something about him didn’t just make my panties wet but my heart speed up.

“Welcome to my house. There’s some guest rooms you can use for the night or the couch if you prefer.” Unlocking the door I walked into a complete bachelor pad full of wrestling memorabilia, family photos framed on the walls, and minimal decor the way a woman’s touch provides.

Dropping my bag on the kitchen island I slipped my jacket off. “Can I barrow a shirt?” I bridged the gap between us and my hand pulled his shirt like I wanted his.

Leaning into me, his mouth found my ear and he whispered, “Nice try but you’re not going to break me. I can control myself.”

Rolling my eyes I sighed internally, annoyed more than ever. He left me there to go grab a shirt when I twirled around aimlessly, snooping, taking in his home until I ventured up the stairs.

Catching a glimpse of Cody, adjusting his fresh sweatpants and still shirtless. I wanted to watch but the other part of me wanted to crawl into his bed. Leaning against the door frame I scared him, making him jump, “Jesus, you’re practically perfect. You said I reminded you of yourself. What does that mean?”

His square jaw tensed and his baby blues seemed cloudy, “Yeah, the pressure of a successful family. To be like them, to bee perfect, to make a name for yourself but don’t forget you’re a legacy. The way they want to take credit for who you are but not actually raise you. My father is a legend in WWE and so is my brother… believe it or not, I know exactly why you’re acting out.”

Tossing me a fresh shirt I caught it, walking over to the bed I pulled my phone from my back pocket and pushed my jeans down my legs. My thong only flattered my curves more when he turned around quickly. Not wearing a bra, I unclasped the bodysuit and pulled it off down my legs exposing my c-cup breasts. “I just want to forget, pretend a hotel is my home, be free.”

“Few months, right? You will be.” He peeked, peeling his eyes open to check I was wearing his shirt.

I sat on the end of his bed, opening my legs and hoping it was enough to finally break him when he sauntered over to me. “Even if you were twenty three like me, I still wouldn’t fuck you the way you want. I only fuck girls who leave in the morning and your father would probably love me. I’m bad for your plan to piss them off.”

“Suit yourself, Cody.” My hands pressed against his chest, “It’s not everyday you get to deflower a virgin.”

Leaving his room I stopped on the stairs when I heard him muffle a groan. Smiling to myself I skipped down the stairs and crashed on his couch. I expected him to be up before me but maybe he was simply sleeping in when I decided to let my hand trail down my stomach to the front of my panties.

I had the wildest dream last night, soaking my panties and I couldn’t help but touch myself. I was beyond ready to ditch the virginity but not for anyone, I was Hellbent on Cody now.

His brown leather couch engulfed me, sitting in with my fingers teasing my clit through my panties. A soft moan escaped my lips and my hips chased my fingers even more. I didn’t even hear the door close when Cody walked into the open concept space.

“Whoa. Fuck.” He stopped with a scuff of his sneakers and I had to get my breathing under control. “Are you trying to kill me? Do you know how fucking hard it is to sleep upstairs knowing you’re down here in a fucking thong and my shirt and not fuck you? I have a contract to think about, not going to jail for fucking someone in high school.”

Peering above the back of the couch, I watched Cody brace the kitchen island and let his head hang. “Six months until I’m eighteen doesn’t change anything. I’m not miraculously a different person. All it means is I’m horny as fuck.”

Just starring at me he cleared his throat. “Please put your panties back on so I can take you home.”

Slipping my panties off I fingered the string, draping it over his shoulder. “Protecting me from you isn’t going to protect me from fucking anyone else. Don’t worry, I called an Uber already.”

Pulling my jeans on without my panties, stepping into my heels, and grabbing my stuff I headed outside to flag an Uber down I hadn’t called yet.

I started walking while I waited, avoiding standing in his driveway, and all I could think about was Cody half naked. All I wanted to do was lick every muscle on his body. He could say no now but he wasn’t going to say no forever.

#fanfic #fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #wwe #cody rhodes #cody rhodes x reader #cody rhodes fanfiction #Cody Rhodes fanfic #cody rhodes imagine

77 notes · View notes

wttcsms · 10 months ago

Text

repeat offender, hiromi higuruma.

pairing hiromi higuruma x f!reader word count 1.9k synopsis vignettes of hiromi higuruma's life, featuring his inevitable early-onset mid-life crisis, his disillusionment with the justice system, and how he can't seem to shake you off. content contains law partner's daughter!reader, no curses au, corporate/big law lawyer!hiromi, bratty, always trying to get a reaction out of him reader x just trying to survive the day hiromi, slight age gap (hiromi is 26, reader is 20), eventual smut in later parts, sfw but suggestive author's notes something a bit different; just wanted to test out diff narrative formats lol (and also, this was the closest thing in my gdocs to being finished & i feel guilty for not giving y'all new content)

all the wrong dialogue options were chosen here

Despite the ceiling clearance being so high that it’s enough to make a man of his stature feel small and the fact that despite all the warm bodies in this banquet hall right now, it would still be more of a challenge to bump into someone rather than avoiding them; despite the fact that the air conditioning system must be working overtime since he hasn’t felt the need to shrug off his tuxedo jacket once, despite the fact that he’s free to leave at any time he wants since he’s already gone through the obligatory introductions and the empty pleasantries—

—despite it all, Hiromi Higuruma feels trapped. The walls are slowly closing in on him, and someone from across the massive room is laughing a bit too loudly, and the ceiling, with its intricate crown molding, feels like it’s going to collapse onto him at any second.

That’s the problem when you decide to be someone you’re not. He’s constantly on his toes, always having to look behind him, always trying to make sure his mask isn’t going to slip. Fresh out of law school. Top marks, top of his class, actually. As expected, as always.

Hiromi is used to setting the curve, so it doesn’t take him long to learn how these circles operate. Laugh at the right jokes, order the right drink, find the right people to praise, the right suit to wear — he’s good at figuring out the right answers to everything.

“The party’s never going to end, so if you feel like leaving, you might as well just go now.��

Hiromi turns to face the source of that sentence, only to have to glance downwards, taking in the sight of you. Glossy lips, long lashes, slinky gold gown clinging to the curves of your body. He swallows. Hard.

You smile. Sweetly.

“Before you go, though, you mind getting me a drink from the bar?” You point to the bar that’s across the room, the area Hiromi just left, one old-fashioned in his hand.

The first wrong thing Hiromi says is, “It’s an open bar.”

Your shining smile barely falters, but he catches the subtle curve of a frown almost taking shape.

“Do you really think I could fight off that crowd?” You give him a faux pout, one that only emphasizes the pretty shape of your lips.

Looking like that, he thinks you wouldn’t need to fight the crowd to get the bartender’s attention. Everyone would probably be clamoring for yours, actually. He doesn’t tell you this, though. Instead, he says, “Like you said, I might as well just go now.”

Boo. This stranger is no fun. What a waste of good looks, you think to yourself. Taking in the way his body fills out his suit, the tall bridge of his nose, the sharpness of his features — maybe it’s for the best that he’s no fun. You’re not sure how you would be able to keep your cool if he actually was interesting.

“Don’t just paraphrase. I remember saying that after telling you you should do that if you feel like leaving.”

He wonders what you’re doing here, at one of the biggest charity galas sponsored by the big law firm he’s going to be joining shortly after his graduation. There’s no way you’re a law student; only a select few final year students were invited in the first place. He can’t fathom you being someone’s plus-one; looking like that, he certainly wouldn’t be able to let you out of his grasp.

He doesn’t ask you anything, though. He doesn’t compliment you, or say anything that’s on his mind. Instead, he hands his half-empty glass to one of the catering employees walking by that’s collecting dirty glasses, and he tells you, “I’ll be heading out now. Good luck with the bar.”

It certainly wasn’t the right thing to say, but being a genius comes with some pressure. He figures he’s allowed to give out a few incorrect answers every once in a while.

apex predator

The click-clack of your four-inch heels making impact against the tiled floors of your father’s law firm serves as a signal to everyone that they need to seek immediate shelter (read: cower in the nearest coworker’s office) and try not to make direct eye contact with you.

When the boss’s daughter comes to visit, everyone’s on edge.

Everyone except the new hire.

Hiromi Higuruma is by no means slow on the uptake, but he’s clocking in the most billable hours out of everyone. Very rarely does he get a chance to take a break, and he doesn’t plan on wasting what few precious minutes of a break he can get on hiding from some brat whose single defining characteristic is sharing the same last name that’s plastered on this skyscraper of a building.

When he passes you by in the hallway, you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. Broad shoulders, slim waist, and a familiar slope of a nose bridge you’ve seen before. You almost falter in your footsteps — almost.

bucket list idea: fuck in an elevator

There’s something intimate about being in the same elevator as someone else.

When there’s a handful of people, it’s casual. Simple. Someone who forgot deodorant, someone who’s running late for work, someone who just burnt their tongue trying to drink their coffee too fast. All of it is mundane.

Being in an elevator where it’s just you and him — you haven’t decided yet if it’s a gift or a punishment.

“My father loves the work you’ve been doing,” You’re the first one to break the silence. You can only hope that he’ll be the first one to break the distance between you two: a respectful four feet apart.

Hiromi clears his throat, straightens his tie. He’s staring straight ahead, right at the shiny silver of the stainless steel doors. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not the one who said anything about your work.”

The corners of his mouth almost turn up at that. He fights the urge to smile.

“Then thanks for the honesty.”

“Do you like that?” You ask him.

“Like what?”

“Honesty?” You ask it innocently enough, but when you give him those eyes, and make your lips form that pout, everything comes out sounding sultry. He’s convinced you could be reading his most recent M&A deal out loud to him and make it sound like you’re reading an erotic romance.

“Well, I’m a lawyer.” He finds that he has to bite back his smile when he’s around you. He stares at the slowly changing numbers on the screen. The two of you entered from the parking garage, and the elevator’s making its steady ascent to the thirtieth floor.

“So that’s a no.” You muse.

Hiromi makes no comment.

whatever pays the bills, i guess

Hiromi Higuruma, unlike every other undergrad trying to get into law school, does not take… creative liberties when it comes to his personal statement on why he wants to become a lawyer. Potential medical school students lie and say they want to “save lives” because “living with six-figure student loan debt for the first decade out of school and then making crazy bank afterwards seems like a good trade-off” just doesn’t sound very awe-inspiring, does it?

In another life, he thinks he’s probably a defense attorney. Representing the Little Guy. Keeping alive his desire to uphold the principles of justice and that the wrongfully accused receive fair representation. Even with the odds stacked against his client, he’s certain that he’s good enough to win their case.

However, the world is unfair. Doing the good thing rarely pays off. Being a good person doesn’t get you very far, either. One of his former classmates was such a bright, kind girl. Passionate statement of purpose, too. She applied to all the same law programs as Hiromi and got accepted to exactly zero of them.

Hiromi got into every single one, and his statement of purpose was honest, straight to the point, and damn-near clinically cold.

I need a competitive environment that takes pride in its intellectual rigor, but I have no desire to pursue medical school just to spend a decade in college and residency. Law school seems most appropriate for my needs.

who hired the intern?

Hiromi doesn’t know what you do around the firm, just that you’re constantly here.

Even when you’re not physically present, he still finds traces of you lingering everywhere. The scent of your perfume that sticks to the elevator’s walls, your now-empty medium sized iced matcha latte in the trashcan of the breakroom, whispers of your names when his colleagues are in the mood to gossip, the click-clack of your heels that he can hear from inside his office even though his door is closed.

He can’t tell if you’re just inescapable or if he’s constantly subconsciously seeking you out. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

What he does want to know the answer to is why you’re sitting on top of his desk at seven in the morning, your medium sized iced matcha latte in all its green glory (this is the first time he’s seen it full and not as an empty plastic cup in the trash). You’re wearing a fitted white button down with a gray wool skirt that will have the HR manager doing a wide-eyed double-take when you walk past her. Your legs are crossed, and Hiromi scolds himself for noticing.

He focuses on your face instead, upset to see that you’re still doing that unfair move of yours — that pout, those eyes.

“What are you doing in here?” Hiromi manages to get the words unstuck from his throat. He’s not even sure how you got the keys to his office, and then he remembers who your father is.

You smile brightly.

“My dad says I need some ‘resume-boosting’ activities, and how convenient is it that the firm is looking for an off-cycle intern?”

How convenient, indeed.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re sitting on top of my desk.” During your chirpy exclamation, Hiromi manages to pull himself together. He’s getting a few steps closer to you. He’s not going to sit behind his desk, not yet, but his approach only serves to bring you two into closer proximity. If you stretch your legs, the pointy tips of your stilettos will brush against the fabric of his trousers.

“Well, every intern at the firm is apparently assigned a lawyer to work under. Y’know, to be a mentor.”

He can’t decide if he likes or detests where this is going.

“And,” you continue. “Dad only wants the best for me. It’d be, like, kind of suspicious to be working directly alongside my father, though.” Yes, Hiromi muses. Because getting a law internship at one of the most prestigious firms during your undergrad is certainly not suspicious at all. “So, the next best thing would be the so-called prodigal lawyer that everyone can’t stop praising. How convenient is it that you’re able to watch over an intern for the semester?”

“Very convenient.” Hiromi raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to get off my desk now? I can’t imagine you’ll be able to learn much if your back is going to be facing me when I’m sitting at my desk.”

“Whatever you say, sir.” You hop off the desk, gently tugging your skirt down in place. He keeps his eyes focused on your face the whole time.

#hiromi higuruma x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #one shot #drabble #fluff #imagine #jjk headcanons #hiromi higuruma x you

264 notes · View notes

strawberrystepmom · 1 year ago

Text

pairing: Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

word count: 6.8k

about: Gojo is many things but you get to know him best as Satoru through the eyes of the people who see him as something else entirely - nothing but a fellow human being.

contents: Told through three non-linear stories. CW: Reader is drinking alcohol in story 1, discussions of non major character death and marriage in story 2, discussions of trauma with Megumi and food mentions in story 3. Established relationship, reader is a sorcerer and teacher alongside Gojo, reader is referred to as girlfriend and my girl in story 1 and he is referred to as boyfriend. A bit of angst/discussion of losing someone you love in story 2 but otherwise it's mostly silce of life fluff.

notes: Happy early birthday to my Sagittarius superstar! ♡ This isn’t birthday themed but i’ve been working on this for a few weeks and am proud of how it turned out. If you read, thank you and I hope that you enjoy.

“I have this thing tonight and I want you to come.”

Generally when Satoru says something like this you roll your eyes, irritated about the last minute notice he’s infamous for, but his grin was so earnest you said yes without thinking too hard about it.

It’s easy to indulge him no matter how hard you try to deny your tendency to give in to his whims and it’s how you’ve ended up stepping into a bar in a neighborhood you have never been in with his arm slung over your shoulder, the moon hanging high in the sky while the stars twinkle above. The atmosphere is practically buzzing before he enters and it’s even louder when the patrons spot him, various cheers scattered around the room and arms raised in the air.

Clearly, they know him and he knows them.

“Hideki!” He points to a man who cheers. “Takahiro!” He points to another who nods. “I don’t remember your name,” he points to a third man who is already tipsy enough that he simply smiles and shrugs. Alcohol helps but you’re sure that Satoru’s smile and demeanor are half of the reason his worst behavior isn’t held against him by anyone in the small group that is clearly regulars to this bar.

Food sizzles behind the counter and you start to ease into the unfamiliar setting, sliding onto a chair and leaning back to watch the master at work, his natural charm infectious and soon it feels like the dimly lit room is practically thrumming with energy, voices chatting excitedly and other patrons typing texts inviting friends to come see the man, the myth, the legend in person.

GOJO SATORU - DARTS CHAMPION!

His name is written on a napkin and stuck in the wood paneling above the dart board with a dart. Seeing the bold characters when you spot them on the wall, you giggle. It’s so like him to do something like this for no other reason beyond what was likely boredom and inability to sleep one random night.

The patrons buzz amongst themselves about Gojo’s appearance, his sunglasses slung low on his nose while he flashes a grin at anyone who comes near him, and you watch from afar with a far more demure grin of your own. His name clearly carries weight even outside of the confines of the sorcerer community and you hide your smile by looking around the dimly lit bar, sizzling coming from behind the counter while the chefs flip yakitori by the skewer sticking through it. Your mouth waters and a beer is placed in front of you without even asking for it, your eyes darting across the bar only to be met with a wink tossed over his shoulder from your boyfriend.

One of the men he was speaking to sidles up to you and offers a polite bow of his head. Returning his gesture, you lift the beer glass to your mouth and take a sip, raising your eyebrows when he speaks.

“You must be the girl he always talks about.”

Raising your eyebrows, the warmth in your throat from the beer you’re sipping slowly spreads through your face out of slight embarrassment he talks about you at all when you’re out of earshot. You can’t control what he says when the two of you are apart and only whatever God reigns above knows what he has said but it couldn’t have been too terrible considering the man doesn’t look at you lecherously or with anything but curiosity. Smiling, you fan your face and tilt your head toward the grills to play off the heat of embarrassment as heat from cooking.

“I certainly hope so.”

You believe that you are the girl in question but your gut churns at the thought he may be mentioning someone else despite the two of you recently making it very clear you are serious about one another, closing off any lingering attachments elsewhere to focus on your relationship.

“Oh, I know so. He shows us pictures of you all the time.”

Sipping from your beer, you look away briefly, embarrassed about that as well. Gojo has many photos of you, not all of which are meant for other eyes, and you hope that he has enough decency to keep them to himself. Looking to change the subject, you remember the legendary title held by your boyfriend within these walls and shift in your seat to face the man next to you. He’s probably in his 40’s and looks a little worn around the edges but it could also simply be the hazy vibe of the entire bar making him seem that way. Nothing here seems clean, pristine, or perfect - unlike the way Gojo is elevated by his peers - and it amuses you how easily he has found his place amongst it all.

“So, how long has he been coming here to play darts?” Your question makes the man shake his head and shrug. “A few months, maybe. Came out of nowhere one night.”

He gratefully bows his head when a dish with a skewer is passed across the bar toward him by the chef and wordlessly, another is passed in your direction. You accept it with a bow of your own, appreciative of how kind everyone has been despite your status as an outsider. It’s easy to feel outcast when you consider how isolated the work of a sorcerer tends to be, something you’ve lamented to your boyfriend on more than one occasion, so being accepted open armed and without question is almost uncomfortable no matter how well you play it off by saying thank you for the meal and biting through a perfectly charred green onion and humming your approval.

“It’s the craziest thing any of us have ever seen. He hits the bullseye without even looking sometimes.”

Snorting as you chew, you keep it to yourself that he’s in all likelihood using his excellent perception to cheat knowing that the average person doesn’t care about Limitless or Six Eyes or anything remotely similar. They don’t know he has been exceptional since birth, they just know he has a mean wrist and hits his mark every single time. Honestly, you think that may be why he likes it here so much. He doesn’t have to be anything but some guy sipping on a cold soda.

“He has a knack for a lot of things,” you mutter to no one in particular, noticing that your companion has left his seat and walked toward where a crowd has gathered around the dartboard. The show must be about to begin and you settle into your seat, taking another bite and washing it down with a sip from your beer. More people weave past you and Satoru appears almost out of thin air, joking and laughing at the crowd.

“Who thinks I should show my girl over there why I’m the champion?”

The champion, The Strongest, it’s all the same to him as long as he’s the star of the show no matter where he is.

The crowd erupts and turns to glance at you, much to your mortification as you shrink slightly into your seat and another skewer is passed across the bar. You aren’t shy or apprehensive about receiving attention but it’s the insinuation that you are his girl that makes you feel a little uncertain. It’s a big responsibility to love a man with the world in his palm and there have been many times you’ve wondered if you are even up to the task. Will you be enough to keep him happy forever?

He doesn’t give you much time to chase a trail of darkness in your own mind, your attention grabbed when he shouts your name across the bar and flings a dart. It whizzes through the air and hits its designated bullseye with a definitive slam and the bar erupts into applause and hooting.

“That’s not even how you play darts.”

You’re talking to yourself again but simultaneously biting back a smile while Satoru spreads his arms wide and looks around as if to say, “yeah, I did that.” You want so badly to be annoyed by his pomp but his enthusiasm is nothing if not contagious and the crowd grows more rowdy with each second that passes.

“Now it’s her turn to throw one for you!”

As soon as the suggestion is tossed out, you lift the yakitori to your mouth and take a bite to avoid having to walk toward the opposite end of the bar to do just as you’re being asked. He’s a tough act to follow and although your ego isn’t even a speck compared to his, you aren’t sure you can handle the disappointed aww-ing that would come as a result of firing a shot that lands off of the board.

“Come on!”

“Do it for Gojo! Do it for Gojo!”

Just as you’re about to throw your hands up and shake your head, Satoru locks eyes with you and crooks his finger, beckoning you toward him with a smirk that you know you are far too weak for him to deny. Making a show of groaning and rolling your eyes, you trudge across the wooden floors and finally you stand next to him. He throws his arm over your shoulder with an easy chuckle and bends his knees to get low enough to whisper in your ear, voice a rasp.

“Yeah, do it for Gojo.”

He produces a dart between his fingers and you reach to grab it, plucking it between your own to get a feel for it while casting him a sidelong glance that clearly amuses him. You have done this just once or twice at an arcade with darts that do not have the sharpened metal point but this is real and everyone is watching you and you’re doing it for him - the man you love no matter where the two of you are.

You take a deep breath and he removes himself from hovering over your shoulder, giving you ample space to get comfortable. Spreading your feet apart, you make a few motions with your elbow to test the angle you need to throw at and you swear the bar falls completely silent the moment you gnaw your lower lip with your teeth and toss it, hoping some of Satoru’s natural good luck has rubbed off on you.

Instead, the dart clatters to the ground. For a millisecond, you want to follow suit and fall to the ground and hopefully disappear and never come back but without missing a beat, everyone cheers for you anyway. The eruption makes the building feel like it’s shaking, stomping feet and clapping hands coming from every direction while Satoru bundles you in his arms and pulls you against him. Dipping his chin, he presses a kiss against your temple and you sigh, leaning into it.

“Looks like the champion is still undefeated!” He shouts and you elbow him playfully in the ribs. This only draws a wicked little snicker from your boyfriend and he bends down to whisper in your ear again, one hand wrapped around your waist. “Better luck next time, baby.”

The crowd continues to cheer and several patrons take their turn approaching and clapping Gojo on the back. It’s surprising despite knowing his Infinity is off because you’re in his arms but you know it means that he’s comfortable. He trusts everyone here and their intentions, at least for now and that’s good enough for you.

You tap his arm once and he lets you go, his eyes following your every movement as you bend to pick up your dart from the ground and hold it in your palm. Smirking, you turn toward him with a twinkle in your eye that he recognizes all too well and the patrons hold their breath wondering what will happen next.

“I think the champion is counting his chickens before they hatch.”

An ooh spreads across the bar and you grin to match Satoru’s toothy one, holding your arms open to offer yourself as a contender. His glasses slide down his nose a little and he pushes them back up, covering his eyes enough that you won’t be able to tell if his abilities are on or off.

“Finally, a worthy opponent!”

His words send the patrons into another frenzy and you laugh although the only person who can hear it is the man standing closest to you, the one who wants to make you laugh the most. You join his side and he wraps one of his arms around your shoulders again while plucking a dart from his pants pocket and moving to toss it again.

“Good luck,” he mutters while looking down at you with a smirk and he lands yet another shot perfectly without even looking.

It’s always evident when either you or Satoru have a rough day. Your shoulders slump and smiles become half hearted, hiding the frustration simmering inside of you. His need to cling to you becomes more intense than ever, you are the desperate reminder he needs that he’s human after maiming curses, and that’s how you’ve ended up walking hand in hand back to his apartment.

The two of you were lucky enough to make it off campus before sunset and you can count today as one of the handful of times that you’ve been reprimanded by Principal Yaga thanks to a mission that leveled the bottom floor of a local preschool. Thankfully no one was injured but you were reckless and deserved the reminder of the innocent that needed protecting. That’s why you do what you do.

Gojo, well…he is rarely not in trouble but today hurts worse because he got you in trouble, too. The two of you are rarely paired up for missions after the Great Restaurant Destruction of 2012 where he leveled a small family restaurant in Yokohama in an ill guided attempt to impress you but now that three years since then have passed, Yaga insists it’s to keep at least one instructor on campus at all times.

No matter what occurred today, both of you seem a little zapped. His steps are heavier and slower and you’ve been quiet the entire walk to his apartment from the train station. It has been awhile since the two of you have spent any time over here, too busy with work and crashing at your place that is closer to campus than his if you have a night together, but it’s nice to get a change of scenery. His neighborhood is far nicer than your very normal one and you enjoy taking in the sights of how he lives when he’s not with you.

Down the sidewalk, an elderly woman catches your eye and you see her struggling with a few bags. Nudging Satoru’s ribs, he looks down at you and then down the sidewalk and immediately shouts, holding his arms in the air.

“Baba!”

Before you can reprimand Satoru for being impolite and skipping all sense of formality, especially toward an elder, the woman turns her head with a smile and offers a small wave in his direction. She’s slightly hunched in the shoulders likely due to age and her hair is a beautiful pale gray, the fading sunlight catching the hollows of her cheekbones. Your breath catches in your throat as you’re reminded that there’s nothing more beautiful than to grow old, something you pray often that yourself and Satoru are able to do together. Especially after a day like today.

“That’s Mrs. Ikedo, remember?”

You nod at his words, vaguely remembering a conversation the two of you had about Satoru helping her move some things from her home into storage a few months ago. Mrs. Ikedo steps slowly in the direction of the two of you and he takes a few long legged steps toward her and offers his arm to help. She swats it away playfully and you smile watching the interaction, almost identical to how the two of you behave often. How does he so easily find stubborn women to surround himself with?

“Where have you been, young man?”

Witnessing the two of them interact, you wonder how much she knows about the life Satoru leads. Does she know about his abilities? The danger he willingly puts himself in to keep people safe? He doesn’t see it as dangerous, of course, his incredible belief in himself outweighs all other possibilities but there is always a chance he’ll never come home regardless. A breeze blows by as the ominous thought of him never coming back bleeds into your mind and you shiver slightly, pulling your jacket closer to your body.

“You know me, I’m a wanted and busy man.”

She laughs and you smile despite only being on the fringes of the conversation. The sun dips lower in the sky, dusk coloring the world in warm amber, and you’re almost too lost in your thoughts when he joins your side once more and pulls you close to him. He doesn’t caress all of your sadness away but the way his thumb massages your side even through your jacket helps you feel more grounded.

“Baba invited us in for a cup of tea. You up for it?”

It would be impolite to say anything but yes so you nod, letting him lead the way to the home you know belongs to her because it’s four buildings down from his. The longer you’ve been standing here, the more you recall about her because he has mentioned her more than once.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Ikedo.” You smile warmly in her direction and she walks slowly beside the two of you, her grocery bags now slung over Satoru’s free arm despite him jokingly picking up the lightest one and then asking her to handle the rest.

“You don’t have to be so formal with me, this one sure isn’t.”

She jerks her head in the direction of Satoru who chuckles and waves his arm, the reusable bags hanging from them rustling against his shirt. Your formality is almost always a balm to his brash nature so you too easily fall into the role. Gratefulness warms you against the cool evening air and you lean further into your boyfriend’s side.

“Remember who is carrying your bags,” she pats his forearm and you follow her inside of her home, taking your shoes off at the door and looking around. It resembles the home of every other elderly person you’ve ever been into - covered in various collectibles and photos. Smiling faces and one you can easily recognize as her a long time ago, hair cropped to her chin in a tidy bob.

“Satoru looked at that one and asked me what century I was born in.”

It would be best to reprimand him for rudeness once again but instead, you giggle and rub your palms together to warm them. Winter has arrived and while there isn’t yet snow on the ground, the air feels chilly even indoors and you will welcome a cup of tea between your hands as soon as you are able. Mrs. Ikedo leads you through her home and into the kitchen where Gojo places her shopping bags on the counter, sighing.

“I just remembered I have something for you from Gifu,” he says with a sigh and a stretch, pretending the bags were any kind of a hassle for him. “Is it okay if she stays here while I run home to grab it?”

The woman nods and you fight the urge to be annoyed that he’s leaving you in a stranger’s home no matter how kind she may be. This day keeps going on and on and you are fighting off a pout and an attitude when a warm mug is offered to you with a smile, the lovely scent of green tea filling your nostrils and calming you down.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

You laugh, head bobbing in agreement. That is certainly one word to describe him and many have said the same thing to you in the past. He is something, the word takes a life of its own and has a different meaning to everyone who says it. To you, he’s your “sometimes not but currently yes” boyfriend, a man who has known you since you were fifteen years old and still had baby fat making your cheeks chubby, your best friend most of the time but you understand why others struggle to see him that way.

“He knows it, too. Most people say that’s the worst thing about him - he knows who he is and brings him everywhere he goes.”

The woman laughs and ushers you in the direction of the sitting area of her home, inviting you to sit down at a kotatsu that she flicks the switch on to heat up. You will be the last person to ever turn down the opportunity to warm up and you kneel on the ground, holding your mug against your legs that are tucked beneath you.

“I was surprised when he told me he’s a teacher.” You nod again, understanding that this surprises many people that the mouthiest man in the room has apparently been entrusted to create future well adjusted adults. “I figured he would be a model or something judging by the size of him. What do you feed him?”

“It always surprises people when he tells them that he teaches but he really has a way with the kids.” You respond with a giggle, sipping your tea as you finish speaking and letting the warmth seep through you. The strain of your shoulders starts to relax and you lean back, comfortable. “He keeps things fun for them so they don’t realize they’re learning most of the time.”

She hums and nods.

“He brought that Hakari over here last year because he told me the boy needed to learn a little hard work.”

That’s an amusing sentiment from someone who doesn’t work very hard himself, you think, but you remember the issues he had with Hakari last year and how only a few of them resolved themselves going into his second year and now he’s your problem - attitude and all. Despite his hands off approach to work, he is a good kid deep down and you know the support of the man the sorcerer community basically views as a god probably helped bolster his confidence. That’s what makes Satoru so good at what he does - the weight that his praise carries. All people dream of being told they’re doing a good job by the star in their field.

“He was right about that. Hakari is my student now and it must have helped him a little bit, he shows up to class three days a week now instead of one.”

She grins at you and sips from her tea, settling beneath the warmth of the kotatsu with a contented sigh.

“You’re a teacher too, I recall Satoru telling me. You seem more suited to the role than he does.” She nods and sips again, placing the cup in front of her when she’s finished. “A lot more nurturing.”

It always embarrasses you a little bit to know that Gojo talks about you when the two of you are apart. That’s not to say that you don’t talk about him because you do. In fact, you gush. Your sisters and friends get tired of hearing about it during the good times and put you on temporary bans against talking about him at all. It feels more vulnerable when it’s him doing the talking, though.

“Thank you for saying that. I’m glad I get to work with him, he’s definitely one of the best parts of the job even on bad days like today.”

A comfortable silence falls between the two of you for a moment and you know she’s appraising you but you aren’t sure on what criteria. Are you slouching? You’re certain that the mascara you put on this morning is likely flaking beneath your eyes by this point and you look a mess but you doubt she’d care too much about that kind of thing.

“Would you take some advice from a nosy old lady?”

She sure is funny. You find yourself laughing at her again, nodding gratefully. You are warm and relaxed and you can see why he has made friends with this woman.

“Of course. All of the best wisdom comes from nosy old ladies.”

Sighing, she leans forward and makes a face while moving her legs.

“This cold…terrible for my joints,” she laments while settling back in. You sip your tea and watch patiently, scooting closer to the warmth of the kotatsu yourself.

“He loves you.” You choke on the mouthful of tea you were swallowing and she chuckles while you wipe the corners of your mouth and cough. “The person you want to spend the night with after a bad day is the person you love. Don’t push him away or punish him for not understanding everything yet, he has a lot to learn too.”

You’re shocked by the wisdom and you blink at her dumbly. Words aren’t coming to you easily and she can tell, smiling kindly and watching you grip your mug for dear life.

“Give him time. He’ll grow to be the man you’re married to for 70 years.” She nods toward the wall behind you and turning your head, you gasp to see a portrait of Mrs. Ikedo and who you are assuming is the now gone Mr. Ikedo by her side, matching grins in wedding kimonos. It’s overwhelming to be compared to a couple that clearly had so much love in it and you blink tightly, willing yourself not to cry and embarrass your boyfriend in front of his friend.

“Take it from me, the ones who need a little patience are the ones you have the most fun with.”

Sniffling, you nod and sip from your tea again. You hope that she won’t hold it against you that you’re struggling to find the words of appreciation for her sentiment. Blessedly, you hear her front door open and Satoru hums while taking his shoes off and entering her home, whining when he sees the two of you are comfortable without him.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he mutters sarcastically while joining your side, kneeling and sliding a decorative box across the floor in the direction of his friend. You lean your head on his bicep and he smiles, glad to be touching you in any capacity. You are his comfort and his Infinity always off when you’re near, something that the woman across from you likely has no idea about.

There is a wall between him and the world and you are what reminds him of what exists between the two places. You make him more..human.

“If you brought me another set of tea cups I’m going to throw them at you,” she mutters while opening the box but a delighted grin quickly replaces her teasing frown when she sees a ceramic frog inside the box. Lifting it out, she shows it off and you smile.

“Another for the collection. You know me too well.”

Satoru shrugs and you see it rather than feel it, making a note to ask him a few more questions about just how close he and the widow are when the two of you get home.

At 8 am on a Saturday, a knock rings through the Fushiguro children’s apartment and Megumi rises from where he sits on the floor reading with a groan, his sister scrambling to get up behind him to see who could possibly be visiting them this early. He would assume it’s Gojo but usually he just invites himself in so it has to be…

You.

Megumi opens the door wide enough you can see his eyes and you wiggle your fingers in a wave. The morning sun shines behind you and his sister appears behind him and says your name excitedly. Suddenly he feels annoyed and shy and a million other things he can’t explain because he’s twelve and the world is nothing short of frustrating at that age anyway.

He almost got into a fight at school this week and that’s why you’re here. Satoru is off in Iwate on a mission and as his guardian, he received the phone call while “decimating a den of second grade curses” (his words) and debated even telling you about it. His concern for Megumi outweighs all else though and he asked you last night to check up on them today, just to see how he seems. Tsumiki is always the angel of the household and right now she’s pushing past her brother to let you in even though he’s reluctant. He knows you must know, that big mouthed overgrown idiot-

“Good morning, I’m here to make you breakfast!”

Megumi’s mean thoughts cut themselves off when you offer to cook and he moves enough that the door can open, letting you slip through a narrow crack with a smile. He knows you’re a capable cook and he’d be silly to shoo you off when you’re offering so kindly.

“What’s for breakfast?” He asks as you toe your shoes off and enter the apartment, taking a deep breath along the way. It’s clean as always, the futons are folded, it’s small but cozy and you smile seeing pictures of Satoru and the two of them hanging on the walls. Megumi can pretend he doesn’t like to be around him but there are many signs that point to otherwise, a little smile evident on his face in each framed image.

“I was going to ask you the same thing! What do you want?”

Breezing through the living room, both of them follow after you.

“We usually have rice with a fried egg on top,” Tsumiki chimes in while she trounces to your side. She’s almost taller than you are and it amazes you how time flies. It wasn’t all that long ago you were braiding her hair and polishing her fingernails for her, her brother shyly requesting you paint his thumbnails alongside hers.

“I’m not asking what you usually have, silly, I’m asking what you want to have.”

You raise yourself up on the balls of your feet slightly to reach high enough to affectionately rub the top of her head and it makes her giggle, the two of you finally making it through the kitchen where her brother is already waiting.

“Depending on what you have in the cupboards, I can make just about anything,” you offer with a hum at the end, wondering who will offer up a suggestion first. You know the two of them are shy about their needs and often pretend they don’t have any lest they concern their guardian or anyone else he has around to help out with the situation but you try to encourage them to speak up when they can. They’re both good kids; wonderful, even, if you consider the situation they’re in.

“How about something fancy? Oh, I can make some French toast.”

Despite himself, the surly almost teenager smiles and shrugs. His sister practically dances out of the kitchen, walking back toward the small living room space of their accommodations, her unabashed sweetness the perfect foil to her brother whose mouth remains in a flat line while his green eyes scan over you, hunting for ill intent he will never find.

“Why are you here?”

You look up from combing through cabinets to find even the most basic ingredients and make a note to give Satoru a piece of your mind for keeping the kitchen mostly stocked with convenience food rather than what they need to make meals, meeting Megumi’s uncertain glance. He rests against the counter and for a moment you realize that he is no longer the unruly haired child the two of you used to take for the occasional picnic and day at the museum with Tsumiki. He’s growing up and you feel guilty for making things confusing for him thanks to your admittedly confusing dynamic with the man who more or less cares for him, his de facto big brother.

Megumi and Tsumiki both have experienced a lot in their young lives and all of the attempts everyone in Satoru’s life have made to help them have a normal childhood cannot fix the pain of loss and the anxiety of not knowing what comes next. Neither of them are apt to open up about all of it, satisfied long ago with the thought that their parents ran off together and never returned, and part of you hopes they never find out the truth. There is safety in ignorance and what have these last four years been besides an attempt to keep them as safe as two children can be?

Stepping away from the cupboard, you turn to face him and lean your own hip against the countertop, attempting to meet him on his level.

“I’m here because the two of you got good grades and I wanted to celebrate with you. Is that okay?” His skepticism practically wafts off of him and you snort. “We got good grades three months ago.”

You sigh, knowing you’ve been caught in an admittedly bad lie but you don’t bother to elaborate the real reason knowing he’s well aware. Changing the subject is probably the worst way to handle it but hey, you aren’t here to discipline him so you assume the role you’re better at and that’s comfort.

“Can’t I just do something nice for you two? You don’t have to earn everything.”

A shadow falls over his face and you notice it, leaning forward on your elbows slightly to look at him. He is a boy with big emotions even if he hides them to appear stoic on the surface, something you have worried for years that Satoru is not equipped enough to handle given he rarely blinks at his own distress before compartmentalizing it. There’s more than meets the eye for the enigmatic man who ties all of your lives together but children aren’t always the most capable of picking up on that, seeing him as an overly happy nuisance rather than someone who covers up anguish with smiles.

“People have been doing things for me my whole life even if I’m not acting my best.”

Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask him to elaborate if he would like to and he sighs. The way his shoulders slump gives away anything he’s trying to hide and the nurturing part of you fights the urge to make him spill knowing it would surely backfire. You’re aware he has mixed emotions about his relationship with Gojo thanks to the few times you’ve been able to get him to open up enough to talk about how he feels indebted to the man for saving his sister more so than saving him but that’s a big load to carry for a twelve year old. To keep things as light as you can, you take a card from Gojo’s book and play it off as nothing, propping your chin up with your fist and keeping your elbows on the counter.

“So? It’s not like they’re asking you to pay them back. We all have times where we are not our best.”

The unspoken part of your statement is that Megumi knows he will eventually have to become a sorcerer someday but given his abilities, it was inevitable no matter whose care he came into. Perhaps this is some form of payment for the guardianship he has been given over the years but you don’t believe that Gojo sees it that way on more than a surface level, a debt paid with flesh is hardly one that the cornerstone of sorcerer society would care to collect on from a child.

“Listen,” you use the weighted silence in the kitchen to your advantage and keep your tone low and even while speaking. You’re sure that if Tsumiki were listening that she would hear you anyway but you don’t think too hard about it. “All anyone wants is for you and your sister to be safe and happy. We stop in because we care about you and want you to know that you always have people on your side.”

Watching him carefully, you hope that your words bring him some comfort and you swear that a trace of a blush comes across his cheeks. The tips of his ears are red which always gives him away and you reach to pinch his cheek, to which he responds by slapping at your hand and groaning, scrunching his nose.

“We love our little Megumi, what can we say?”

He rolls his eyes but something about him feels definitively lighter so you feel as though your job is done. You open your mouth to speak again but you’re stopped when you hear the front door open, Megumi looking over his shoulder to see who could possibly be here.

“Pancakes!”

The shout comes from the front door and you recognize the voice immediately. A smile comes across your lips and Tsumiki stands up in the living room and rushes to the door to greet Satoru who just arrived at the apartment with still hot breakfast in takeout bags dangling from his arms.

Megumi rolls his eyes but his usual frown is replaced by the hint of a smile. He leans against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest and watches his sister greet Gojo gleefully, already thanking him profusely while he heads toward the kitchen to see you standing there. He raises his eyebrows, feigning surprise, and you roll your eyes as he holds up his arms and shows off the bags.

“Celebrating the two little geniuses in apartment 9-A!”

You nod and he sticks his tongue out at you while he passes, shimmying past Megumi to place the bags on the counter next to you. Wordlessly, you try to indicate that the smart boy has already picked up on the lie and to not proceed with it by widening your eyes and shaking your head but he misses the cue.

“I had the same idea.”

Megumi scoffs and lifts himself away from where he leans, stepping quietly toward the enticing smell of a fancy breakfast looking between the two of you while gathering plates from the cupboard to his right.

“Yeah that’s because you guys are exactly alike.”

Tsumiki opens her mouth to reprimand him for being rude but you shake your head, smiling as you lean over toward her brother.

“Yeah but which one of us do you like better?”

This finally draws a chuckle from the usually sullen boy and you nudge him playfully, a shy smile on his face that he dips his chin to try and hide. The curve of his cheek gives him away and you decide to leave him be for now until he leans in and fake whispers, plates between his palms.

“You but don’t tell him.”

“I heard that!”

Feigning offense, Satoru scoffs and holds his hand to his t-shirt clad chest. You smile up at him and he winks down at you, the two of you aware that the Fushiguro siblings are watching your every move. Megumi pushes past you to begin unpacking the bags after handing the plates to Tsumiki who giggles and leaves the three of you alone.

“So I’m not in trouble?” Gojo sighs and claps Megumi on the back, shaking his head. “No but if you start a fight you better win it or else you will be.”

You gasp and smack his bicep with the back of your hand, frowning while Megumi genuinely laughs and starts opening containers that smell so good it makes all of your mouths water. The discussion isn’t over but it’s paused for now and that’s something all of you can accept.

“What? I’m just saying,” Satoru argues while picking up a container and heading toward the set table. “Haven’t I always taught you to finish fights that you start?”

Megumi nods, following after the man with another container. Their relationship is unconventional but he can’t deny that he has learned not just that but much more from him. Each of you sit and you notice Megumi perk up a bit, Satoru using his chopsticks to put pancakes on each of the plates.

“To winning fights!”

“Hey, I thought it was to good grades! And he didn’t even fight!” Tsumiki interjects and you laugh, hugging her shoulders. Her brother scoffs at the white haired man next to him while he pours criminal amounts of syrup over his plate and for a moment, you think that maybe this arrangement is more comfortable for them than it seems.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #kendall writes #satoken

356 notes · View notes

lovecoremarbs · 8 months ago

Text

Shootin' Pool

fandom: smiling friends

prompt: charlie dompler/reader

words: 1,456

summary: You and your boyfriend's date started plain enough, just a few drinks at the local bar along with some stories and laughs. However, when his eyes landed on the worn-down pool table, he was eager to play. One problem? You don't know how to play pool, like, at all.

notes: Can you tell I've only played pool a few select times? Well anyways, I hope you enjoyed it! This was inspired by shooting pool with my family for Father's Day and I got the thought of Charlie holding you while teaching you to play pool and it was too cute to not write (even with my mediocre writing skills lol).

It started off with just a few drinks, a simple and easy date at a small local bar to say the least.

However, just a few drinks left Charlie a little tipsy, a bit braver and rambunctious than before.

“Man, I’m telling you, this shit was so funny I thought I was gonna pass out.” Your boyfriend was rambling about something that he saw on TV as you tried your best to listen.

It wasn’t because you weren't interested in what he had to say, it was more of the fact that in your drunken haze, it was hard to pay attention for long periods of time.

His words started to mix together as you fell further deep into this hole, nodding your head and muttering the occasional ‘Mhm!’ or “Yep!’ so you put on the sort of facade that you were fully aware of what he was saying.

It went on like this for a couple of minutes before you were snapped out of your cycle by him slightly raising his voice while looking behind you,

“Oh shit, they have a pool table?! Oh man, I haven’t played that since high school.”

You looked past your shoulder, a dimly lit corner sat a years-old pool table that a few patrons stood around but no one was actively playing it.

“We should totally play babe.” Before you even had a chance to respond, your boyfriend was already on his way to the front table to rent the table.

You could feel your stomach drop, you had never played pool before, and the feeling of embarrassing your drunk self in front of him was too much to bear.

You were going to have to brush them off because he was already on his way back with two cues and pool chalk.

“Alright, I got the table for about two hours, that should give us plenty of time to play.” Stuffing his wallet into his sweatpants pocket, he handed you your cue.

He noticed your body was trembling slightly as he did so, making him slightly laugh to himself, “Oh shit, you don’t remember how to play huh?”

You took a deep breath. “Not just that, I’ve never played pool before…” Your voice trailed off, rubbing the stick between your fingers as you looked to the dirty carpet of the bar to avoid his gaze.

“Really? Never? You never had you and your friends scrape together enough cash to do some pool at a bowling alley or anything like that?” Charlie raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head and shrugged, “I grew up in a small town, all we had were small parks to smoke weed at or some shit.”

A chuckle escaped his lips, “Got it, pool is simple enough to learn though. It’s all about the angles.”

Charlie walked along the table, setting up the pool balls into the rack in their starting positions before returning to your side.

Clapping his hands together, he held up his cue, “Alright, so I’m just gonna do simple rules since you’re a first-timer.”

“Like I said it’s pretty simple, see how the balls either have stripes or are solid colors? That decides the teams so I’ll be stripes and you be solids, ok?”

You nodded, still fidgeting with your pool cue as he continued.

“And what you’re gonna do here is try to hit the white ball with your cue so your team balls can land into the nearest pocket,” He stopped midway through his sentence as he lined up his cue to the white balls and hit it, sending all the pool balls into different locations on the table.

“Pockets are these things, by the way.” He pointed to the holes at each end of the table, which you gave a nod in return.

“What you’re NOT going to do is hit the 8 ball into a pocket until the end of the game when there are no other balls left,” He pointed to the ball and you recognized it immediately as it could easily be mistaken for an old child’s toy.

“There’s a lot more rules but we’re just gonna play like this for now, alright?”

A small smile appeared on your lips as you nodded, “Have you played this a lot hon?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah plenty of times. My uncle actually taught me how to play when I was a kid.” Charlie continued to hit one of the balls to try to land another into the pockets, succeeding in his goal as a ball zipped into the nearby hole.

“Awesome, ok babe now you try.” Resting a hand on your shoulder, he gave you a small smile.

Your stomach fluttered with butterflies, yeah, you could do this! Hell yeah, let’s do it!

You lined up the end of the cue to the white cue ball, having trouble with how you were holding the cue. Shit, it was hard. Charlie made it look so easy and yet here you were, already making mistakes as you dropped the cue from how hard you were holding it.

Suddenly, you felt a body press against the back of your own, making your cheeks heat up as you knew exactly who it was.

Charlie had picked up the cue from the ground and had it now in between his fingers as he guided it towards your own, putting his hands over yours as you held the cue.

“Here, you gotta hold it like this.” Charlie’s voice was soft as he placed the pool cue between your fingers, resting it between your index and middle fingers.

“Alright perfect, uh- yeah, and your other hand goes here.” He guided your other hand to the end of the pool stick, your hand wrapping tightly around it in instinct.

You tried to focus, you really did but the feeling of your boyfriend pressed against you while you two were slightly shitfaced was too much for you at that moment. You felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest as he continued his non-intentional suffering.

“And you’re gonna pull back your arm like this,” He placed his hand on your elbow that was sticking outwards, slightly pulling it back.

“Alright, that- that should be good man.” He stood back, which made you release your breath, and admired his work, giving you a thumbs-up to let you know it was ok to shoot.

Taking a deep breath, you hit the cue ball that was lined up to a solid ball and successfully hit it into the pocket.

“Alright, yeah! That was great, you did great babe.” He walked up behind you, slightly stumbling over his own feet as he mumbled curse words to invisible hurdles on the ground.

“Thanks!” You used the chalk to rub the end of your cue, blowing it like it was the end of a revolver after shooting a bullet.

That earned a chuckle from the critter, “Calm down babe, you’re still a beginner.”

“Oh yeah? I bet I can beat you this round.” With an eyebrow raised, you challenged him as you raised your pool cue to his chest.

“What are you willing to bet? I’m all ears dude.” Crossing his arms, he raised his own brow as he leaned against the pool table.

“How about buying the next round of drinks?”

His smile grew as he let out another chuckle, “Fuck yeah, let's do it.”

The two hours quickly passed, and multiple rounds of pool and drinks had been consumed between the two of you as you both laughed loudly over your now-drunken pool skills.

The time for the pool table was over so you and Charlie were walking to the bus stop, bumping into each other as you tried to keep each other from not falling down.

“Wait wait wait, I won babe! You- You lost, I swear to God!” His arm was wrapped around you as he struggled to keep you up.

You chuckled as you held onto him, your cheeks flushed when you spoke, “Nooo, I won! You messed up at the end remember, it was three to two!”

“Yeah, three for me and two for you!” You two eventually made it to the bus stop bench, laying your head on his shoulder which eventually slid down to his chest.

You struggled to keep your eyes open, giggling to yourself when you thought about the events that just unfolded.

You felt his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer, “Tired?”

You hummed in response, earning a small laugh from him.

“Yeah, same. I’ll wake you up when the bus gets here, ok?”

“Mmm, ok.” You responded, letting slumber take over your body as you listened to Charlie’s heartbeat to lull you to sleep.

#smiling friends x reader #smiling friends charlie x reader #smiling friends charlie dompler x reader #charlie dompler x reader

91 notes · View notes

canmom · 11 months ago

Text

baldur gate

belatedly joining the bg3 train. I played BG1 when I was a kid but never got around to BG2. here are my observations:

the hair and skin rendering. good god. the rest of the game looks decent enough but they really went all out on the characters. I have to know what technique they're using for that hair there, it responds to light so well, and it can handle a variety of hair textures and stuff. ...look I know what a nerdy start this is this is literally my job ok ><

the character designer gives you four different types of penis to choose from, but there's no face customisation sliders, just a choice of about ten presets. i know this game is basically an eroge but still, lmao.

no body sliders in general actually. might need to look into mods because the bodies in this game are kinda weird. everyone's sorta uniformly ripped, I can't make my boobs smaller, etc. etc. (and of course the whole 'nobody can be fat' thing that has been commented on often). I think I need to get some mods.

mind flayer body horror stuff is tasty. that opening cutscene goes so hard. og Baldur's Gate games would have some fun in their cutscenes - I still remember the one with the blood flowing around the cobblestones - but a plane-hopping battle with multiple dragons and a big squid spaceship is setting the bar pretty high. look forward to seeing if the rest of the game can live up to it.

there's something wonderfully tabletop about the first two companions being... well. the first player I can imagine being like 'yeah so here is my lore-accurate gith, I learned the gith language and everything, I've written a thirty page backstory for her' and the second player is just 'yeah here's my elf, she's called... Shadowheart'. they shoulda made her a warlock (but it's lucky they didn't because then we'd have two warlocks)

the starting armour for those two companions looks absolutely shit. it looks like it's spraypainted plastic, especially since it's skinned in a way where rigid metal parts bend at the joints. just way too busy as designs. I need to find some better drip for these girls asap.

of course I played a warlock. I almost always play warlocks in D&D. it's such a chuuni class and there's a lot of conflict potential in the patron thing. also I hear this is a game where it pays to have good cha on the MC, which pretty much limits you to bard, sorc and lock. I hope they make patron interactions a thing in this game.

the implementation of 5e combat as a CRPG is pretty thorough! also, D&D combat works way better on the PC where you can resolve everything in five minutes than it does at the table. I put it on Tactician mode but so far it's been pretty trivial, I look forward to more interesting encounters down the line.

the d20 rolling UI is kinda ostentatious huh

overall, seems promising. that said this isn't a liveblog, probably. unless I run into something particularly interesting.

#computer games #baldur's gate 3

31 notes · View notes

everydayfrimmel · 2 months ago

Text

December 7th: “Playground”

1,000 words, modern AU, fluff

Frieren is babysitting.

This is not the kind of thing that logically ought to happen. Frieren is not the kind of person who logically ought to be trusted with anybody’s children. But Heiter is grading papers, and Eisen offered Stark to socialize his ward, so now, after a meeting with her advisor, Frieren must babysit, and Himmel, who has never had anything better to do in his life, tags along.

Frieren’s version of babysitting, though, unsurprisingly consists mostly of making it as far as a park with a playground and then turning Fern and Stark loose.

Then she sits on the nearest bench and pulls out her laptop and Himmel can’t help but ask, “really?”

“I have work to do.”

“You’re not going to play with them?”

“My job is to supervise, not participate.”

Himmel gently flicks her ear, which twitches in response. “You’re missing out, you know.”

“Hardly.”

“You are.”

He gives up, though. It’s only when five minutes pass and she’s still buried in her work that Himmel realizes that she doesn’t intend to stop.

He pokes her cheek to get her attention, then gently closes the lid of her laptop, stashes it in its plain black sleeve. Then, while she looks at him as if she cannot believe this betrayal, he slips the whole thing into her backpack, zips it, and stands, offering his hand.

“Really,” he tells her. “You’re missing out.”

They find a safe place to set her backpack - by the jungle gym, where Stark and Fern are trying to climb the wrong way up the slide and where they will be able to see it from any vantage point on the playground - and then he directs her to the seesaw.

“It won’t work,” she tells him. “The weight is too imbalanced.”

But this only means he can send Frieren close to flying each time his side of the seesaw comes down, and her indignant protests soon turn to dogged efforts to do the same that more often than not only result in her slamming into the ground hard enough to jam and ankle. Still, Himmel does not make it nearly as high up, and this disappoints her.

She is not particularly gifted on the monkey bars, either. Spending recess reading a book in the corner of the yard every day of elementary school probably did it. But Himmel, who has yet to find an athletic activity he doesn’t take to famously, finds them delightful. Frieren watches him walk himself across, back and forth, probably five or six times before she decides she’s had enough and goes to fetch her backpack.

Stupid fun-loving boyfriend, distracting her from her work. Some people don’t have the time or the inclination to-

“One more,” Himmel calls after her as she goes for her backpack. “Just one, I promise!”

-play.

As if they are children, not babysitters and phD candidates old enough to have some of their own. As if there is nothing better in all the world to do on an open afternoon than mess about with playground equipment.

Frieren narrows her eyes. “Which?”

And it’s only because he gestures to the carousel that she agrees.

She remembers being little, reading her book peacefully in the grass at a park much like this one until Flamme forced her to stand up and find something to do for fear she’d “never get socialized.” She had chosen, naturally, to sit down cross-legged in the middle of the carousel with her book and wait for the other children to start spinning it. This plan worked so marvelously that Flamme gave up on the idea that taking her reclusive adopted daughter to the park would make her any more social and signed her up for swim lessons instead.

Those self-same swimming lessons where she had met the little boy with fat cheeks and blue eyes and boundless energy who had been just too late to catch her carousel phase but was nevertheless waving her over now.

She doesn’t sit in the middle this time, though. She has no book to read, and anyway, she’s too old now for that not to make her sick. So she braces herself against the metal bars and prepares, because if anybody is going to get the carousel going fast enough to make you vomit, it’s Himmel.

And he does. But the wind catches Frieren’s pigtails, and he takes a flying leap onto the platform with a whoop of joy that would not befit a man of his age unless it were Himmel, and-

She leans back, feet planted wide, pulled from the center by the force of the turning table, and tips her head back, and she thinks - how nice this is, this playing. Even if it is a waste of time.

“Everyone needs a little carousel in their life!” Himmel crows over the scratchy din of the turning carousel. “Don’tcha think?”

But Frieren doesn’t answer, barely hears him. They are turning, turning, slowing, and when they finally start to slow enough that she can make out the real shapes of things around her, she finds herself hopping down from the table and gripping the bar and then breaking into a dizzy, stumbling run.

She does not want it to end. She doesn’t understand why, but she cannot stand the thought that the table will stop spinning and everything will come to an end.

And after, when they are lying face-up in the center, inside hands joined, outside hands resting on their aching stomachs, Himmel laughs and turns to kiss her cheek and says, “I told you, darling.”

She swats his hand away, but after a moment she thinks better of it and rolls over to lay her cheek against his chest.

This is a known quantity, a dance to which they both know the steps. He drapes his arm around her shoulder and kisses her head. She squirms closer.

And the work and the backpack and the children? They are long forgotten.

#dailyfrimmel #frieren/himmel #frieren: beyond journey's end #frimmel #sousou no frieren #au: modern #fluff #i had a tragedy with my files and lost my novel manuscript so ig this is what I’m writing now #whoops

8 notes · View notes

histrions · 3 months ago

Text

hi! ♡ this is neve ( she/her ) and i've brought to you blush boutique's owner, nam yeonji. since she's been in ansong for twenty five years, you best believe she has done a lot of things since then! feel free to read her about and memories here. more ( like, a lot more ) details on her can also be found under the cut. and before i forget, drop a like on this post if you're up for some plotting! ( ps. i'm so happy to be here and please do expect me to be very annoying in your ims soon! )

ansong

tried dropping all of her items down at the building's lost and found. sure, she had that familiarity in her heart but what the hell would she do with a children's make-up kit? bffr.

she spent ten whole years studying at ansong university, majoring in fashion design, creative writing, then visual arts. still likes painting and reading to this day. (her subconscious was probably pushing her to do so because she barely graduated high school in her waking life.)

about fifteen years ago, she opened blush boutique and the rest is history. thanks to it, she was able to unlock her first core memory too. (her first collection was inspired by the color palette of the aforementioned children's make-up kit.)

purposefully moved to floor #09 unit #09 to try and figure out what her "nine" notecard means. (spoiler alert: nothing good.)

for now, the only thing she remembers of her past is that she was very close to her grandmother.

personality

looks like a bitch, sounds like a bitch, is a bitch. i was originally going to make her less complicated but where's the fun in that!

success has always been the most important thing to her and it's no different now; take a look at her degrees or her boutique. pushes herself hard and pushes others even harder.

the beautiful thing about her is that no matter how cold or intimidating she may be, she mostly just doesn't know how to interact with people. she doesn't necessarily want to be rude, but she also doesn't care enough to apologize and try harder when she fucks up... so, you know. she sucks but not that much.

on the bright side, she's nice to party with! just don't work at blush or get too close to her and you will be fine! i think.

in my head, she has the same energy as that one annoying coworker who comments on everything you do and spreads gossip for fun. i support women's rights and wrongs.

another slightly concerning thing she does is people-watching. doesn't try to be subtle about it either. if you think she's judging you, she most likely is.

but she's not all bad! (please don't give up on her pleaseplaeasepelapselease)

very creative. puts a lot of thought and effort into everything. extremely loyal, both to her craft and to those she loves. doesn't lie or pretend; always very straightforward about her intentions. if you're her friend, you will never feel unappreciated! you will be showered in gifts and that's a threat. just don't expect words of affirmation from her because she doesn't have the slightest idea how to do that.

connection ideas

any antagonistic plots, obviously! she called your outfit ugly, stole your cat, hit on your boyfriend/girlfriend at a bar, etc.

rivals. maybe another business owner who gets on her nerves.

that one unlikely friend who is all "i can fix her" and it grosses her out.

if you need a low maintenance friend, you have found her! your muse could ghost her for years and she wouldn't even notice.

anyone who is into art in general! if you nerd out with her, you might see a better side of her, just saying!

let's give her another weird ex! she can't remember the one from her waking life so it's okay. <3

or anything else you want. i'm all ears!

and now, onto the part you're probably curious about!

trigger warnings: brief mentions of abuse (child, domestic, and alcohol), depression, suicidal ideation, and murder.

life and death

let me set the scene: late 70s, jeju city. baby yeonji's parents, living their best life thanks to grandma yeonji, so much so that they even named their only child after her. thing is, her grandmother was one of the most successful actresses of her time, which allowed the family to live luxuriously.

naturally, this privilege also came with its own set of expectations. her grandmother and mother were both adamant that yeonji goes down the acting route herself.

(this was mostly to make up for the fact that her mother never succeeded as an actress. passing down generational trauma, the tragedy of being a daughter, etcetera. you know how it goes.)

so yeonji became a child actress, constantly missing school just to keep up with her work. by her early 20s, she started to win awards of her own. acted in a lot of romance k-dramas, which she absolutely hated.

her then boyfriend (who is unnamed for plot purposes but also because i hate his ass) proposed to her at an award ceremony (way to make it about yourself, buddy) and the two got married soon after.

long story short, their relationship turned really abusive and yeonji started drinking. she would also frequently call suicide hotlines as she felt like she had lost control over her life. (or that she never had any to begin with.)

just a minute before the clock struck midnight on new years' eve in '99, yeonji had an argument with her husband and was pushed off a balcony. (not so fun fact: the nine notecard refers to the year and the number of floors she fell down.)

currently thinking about how both her grandmother and mother outlived her but.. that is a heartache for another day..

if you read this far, have this lore accurate yeonji depiction:

#ansong:intro #i don't know how to be brief for the life of me #thank you for having me!!!

8 notes · View notes

salternateunreality2 · 1 year ago

Note

I’ve got to ask, because the video you linked in chapter 80 makes me think I’m right…

Are the firsts parenting styles based on Gwenna’s (pleasant peasant media) parenting videos? Cause I’m living for the comparison.

Great chapter btw. I really want to cuddle Kadaj!

Answering your question:

She definitely influences them. I like to think there's an FF7 Gwenna out there making content that Angeal watches religiously. He's right there, cocoa and dressing gown ready, for Every Video.

They all have their own styles and did their own research, but her basic concepts around respect for the kids and gentle parenting are things all the Dads keep in mind. They also bend towards those principles naturally for various reasons.

I didn't set out to make her influence the story, but since I watch her stuff, it's going to bleed over. (My other sources are watching parenting irl, reddit, other fics, that weird phase I had where I got super into adoption for a few years and read a million blogs and things, and my own experiences with kids.)

Excited rambling because I can't help myself:

Angeal is a big fan of Gwenna and gentle parenting. He's also a natural by nature and his experience with Zack. He's not the "fun" parent--he's probably the most strict about everyday and risky things alike. Bedtime is always at bedtime. No playing "yeet the baby as high as you can", even if the giggles are EPIC. Healthy food. Educational field trips.

Sometimes it can be hard for him to let himself or Cloud off the hook for crazy kid stuff, but especially himself, and he needs those reminders from her about taking a deep breath and remembering that it does work. Patience yields focus.

You don't have to and can't be perfect, but you can be the perfect Dad for your kid by loving him and trying your best. And sometimes your best is collapsing on the foldout couch holding onto the baby all night despite what the books say about sleep schedules because your baby needs you.

Genesis respects Cloud and treats him like a small adult because that's how Genesis expects to be treated (minus the small part. Genesis is tall. He is! He just has mammoth friends. Shut up). Genesis also doesn't want to helicopter/tiger mom his baby; he got enough of that growing up and he's over it.

He wants the world to take him seriously, so he offers that same courtesy to Cloud. He offers it to everyone unless they prove themselves to be unworthy, in which case Bitchesis comes out.

He's more likely to risk Cloud's physical and emotional health than Angeal, but less likely to risk Cloud's physical health than Sephiroth. He has no qualms about teaching Cloud the hard way about the ways of the world; if Cloud gets smart with him, he says "bet".

"I cursed at Heidegger because he's a bitch." is a perfectly rational response to Cloud asking why Papa cussed, in Genesis' mind.

Sephiroth strives to do The Opposite of what Hojo did to him, so he treats Cloud as a tiny but respected new recruit SOLDIER under his command. He strives for excellence from both himself and Cloud, but the instant he starts feeling too much like Hojo, he re-evaluates. He tends to be more risky with Cloud's physical safety, because when the bar is set to "don't make a 2yo fight a monster", letting a 4yo handle a weapon doesn't seem like a big deal.

He also feels inadequate and a little out of his depth emotionally with Cloud; to combat this, he regularly seeks advice from Tifa, Angeal, and Zack to understand Cloud and provide appropriate responses.

Zack is definitely one of the funnest dads. His philosophy is to meet Cloud where he's at. Both he and Genesis are great at engaging Cloud's imagination and playing with him, but Zack gets way more into it.

Zack gives Cloud freedom and respect because he's a kid and he deserves to have fun. As long as no one's getting seriously hurt, why the heck not?!

---

They all drive each other a little batty sometimes with their choices (see: the petting zoo incident + any and all motorcycle outings), but ultimately their main goals are: physical needs fully met, emotional needs fully met, then education and other things. They love their baby 🐥 and he loves them! ❤️🐱🐶🐻🦜🐥❤️

#dads of soldier #parenting styles #ff7 #sephiroth #cloud strife #zack fair #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #baby cloud strife

11 notes · View notes

snow-system-wol · 7 months ago

Text

Menphina's custom job, Selenomancer, is a combination of two jobs -- but the circumstances that led to its creation were a happy coincidence and chance meeting.

Ao3

S'ria sat at one of the tables in the Rising Stones, drumming his fingers nervously on the table. Or... was it truly S'ria? It was not a clear distinction, but… no, Menphina did seem to be a more accurate answer.

It didn't feel bad this time, but the two of them had been a bit enmeshed for the last few bells after fighting together against the gods, flowing in and out of control in the midst of battle. S'ria seemed to have stepped farther away for the moment, though. It comforted Menphina to know that S'ria trusted her with their body enough to do things on her own.

Menphina flinched and looked up at the sudden clink on the table, realizing she had not been keeping close attention in her anxious fatigue. Menphina expected to see Tataru, forgetting that she was away on business for a few suns. Instead, she saw an unfamiliar Hyuran woman placing a bottle of mead in front of her and sitting down across the table with a mug. She gave Menphina a reserved smile and Menphina returned the gesture instead with a gentle tilt of her head.

“I beg your forgiveness if so – but have we met?”

Menphina was still exhausted from fighting and made no effort to alter her voice to be more like S'ria's. Should her words come out strangely high and melodic, so be it.

If her visitor found anything odd about her speaking thusly, she didn't show it.

The woman shook her head, curling her hands around her mug. “You simply seemed in need of distraction from your own thoughts, and I thought to seek a conversation partner while F’lhaminn is off completing her errands.”

Menphina reached for the bottle that had been set on her side of the table – noting gratefully that it was still quite sealed. Even more gratefully, it seemed like it would be something palatable to her.

She hoped the woman was not watching her overly closely as she quickly worked out how to open it, lacking S'ria's muscle memory for it – but if so, words could take the focus off of her easily. “So, you are a friend of F’lhaminn’s…?”

She seemed to relax at Menphina's acceptance of the offered drink. “Yes, we met in Thavnair, while she was…making herself scarce from Eorzea for a short spell. I am certain you are aware of what I mean.”

Menphina was, yes. She faintly recalled F’lhaminn saying that she'd gone to Thavnair in the wake of the assassination accusations.

…She more clearly remembered S'ria being berated for not searching hard enough for Minfilia than she did any other part of that conversation, despite her best intentions of letting that indiscretion go, but that was neither here nor there. Menphina pushed that train of thought aside and simply nodded.

“I was remiss in introductions, my apologies. My name is Nashmeira. And yours would be…?”

It struck her then, in this strange moment in the nearly empty lounge, that she was somehow anonymous. Few chose to describe the Warrior of Light's appearance as often as they did his deeds – with some not even knowing the gender of that revered figure. Despite wandering directly into the Scions’ prior home, Nashmeira did not seem to know who she spoke to.

It was… a novel feeling. It was such a novel feeling that Menphina decided to, without hesitating for more than a few moments, do something a touch unusual. May S'ria hopefully not be upset later.

She took a small sip of her drink before she spoke, the taste of honey sweet on her tongue.

“My name is Menphina.”

Oh, she wasn't sure what she felt, but it may have been an adrenaline rush upon the words leaving her. She could simply say that and the world would not immediately end – how strange.

She could only hope that Nashmeira had no clarifying questions about her gender, as that truly felt too far, to introduce herself as a woman to anyone.

“You do not often see people sitting here instead of the public bar. Are you involved with Mistress Tataru's business ventures?”

Menphina stifled a tiny laugh – she was sure that she would not be a good help to Tataru when it came to running a business.

“No, I am just a contract adventurer right now, really. I am helping with some research in Mor Dhona.” None of that was really untrue, and Menphina could live with that.

“An adventurer... so, you are a fighter?”

Menphina winced, answering before any hesitation could take hold of her. “No, I am a healer. I do not wish to harm anyone.”

Somewhat to Menphina's surprise and confusion, Nashmeira’s expression fell just slightly.

“Ah, somehow that is a surprise... I am not actively scouting, our troupe is off for a few moons, but there is a certain grace to you – I must confess to being intrigued.”

Menphina raised her eyebrows. “Troupe? Pardon, I am not sure that I follow.”

“The Troupe Falsiam – a traveling group of dancers. I am proud to call myself their leader and can attest to their skill. I always keep an eye open for those with promise. If I am being honest, that is one of the reasons that I approached you – though not solely, of course.”

Menphina's eyebrows drew together and she did her best to smooth her expression into something more neutral. Nashmeira was clearly proud of her group, but… upon picturing the attire and treatment of the dancers at Costa del Sol – and the even worse abusive incidents out of Ul'dah – Menphina knew such an offer alone would have S'ria's fur standing on end.

“I am afraid I don't quite have the… personality or temperament for that sort of performance, myself.”

Despite the delicately chosen words, Nashmeira's face slightly closed off – it was clear she understood what Menphina was thinking and was not particularly pleased by the assumption. “I fear you are imagining something slightly different than what I mean. I teach the Kriegstanz – an art of war, where dance occupies a place on the battlefield.”

Menphina's hand tightened minutely around her bottle and she tried to prevent the guilty flattening of her ears. “Forgive me, I meant no harm with my words – I do not disrespect either profession. I fear my original assessment still stands, however… I do not find comfort under scrutiny.”

Nashmeira gave a small smile and Menphina nearly sighed in relief, for fear of having given actual offense. “I understand, and will not press you. However…” She tapped her fingers on her cup, briefly pausing. “Given that we share a mutual friend, one I am quite fond of, I am inclined to make a different offer.”

“A different offer…?” Menphina tilted her head. “I will certainly hear it.”

“Very well.” Nashmeira nodded. “Upon hearing you say that you are a healer, with a pacifist nature, I knew that putting weapons in your hands for the Kriegstanz would not be possible. However, if you wish to learn – the dance is more than just violence. You can empower, protect, and heal those that share the battlefield with you – which sounds like something you may appreciate, Menphina. I shall be in town for several suns and could show you the basics before I go.” She smiled. “Perhaps our Songstress could be of some assistance to you as well.”

Menphina took a few moments to consider. It did sound appealing – even if the concept of learning was faintly embarrassing to imagine, the described results would let her better protect those around her. She knew that herself and S'ria had struggled heavily with G'raha's safety in this round of godly trials. Mayhap returning with more skills that could help him would be a boon.

And lending her strength to empower the others was not quite the same as lifting a hand to kill someone herself.

There was, however, one not so small problem.

Menphina smiled sadly at her. “Your offer is extremely generous, and an appealing one, however…”. Was there a delicate way to put it? “However, my leg would surely… not cooperate with such teachings. Even as healed as it…likely ever shall be, ‘tis still rather problematic.” She shifted her leg under the table, an noticeable ache settling into her knee as if summoned by her words.

To Menphina's bewilderment, Nashmeira looked unbothered by that response. “Is that your only reservation? You needn't worry – I know how to teach the dance around these limitations. I am much the same, after all.” At Menphina's poorly concealed moment of raw curiosity, surely showing on her face, Nashmeira continued. “A childhood injury. My body was never the same after – yet all I have ever learned about dance has been as I am now.”

Menphina found herself in a strange place between confusion and blinking back tears. “Thank you for sharing, I – if that is how things are, then I would like to learn these support techniques from you. I simply need to ask… why go to such efforts for a student that shall not benefit you?”

Nashmeira took several moments to answer, briefly engrossed in emptying her mug. She finally looked up and met Menphina's eyes. “Given the company you must keep, if this is your preferred relaxation spot – mayhap I do not wish to see our saviors lose anyone else dear to them.”

#snow-system #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️#writings #menphina lore!#off screen interaction after this is menphina intercepting F'lhammin to let her know not to let Nashmeira know the how WoL Thing #and to roll with the name thing #selenomancer is canon for Dawntrail so wanted to actually explain origins #this is during MotR raids in 6.x #maybe some day Nashmeira will realize who she met here #(or at least. whose body this was.)

3 notes · View notes

wiredaughter · 1 year ago

Text

☆-☆-☆

@tropetember #27: emotional constipation

Hemlines

outlast × mother gooseberry/ofc × women's bar

You've never really been to a woman's bar before. Even if they'd been as popular back in England, it's not like any of the models in your father's fashion house was willing to risk that kind of exposure, and going alone seemed like it'd be boring at best and disastrous at worst. You don't let that stop you now that you don't have much of a reputation to worry about. Or so you tell yourself after a particularly rough day at work. Truth is you're still in the payroll of a studio that caters to children, still rather inexperienced and crucially, still mixed. You're vexed enough after a hemline related squabble to not care. If worse comes to worse, Phyllis can very well read about an Englishwoman found drowned in the river, and the thought of her having to find a dressmaker that will put up with her punitive demands gets a grin out of you. If it all goes well though, it might just help you blow some steam.

You don't have a car, so you get a cab that leaves you a block away, as you're feeling like stretching your legs a bit either way. You're more angry about being nervous than you are nervous, so you manage to keep your head high as you enter, flounce your way to the bar and get a sidecar. Only when the bartender puts it in front of you you dare take a look around. It's a working class joint on a weeknight so it's not too crowded, but it's still more lesbians you've seen in your life. Feeling giddy enough to start applauding at nothing, you hide your excited smile in your drink as you tell yourself to keep your head. You've got no intention of giving your unworldliness away. You down the rest of your drink in one go and you haven't put the glass back down when the barkeep, lovely in a tight waistcoat and denim jeans, is sliding you another one with a wink. 'First time?'

Damn it twice over. 'Just in America.'

Five drinks later or six, of which you can only remember ordering two, you're quite sure everyone's onto you being as green as it gets, but are way past caring. You've joined a table of women who are at equal parts endeared and amused by your accent, which only gets more chavvy the more you drink but you really don't mind repeating what you said real close to their faces. Usually standing out would annoy you, but the atmosphere is too delightful for your pettiness to cut through it. Seeing women hold each other and even sneak kisses in the open still has you thinking you might be dreaming, and if you are you're sure nobody would mind if you think your interlocutor, Bill as she'd introduced herself, is worth the risk of going home with. You don't say that, instead you ask 'Can I tie your knot please?'

She raises the corner of her mouth and tilts her head like she's trying to figure you out. 'What?'

You don't reply, but reach out for her tie, hands buzzing from the liquor but you know clothes if nothing else, and she lets you undo it. A tulip knot has never been so hard to fix but she doesn't seem to mind it, not that her hand resting on your waist is helping. You sigh when you manage to pull it off, and she raises her hand to feel around for the changes.

'Leave it, please.'

'Since you said please...'

'You've never done one of those for me.'

That's a voice you'd recognise no matter how legless. Youe left eye twitches, and now you're convinced you're dreaming, or battling a nightmare. You stay really still trying to change the setting, and are just realising this is somehow real life as Bill looks to Phyllis then back to you. To her credit, she looks more entertained than anything, 'Forgot to mention you had a woman?'

You turn around now, properly angry at the whole thing and drunker than you should be. 'We're not...!'

Her voice, steady and exasperatedly confident, cuts you off. 'I'm her boss.'

'You're not my boss!'

She raises an eyebrow at that, then turns around. 'We're leaving now.'

'She's not!' You turn back to the table. 'We're colleagues.'

Your point is probably undermined by your exit after her, but you remind yourself you don't care about what any of them thinks about you and you've got bigger problems, on quick unbalanced footfalls that have you stumbling out into the alley until it's too much and you're narrowly saved from breaking your face against the asphalt by firm hands on your shoulders. Phyllis carries you until you're seated on the bonnet of her car and examines you critically. You tilt your chin up, like she's got any right to any part of this. You are not my boss.'

'Well I'm glad; because you're a mess.'

You cross your arms, unexpectedly affected by the comment. 'Nobody's asking you to unmess it.'

'But I think I will anyway.' She opens the car door. 'Get inside.'

Like hell. Just now it occurs to you to wonder what she's even doing there. 'Did you follow me?' She gives you an unimpressed look, points to the open door in a dramatic gesture, but you're over it and when you jump off the Corvette it's to lean back into the wall. 'I'm too smashed for carsex, cheers.'

'Obviously.' When she picks you up you're too tired to do anything but curse under your breath as she gets you inside. 'I'm taking you home.'

You're in the passenger seat. You were actually hoping to get to nap in the backseat but when she leans over to do your seatbelt, and of course shed be the type to have the bloody things installed, you find you don't mind much. She's wearing a different cologne than she wears for the show and her proximity warms your skin, and when did you even get cold? You lean your head in the window, looking down at the road racing under the wheels. Too fast. You feel the nausea trying to take over your body, and start humming out of tune until it subsides. Phyllis gives you a look between belittling and pitying. 'We have a show to do tomorrow.

'You're still not my boss, Phillys.'

'Mother' She corrects.

You huff, laying your head down and closing your eyes. 'Just because you've got a complex with your character...'

'Lots of people have complexes. You should probably try it next time you go out at night.'

Her voice is light and it ticks you off in a way you cannot explain away. 'Right.'

'Just a tip.'

'Well, I'm no waitress and I've never had a mother so I'm not about to start now.'

Your voice catches on the last word and you cannot explain why. You've never really minded not knowing your mother, but now you kindof do. It's been a long night. If she notices she doesn't accuse it, just rests her palm on your knee a moment before grabbing the stick shift again. 'We shall see about that.'

You actually are annoyed by that, but don't trust your voice to speak without breaking. Instead, you opt for turning on the stereo. You don't know the song, but Phyllis looks at you with chagrined indignation and you'll call that a win if it gets you to tomorrow.

You smash your alarm clock against the wall. It creaks in a way that has you planning on shopping for a new one after work today, but it's a small price to be rid of the ringing. You really shouldn't have gone out last night and, while the memories get you to smile through your pounding headache, you're not entirely sure this is a step up from drowning last night in the Delaware, or whatever was the river you passed as Phyllis drove you back. Phyllis. You drag yourself out of bed, you've got a show to make after all, finding you're wearing the same clothes you went out with.

You cannot remember going to bed, you don't even remember making it back. You do a lacklustre fullbody stretch before heading into the kitchen. You could still go back to bed, you figure you'll make it on time if you skip breakfast, and you're not feeling like breakfast at all. It's an attractive idea but as soon as you think that, you register the pot on your stovetop. Onion soup. You don't like onions, but you can easily picture Phyllis standing behind you at the table. And she'd tell you to eat. You'd probably argue for twenty minutes about it, but the hangover makes you pliant to the mere idea of her. You reheat it quickly and really, with the bread and cheese, it's not bad at all.

#mother gooseberry #outlast fanfiction #i Knew i had fucked up somehow and i fucked up in the paragraph order with the last two. well it's been addressed as of the seventeenth o #of october

6 notes · View notes

modern-day-bard · 1 year ago

Text

Worth The Feeling

Content Warning: 18+ This series contains explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship. Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 25

If there was any part of me that was hesitant about the new dress, that part had been incinerated as soon as I saw those tabloid photos. And walking up to the party now, I clearly wasn't the only one to have dressed to impress. There were other party-goers dressed in sequins, short dresses, suede suits, heels, heavy makeup, and hair that looked as though it was done professionally. I really did pull out all the stops tonight, too. I smoothed my hair, letting it tumble over my shoulders. I did my best attempt at a smokey eye and made sure my lips were plumped with gloss to match the shimmer of my dress. Courtesy of Mia, I had borrowed a sparkly clutch just large enough to hold my phone and some lip gloss. I even brought out one of my only pairs of heels for the occasion, black and strappy to match the rest of the ensemble. Thankfully, they were much easier to walk in than I remember.

Norwick had chosen the Warwick club for our wrap party. I originally thought that it was purely because of how it sounded to say "Norwick at Warwick," however, walking inside...I think the wordplay was just a bonus. It is hard to know where to look first. Giant crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, one placed roughly every ten feet along the rafters. The lights were all dimmed, most of the light coming from small, lavender-colored bulbs somewhere high above, the disco balls near the dance floor reflecting it back out. My attention is torn toward the bar, but quickly then to the wall next to it that had a floor to ceiling photo of a naked model, seemingly looking over the crowded room. Behind the bar, there was another room that looked a bit less crowded. Knowing Dwayne, I assume that would be a good place to start if I want to drop off his gift first.

I round the corner behind the bar, taking in the ambient lighting. This room was less crowded, and the thumping music was a bit more drowned out, making it easier to hear conversation. The spacious room has two fireplaces and a handful of cushioned chairs, complete with some barstools that sat along the second, smaller bar in the corner. Sure enough, I find Dwayne leaning against the bar, chatting with the bartender. His attention turns to me and he waves me over. I give him a quick hug, which I had only ever done at wrap parties before. The stress and stuffiness of the film is over with, and it feels like we can all take a collective sigh of relief.

"Happy wrap party," I say, handing over the black and silver gift bag in my hand. I pause as he opens the gift. I ended up going with an Italian candle and a blank clapperboard.

"I figured you didn't get to enjoy a nice Italian vacation, so you can recreate one during hiatus. Also, I realize that this promotion for me also means a promotion for you. You can fill out the clapperboard for your first film as an assistant director."

Dwayne smiles, smelling the candle. "That was very thoughtful of you, Ava. Let me buy you a drink," He winks, and I realize quickly that it is an open bar.

I laugh. "That would be great," I'm tempted to buy a shot, but I settle for a martini instead. The bartender takes my order and Dwayne continues while my drink is being made.

"It's exciting, this next chapter," He has a far off look in his eye. I hadn't taken a moment before I bought the clapperboard to wonder how long Dwayne had wanted this promotion. How young was he when he first dreamed of working in film, and all the steps it took to get to this moment. "I like working with you kids, don't get me wrong. But I'd like to have a say in the direction, not just the logistics."

I nod, understanding completely. "We'll miss you."

"I'll still be on set," He deadpans.

"Well I should hope! I'm still going to have some questions that only a former Key-PA can answer."

Dwayne smiles again, "Happy to help." My drink arrives on the counter, and I raise my glass to him.

"To the next chapter," I say with a chipper smile. He begrudgingly clinks his scotch glass against mine, and I take an eager sip. "Speaking of, when do you want to meet about the remaining logistics stuff I need to learn?"

Dwayne shrugs, "I'll email you. Enjoy tonight though, Ava. We've all earned it." I take the hint, smiling and raising my glass again as I exit the room, filing out with a few others back into the giant main hall. I take several gulps of my martini, now that I'm out of sight of Dwayne. It's not exactly a gulping sort of drink, so by the time I'm situated near one of the couches in the main room, I get in line for the large bar on the far end to get another drink. After ordering another, double, martini, I pull out my phone to text Lana and Mia. They live on the other side of town, so I knew we wouldn't be car pooling. But the place is already packed to the brim, so they have to be in here somewhere. My finger hovers briefly over Javi's name, but I know better than to text him in public. I'm not sure what my name is in his phone, and it just felt too risky depending on what popped up. He was listed just as "J" in mine, just in case. He had texted me before I left.

Javi: Looking forward to seeing you tonight ;)

I smile to myself, reading it again. A familiar squeal breaks through the music, prompting me to look up and see Mia pushing through the crowd toward me, Lana right behind her, smiling wide. They embrace me tightly, though we had just seen each other hours before. Mia starts jumping up and down, still holding both of us. Clearly they had been here long enough to have a few drinks, and clearly my first martini was already kicking in because I start jumping along with her.

"How did Dwayne like the gift?" Lana asks over the noise.

"He cracked not one, but two whole smiles!" I hold up my fingers. "So I think he loved it."

"Woo!" Lana took a sip of her drink. "We should probably be dancing, and you should probably make a little progress on that." She gestured to my nearly full glass. I didn't bother telling her it was a double as I nod, taking a long swig.

"Attagirl!" Mia grabs my hand, pulling me towards the dance floor on the other end of the room. I glance around for familiar faces, and I see a few that I don't know as well, but for the most part it's hard to recognize anyone. I suppose most of us received plus ones, though I had opted not to bring anyone else. The only one I would want with me was already going to be there. The darkness, drinks, and noise dampen my senses as I stop scanning, choosing to focus my attention on reaching the checkered dance floor. It's crowded, and besides a few of the sound engineers that Lana greets, I can't make out people I know super well.

Mia spins me in a circle, making me laugh. I can tell most people around me are yelling the words to the song emanating from the speakers, so I do the same. Taking a few more sips of my drink, I slowly loosen up. Even though this project has been chaotic and unlike anything I've dealt with before, I'm only thinking about the positives right now. I think about our trip, minus the fainting spell, as well as my promotion, Javi, and how happy I am to have the two friends dancing around me. The more I think, the more my hips start to swing, and I close my eyes for several moments just to drink in how lucky I feel right now.

Lana creates a train of sorts with Mia and me, so that the three of us are dancing in a line. She moves us through the dance floor, even deeper into the club than we already were. I'm rocking back and forth when I see long, tanned legs in a short, long-sleeved pink dress. Emma's beautiful long blonde hair sways back and forth as she moves, and she occasionally speaks to a shorter man next to her. I realize through the flashing lights that he's holding a camera. That must be the guy who took the face paparazzi shots, the same ones I saw this morning at the mall. I turn toward the girls.

"Be back in a minute," I shout over the music.

They just nod, turning to dance with each other as I walk away.

"Ms. Madden!" I say enthusiastically as I approach her.

She smiles brightly when she sees me. "Hi, Anna!" She gives me a brisk hug and I feel a small pang of guilt. I never blamed her or Javi, but she was the face of my distress in a way. But she was always polite. She even remembered the name that she incorrectly called me.

"How are you?" I ask.

"Good, good. I'm glad it all went so well. Though I will be happier when this whole stunt is over with, too. No offense, Glen." She wiggles her hand to the man next to her.

Glen didn't even look up from his camera, he just nodded along.

"Honestly," she leans forward so that she doesn't have to shout so loud, "I just need Javi to finally get here so we can take a few pictures and I can get the hell out of here. I'm leaving for Cabo tonight."

"Cabo! That's exciting."

"Who's going to Cabo?" A familiar, smooth voice says behind me. I turn around coming face to chest with Javi. I look up through my lashes, smirking slightly when his jaw goes slack. His eyes do a quick once-over of my outfit before he clears his throat.

"Me! Once we can get our pictures and get out of here." Emma sings.

Javi places a light hand on my back so he can shift around me to Emma. Just before he lets go, he lets it drop lower for a moment. I hope no one can see my shiver. Having so much of my skin exposed made his calloused hands feel even more thrilling. As Glen says hello to Javi, I don't miss how his eyes scan my body, spending too much time on my legs before holding my gaze without a hint of shame.

"Well, have fun. It was good to see you, Emma."

She smiles at me despite my informal phrasing. I will probably never see her again, so I figure I can get away with calling her by her first name.

"You too, Anna." She moves to put her arm around Javi, as Glen is clearly setting up the shot.

"Mr. Gutierrez," I say, "Good to see you, too."

"Ava," Was all he says, his eyes darkening by the minute.

I turn to walk away, making a show of swing my hips to the music as I do so. Before I'm completely out of earshot, I hear Emma ask him, "Wait, it's Ava?"

When I'm back with my friends, I let go. I move my free hand through my hair, dancing around Lana and Mia in time with the beat. Whenever I get the chance, I peer over toward Javi and Emma's side of the dance floor. Javi has his hands on Emma's hips, holding her from behind as she laughs again and again, though Javi hasn't spoken from what I can see. In fact, he keeps looking at me while Glen takes more photos. Glen even takes out his phone to get some shots that I'm sure they'll say were taken by other party goers. I hold Javi's gaze as I grind my hips in a circle, down my drink at the same time. I turn so my back is to him, looking at him as long as possible. Then I run my hands down my body, bending my knees and moving side to side. I know as I arch my back on the way up that the hem of my dress is just barely covering my behind, and almost all of my back is exposed to him. I smirk to myself, hoping that this silly show of mine is doing its trick.

Lana, Mia, and I dance for a few more songs before we're all out of breath. We leave the dance floor to get more drinks. I'm fanning myself in line when I decide to check my phone.

Javi: I don't want to ruin your fun, but do you think you could meet me for a few minutes? I have a wrap gift for you.

He'd only sent the text about five minutes ago. I look around, but he's nowhere in sight. He must still be on the dance floor.

Me: I think I can arrange that. Where?

It only takes him a few seconds to respond.

Javi: The VIP room. As fast as those heels can take you.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x original characters #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fluff #javi gutierrez fanfiction #javi gutierrez smut #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x reader

3 notes · View notes

servin-up-surveys · 8 months ago

Text

survey #216

What is the last song that you had on repeat? Uh I feel like it was "Blind and Frozen" by Beast In Black.

Do you believe that one day the sun will burn out? ... No shit? This is scientific fact? Like it's not gonna happen in my lifetime, but it WILL happen.

What’s your homepage when you bring up the internet? Just Google.

Have you ever cracked your phone screen before? I haven't, actually.

Do you like Train’s music? I do. They write some of my all-time favorite love songs.

Have you ever seen the movie High School Musical? Yes. My younger sister (who I shared a room with) was particularly obsessed with it.

Are you excited to pick out your wedding dress one day? I am, but I'm also not looking forward to trying multiple on and possibly being picky. I can't imagine myself being one of those people that tries on dozens and dozens, though.

Does it bother you when an artist remake a song that one has previously done? Not at all. I like plenty of covers, especially if I enjoy the original song.

How many times have you had sex within the past two years? Guesstimate? Actual sex, zero. For reasons that are sometimes very hard to deal with.

Can people read your facial expressions easily? If so, why is this? Yes, because I'm very bad at hiding my feelings on my face.

When was the last time your area had a tornado warning, if ever? I can't remember. We get plenty of tornado watches this time of year, but warnings are rarer.

Does it scare you when the sky gets really cloudy and dark during the day? Yes, because I'm terrified of the potential of tornadoes. Thunderstorms themselves don't scare me, it's just the fact that they can spawn tornadoes.

Have you ever ran from the police? No.

Have you ever watched The Walking Dead? I haven't.

Do you like horses? I do.

Snakes? I love snakes.

Cats? I sure do.

Have you ever driven an electric car? No.

Have you ever eaten moussaka? I don't even know what that is.

What breed was the last dog you saw? Chihuahua.

Do you ever fact-check the things you read on the internet? Not everything, I don't regularly care enough about what I might randomly read, but especially if it's a topic I'm invested in, I certainly will.

Have you ever had a parrot sit on your shoulder? No.

What was the last caffeinated drink you had? Mountain Dew.

With a fried egg, do you prefer the yolk runny or set? I won't eat a fried egg because I cannot stand yolk like that.

Have you ever planned a wedding? Not really. I mean sure, I have plans for my own, but we're definitely not at the "real" planning stage yet.

Do you have any pimples right now? No.

Have you ever painted a rock? I don't think so.

Do you ever shop at Aldi? Do you even have one nearby? There's one very near here, and Mom goes there rarely. She loves the prices there compared to elsewhere, Walmart is just easier for us.

What are some of your favourite snacks? Right now I'm in an insane pickle episode. In general though, I love chips, or Cheez-its. Small candies that come in packages like peach rings or Skittles I also like a lot. We don't tend to keep snacks like that in the house though, so I'm more likely to have something like a cashew bar or Special K blueberry snack bar... thingy.

What has been the best thing to happen to you in the past year? Honestly, becoming more aware of and better understanding my autism. I've come to accept myself much more, instead of just thinking I'm fucking weird with stupid quirks that could never make sense to anyone else. I still want an official diagnosis, but I firmly believe I don't need it, at least for myself.

Are you prone to jealousy? Nope. It's happened, but I definitely don't experience it much.

How did you get through the lowest point in your life? Look, to be totally real with you, I was too afraid to actually kill myself. I had no other choice but to just ride it out.

Have you ever been someone's first love? I suppose possibly Sara, but idk. She dated people before me, but I don't remember her ever mentioning truly loving somebody.

How old were you when you got your first gaming console, and what kind was it? The OG PlayStation. Idk how old I was, I think we had it when I was born.

What is your favorite food to put gravy on? I hate gravy.

Do you know anyone from Canada? Yes.

What's your opinion on astrology? It's dumb as hell and for insanely gullible people that generally don't want to take responsibility for their own flaws.

Do you use TikTok? No.

Do you ever get super bad buzzing in your ears? Not really, no. I've had rare instances of minor ringing, but nothing severe, for which I'm very thankful.

Do you know anyone who has actually been in an alcohol or drug-related crash? I do. She lost her best friend, who was in the car with her, because of it. They were both high, or possibly drunk, one or the other. It took years upon years upon years until she seemed okay again.

Did you celebrate Father's Day? No. I sent him a message and was happy to hear he hadn't touched a cigarette in two days, but that was all. We've usually gone out to lunch, but my sisters never mentioned it this year.

Do you hate how being bisexual is like a trend? It's not a trend, shut the fuck up.

Have you ever gotten a professional massage? No, this would be insanely uncomfortable for me.

Do you have a good relationship with your first love? We don't have a relationship, period.

What is something you’re currently nervous about? This weekend. I'm going to my first Pride event ever but it's supposed to be scorchingly hot and I have hyperhidrosis.

Are you dealing with any health-related problems right now? I always am.

Are you experiencing problems within a current relationship? No.

Do you find that caffeinated or alcoholic drinks make you pee more than normal? Water makes me pee more than anything else. I don't drink alcohol enough to have noticed for that, but there are sometimes where if I drink a soda, I have to go to the bathroom pretty quickly.

Do you still enjoy watching Disney movies? I sure do.

What are some interests you have in common with your parents? My mom likes writing, even if she doesn't really do it. When she was younger, she also enjoyed drawing, but that's another thing she doesn't do anymore. I *enjoy* fishing like my dad, even though I don't think fishing for fun is moral.

How old were you when your parents trusted you to stay home alone all day? I don't remember.

Do you drink more or less water than is recommended? Technically still less, I'm sure. I think the very vast majority of people don't drink the amount that is technically advised.

Do you go on vacation with your family a lot? Where was the last place you went? We never go on vacations. At least, Mom doesn't, and I live with/under her. We can't afford to.

What do your parents think about piercings and tattoos? Do you agree with them? My mom doesn't care. She doesn't LIKE all piercings or tattoos, but she has nothing against them in general. I'm like my mom in that respect, but I'm even more open and accepting of them. My dad doesn't seem too bothered by piercings, he was never against me getting any, but he was shocked and nervous when he found out about me getting a tattoo. Mine don't seem to bother him though.

What are your religious beliefs? Are these the same as your parents’? I am an atheist, but sometimes with some agnostic-leaning wonderings. Both my parents are Christians, which I am definitely not.

Do you remember The Land Before Time movies? Who was your favorite character? I do, but I think I only saw the first two, maybe three. I know I loved them, though. I don't remember my favorite character as a child, maybe Littlefoot.

What’s your favorite genre of book to read? Animal fantasy.

Are you one of those people who texts back instantly? Almost always.

What’s your favourite place to get pizza from? Domino's.

Think of the last verbal argument you were in; what caused it? My mom having main character in life syndrome and refusing to even entertain the possibility of her ever, ever being wrong. I had to blow the fuck up to Girt, she and I have butted heads a lot lately and I finally snapped in half. I hadn't been that angry in god knows how long.

Does your refrigerator have one door or two? Two, side-by-side. Left is the freezer, right is the fridge.

Do you smoosh bugs, or just let ‘em go? I tend to ignore them, but if it's a spider, I will try to take it outside so Mom doesn't kill it. I never kill bugs, unless it's like, an ant in the house. Absolutely never, ever outside.

Would you ever kiss someone with facial hair? I've done this plenty and would keep doing it. Sometimes Girt has stubble anyway and it doesn't bother me at all.

Have you ever drooled in public? I feel like I have a little bit at least once while sleeping in the college library.

Have you ever been bitten by a dog? No.

Would you ever shave your head? No, not me personally. Female-presenting individuals can look amazing with no (or very little) hair, but it's definitely not for me.

Would you ever meet someone you met online? I've done this before and want to meet at least Mazzy and Tez. Shaz would be amazing, too, as well as Sam and his wife.

Where do you wanna live when you grow up? The more mountainous area of NC. Blue Ridge Mountains would be the absolute dream.

Would you get married if you could right now? I'd get engaged. I'd like to lose weight before my wedding... but by now idk if it's ever gonna fuckin' happen.

What color are your eyes? Grayish blue.

Who was your first good kiss with? Jason was my first kiss and he was perfectly fine at kissing.

Would you kiss this person again? If I actually loved him again, yes, but I will never let myself have that kind of relationship with him ever again.

Who was your hottest bf/gf besides the one you have now? Jason.

How often do you drink water? A lot a day, I don't actually track it.

Name something that is on your bedroom wall? Above my bed and framing some plant art I have up is a branching string of circular lights that's meant to look like a vine or something. I only really turn the lights on if I'm reading in bed, but it's super cozy.

If you could paint your walls any color what would it be? Because I'm going for a nature theme in there right now, I'd probably go for a light green.

What are you drinking right now? Raspberry lemonade-flavored water.

What does your phone case look like? I don't have a case. I'd like one, but that's not something I can just casually afford to buy and it's certainly not important enough to be on my gift wishlist.

What do you take the most pictures of? My cat, lol.

If you could be a professional in any sport what would it be? Dance.

When was the last time you made dinner? Tonight; Mom was too tired to cook. I just put popcorn shrimp in the air fryer.

Who do you want to be buried next to? I'd prefer to be cremated and have my ashes spread than be buried.

Do you have any hickeys on you? No.

Who did you last share a bed with? Girt.

Have you ever been taken to the emergency room in an ambulance? As of this year, yes.

What are you listening to right now? I'm watching some of John Wolfe's Baldur's Gate 3 LP. I'm not very far from being done, I just ventured into watching other stuff for a while.

Do you get blizzards where you live? No.

What’s something you prefer to keep private? Sexual information/past.

What was your favorite book you had to read for school? The Handmaid's Tale.

Has anyone ever called you a sociopath before? No.

Have you ever saved someone’s life? She says so, but more than anything it was me coincidentally sending a message at the right time.

#survey #surveys #random surveys #personal surveys #random questions #personal questions #questionnaire

1 note · View note

links-in-time · 7 months ago

Text

@bokettochild I absolutely love your writing and this fic. But the ending left me so bereft I just had to add a little bit more to cheer myself up again.

Hope you like it and I hope it does your work justice.

Sky sat for what felt like an eternity, slowly watching the bottle empty. Watching Wars drain glass after glass.

"You not going to have anything?" Wars asked incredulously, waving the glass at Sky.

The younger hero sat across the table, arms folded, leaning back in his chair. His brows were furrowed, wrinkling his usually smooth brow. Normally bright shining eyes glared back.

"No thanks," Sky replied shortly, hardly moving as he spoke.

Wars shrugged and tipped his drink down his throat. When the bottle had run dry the tavern too had emptied save for the bar keep and the two of them. Outside in an alleyway Sky could hear two cats fighting while the bar sign creaked in a slight breeze. His attention moved back to his brother as he lifted the bottle to pour another drink, only to find it empty. Wars let out a defeated sigh. As though one more drink, just one more, would have done the trick. Would have been enough.

"I think we should get back to the Inn now," Sky uttered, only moving so far as to uncross his arms.

"You can go, I'll stay here a bit longer," Wars replied, eyes already searching for the bar.

"That's not going to happen Link," Sky shook his head, laying a hand on the table.

"Sky," Wars said slowly, not quite slurring but close enough. "Don't make me order you to leave."

Sky could have laughed at that. Sure Wars was a Captain and by a technicality that meant he outranked most of the other heroes, Sky included. He was a hell of a fighter too, one of the few Hero's Sky considered a real match in hand to hand combat. Right now however, he wondered if Wars could hit the board side of a Loftwing.

"You could do that, or you could get off your arse and come back with me. Sober up, stop acting like a moping idiot, and remember who you're supposed to be Link!"

Wars put the bottle down. The thud of glass on wood reverberrated through the room. Sky felt it in his chest, as if Wars had actually punched him. He tried not to show how he felt, kept his expression plain as he stood up.

"So what's it going to be? Are you going to come with me as my brother? Or are you going to make me fight you and this demon you're inviting along with you?"

Wars looked at Sky through the corner of his eye. Sky saw the flash of brilliant blue through his dirty fringe. For a moment a beat of hope shot through his heart. Wars' hand was still curled around the empty bottle. For a moment they both stared at it. Sky wondered for an instant whether he had pushed too far, too hard. That Wars would hit him with the bottle then go find another drink. Or simply ignore Sky, then get another drink.

Wars did neither of those things.

With his eyes still on the bottle, Wars released his grip and sat back. He stared at his own hands on the table. Scarred, bloodied and covered in ash, trembling ever so slightly. Sky's mind eased a little at that sign, at least Wars didn't seem to be on high alert any more. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and waited patiently for Warriors to make the next move.

A moment later Wars gave Sky a sideways glance and a short nod. Sky gave the man a little room to get to his feet. Wordlessly they walked together to the door and left the bar. There was a chill in the air, but Wars didn't seem to feel it. Though he sucked in a healthy deep breath of it. He must have been more inebriated than he let on because he started off in the wrong direction before Sky set him right and they walked towards the Inn together.

Together was a strong word however. Wars strode ahead while Sky walked a few paces behind. Keeping an eye on the Captain's swaying steps, though he tried to hide them. He was still a mess, but Sky would worry about that later. Right now he was more worried about the younger boys seeing Warriors in such a state. So far most of the others seemed more or less oblivious to Wars' new habit, he didn't want that to change in such a dramatic fashion.

As they entered the Inn Wars managed to be mercifully quiet, even his stumbling footsteps barely made a sound. As they reached the top of the stairs Warriors seemed to stop and take stock of the hallway.

"Which one's my room?" He asked, failing to whisper. "I don't remember."

"That's because you left before we decided who was sleeping where," Sky uttered in response. "I volunteered to share with you."

Sky reached past Wars and unlocked the door to their left. He stood back and waited for Wars to walk ahead of him, then stepped through and locked the door behind them. When Sky turned around into the dark bedroom, he found Wars sitting on one of the two beds fumbling with his armour.

"Would you like some help?" Sky asked, trying his best not to sound patronising. While he lit a couple of candles.

"I've got it," Wars insisted, though he continued trying to undo the same buckle.

"I could find you some clean clothes to sleep in if you like?"

"Whatever," Wars sighed, now growing frustrated with his unruly fingers.

Sky sighed, trying to stay calm. Trying to remind himself that he was here to try and help Wars, not get annoyed with him. He found Warriors pack and quickly pulled out a sleep shirt and a clean pair of trousers. As well as the Captain's washbag.

When Sky got to his feet and turned to face Wars again, he couldn't help but feel the well of pity within him begin to swell.

Wars sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His shoulders shook with each shuddering breath.

"Link?" Sky uttered, carefully laying his burden on the empty bed.

A sob escaped through the cage of Wars' fingers. A wretched sound full of heartache and misery. Sky approached warily, in case Wars told him to back off. But Sky steeled himself. He was a hero goddesses damn it! If he couldn't comfort a friend in his darkest moment, what good was he.

"Wars, Captain?" Sky said quietly, kneeling in front of Warriors on the floor. "Can you tell me what you need?"

Sky waited while Warriors took in a few haggard breaths, clearly trying to cut through the tears and sobs long ehough to speak.

"I..." Wars started to say, but a fresh wave of heart wrenching sobs cut him off.

"It's alright, take your time," Sky said soothingly. He kept his voice low and calm, a steady anchor for Warriors to listen to. "You're safe here. Tell me what you need."

"I..." Wars tried again, taking a gulp of air to clear his throat. "I need... y' elp."

"You need help? Would you like me to help you get undressed?" Sky asked, as he gently rubbed comforting circles into Warriors back.

Wars nodded and though he didn't move, he didn't protest when Sky stood up and started removing his armour and his scarf. His belts were easy enough, but Sky found Warriors rather unweildy when it came to his tunic. And Sky had thought getting his own male off was difficult, getting it off another person was a battle in itself. That done and the pile of Warriors dirty clothes mounting on the floor, Sky knelt in front of Wars again.

"Can I help you with anything else Wars?"

Though Sky's eyes searched Warriors face for an answer, the other man kept his eyes fixed on the floor. His tears had left pale streaks in the soot and blood on his face, reminding Sky that Wars hadn't washed since their last battle.

"Do you want me to help you clean your face? Or I could fetch you a cloth and some clean water?"

"Why are you doing this? Why didn't you just leave me in that tavern?" Wars asked, ignoring Sky's question.

"Because you're my brother Link. And I love you," Sky replied firmly.

"Everyone just loves me because I'm a Hero!" Wars scoffed.

"I don't. I love you because you're clever, and selfless and you always put the rest of us first. Even if that means you suffer for it."

At last Warriors looked up and found Sky's gaze, searching those bright wondrous eyes for the truth.

"I'd do anything to keep you all safe," Wars uttered, though it felt to him as though he had shouted the admission.

"I know you would. But how are you going to do that if you drown yourself in booze? I know we all have our ways of dealing with the things we've seen and done. Goddess knows how damaged we all are. But none of us would be able to bare the weight of your loss if you gave into this vice."

A small whimper caught in Warriors throat. Now he was looking at Sky, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off him. He watched as Sky approached him and carefully sat down on the bed beside Wars. Sitting in just his undershirt and his pants, Warriors felt extremely exposed. But with Sky's warm presence beside him, he didn't feel as scared as he thought he should have been. He let himself lean against Sky a little, then allowed the other hero to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Warriors closed his eyes, the prickly heat of tears threatening to overwhelm him again.

"It's alright Captain, I've got you now. Everyone's safe. It's just you and me," Sky assured him soothingly.

His soft words helped Wars to relax a little, he tried to take a few deep breaths but the tears came anyway. Wars' head fell onto Sky's shoulder as he scrunched up his face and began to sob once more. Sky pulled Warriors more securely against him and wrapped both arms around Warriors shoulders.

"It's okay Link. You're going to be alright."

Demon In A Bottle

Took me bloody well forever, but I'm off work now, so here we go!

Febuwhump: Day 1 - Helplessness

Word Count: 5,395

Summary: In the wake of a battle with a demon, one that's abilities allow it to dredge up old miseries, Sky must hunt down their straying captain to try and stop him drowning said old miseries in whiskey.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcoholism and Substance Abuse

notes: quite frankly, the theme of this fic is in no ways lighthearted, but while the title jumped out at me from the story, I find it also makes me laugh. I can’t help thinking of the tweetle-beetle-bottle-puddle-paddle-battle-muddle from Fox in Socks and I don’t know if I hate myself for it or am just glad I can giggle about something related to this story!

If there’s one thing heroes are supposed to be able to do, it’s save people. By definition, a hero is someone who helps others, but in meeting the rest of their chain of heroes, Sky has since learned that the title of hero means something else too.

The Hero is a man or child clad in green who appears when Hyrule is in danger to fight away monsters and evil and restore peace to the kingdom. The fashion in which they do so differs of course, as he’s slowly learning, but the fact remains that a hero still has a duty to his people and his country, and while it’s not always something thrust upon them, each one of his brothers bears that burden. Some of them let it drag them down, the weight of the world on their shoulders an inescapable duty, others shoulder it as a life purpose, a defining role, something that they’ve built their whole being around, and others, like Wind, regard it as a natural course of action.

It’s strange, learning that the title is so commonly used, that so many men and boys have borne it since it was given to him what feels like ages ago. In a way, it’s nice knowing that there are others, that there are people like him who understand things, yet in the same breath, they’re all so different, and with such varying experiences that really, in the long run, they’re as different as night and day sometimes.

As if to prove it, Legend’s blatant lack of trust in knights clashes with the fact that so many of them bear the honor of knighthood with pride. Warriors is a polished, well-spoken soldier, trained in the ways of combat, and Twilight is a ranch hand hailing from the country village of Ordon, brash in many ways that clash with the captain. Time is quiet, distant at times, and Wind is warm, welcoming and an ever-present ray of sunshine at their sides. Where Hyrule is unpolished and unassuming, the majority of their group stand out in a crowd. Wild can cook. Truly, there is such variety among their number that it’s a wonder they can all be classified by the same singular word: a hero.

But just because the title is there, doesn’t always mean it always feels like it fits.

Sure, Legend’s whole being is built around his life as a hero. They're not sure how long he’s been doing it, but they don’t call the young man “veteran” for nothing. It’s clear he owns his title without shame, living out each day in the effort of following the destiny given to him. Sure, Wild has taken to heart the burden bestowed on him, striving to be the best he can be and own the title. Sure, Wind accepts it like it’s just another truth about himself, just the same as his golden hair and ocean blue eyes. Yes, the old man seems to characterize what any child might think of when asked to describe a hero. But Sky is not Legend or Wind or Wild or Time or any of the other heroes. They are of the same spirit, and some of them apparently share blood (why had Twilight and Time told no one?) but they are each their own separate selves, each with his own life and person, and unlike them, Sky feels the weight of their shared title acutely.

It was his duty to save Zelda. The weight of the future was on his shoulders. His duty was protecting the people of Hylia and restoring peace and safety to the surface. His whole world expanded in one day from a smattering of islands high above the clouds to a whole huge land full of people and animals and duty.

Duty. What a heavy word.

It follows him. Even with the sword now silent, Fi having gone to rest with the assurance that he has accomplished what he must and no longer requires her aid and guidance (even though he does, he still does, please, Fi, some advice would be great from time to time) his mission isn’t over. No, because now that he’s defeated the god of evil, now that Zelda is safe, now that Impa is dead, he is the one Hylian out of all of them who knows enough about the surface to guide the other in surviving there. Yet, in the same breath, he’s still the youngster who barely graduated Academy, never mind being properly knighted. He’s still young enough that the elders sometimes doubt him, but experienced enough that they know not to treat him like a child. He’s ‘too young’ to understand the Knights of Skyloft, but has seen more of the world than they ever have.

It’s strange, being caught in such an imbalance. People expect so much and yet so little of him. They want him to know what’s happening but doubt that he does. They ask for advice but question anything he gives them.

It’s exhausting. He knows Zelda used to tease him before, but the nickname “sleepy-head” never felt so accurate.

At least with the chain though, he doesn’t need to worry about it. Call him selfish, but there’s a certain kind of relief that comes from allowing someone else to take the lead, knowing that everyone else understands the world around him better and knows what to do. He doesn’t need to babysit them around new species or warn them about dangerous conditions or fauna. He doesn’t need to even be on guard, instead free to drift along at the center of the group, knowing that Twilight’s sharp ears and Legend’s acute sense of danger will provide ample warning if anything does come upon them.

He’s free to sleep for the first time in what feels like forever, without someone busting through his tent in a panic because they heard keese for the first time or realized that rain existed. In fact, he’s allowed to even sleep in sometimes, no plans or defenses or responsibilities waiting for him when he wakes up, just simple easy to follow orders of get up, get ready, walk, fight, and make camp.

Call him crazy, this adventure has been almost a vacation if it wasn’t for the fact that Twilight almost died on them a month ago! Or then again, there’s been a lot that happened since then, but even with that in mind, at least he’s not the sole one responsible for the safety, care and guidance of his fellow heroes. More often than not, actually, they’re the ones looking out for him. Honestly, he doesn’t know how he’ll thank Legend for teaching him about the poisons on the surface, or Wild for letting him peek at the champion’s slate to read what he can about monster types, weaknesses and whatnot. The other heroes have this and that to add, of course, but those two have been the most helpful, seeking him out in order to show him things first hand when they can, so that while Wild and Hyrule often go to muck about, he and Legend find their free time typically spent with the veteran teaching him everything he knows about the surface world, survival, and even matters beyond that; matters beyond being a hero and more about just being. It's nice learning things for the sake of learning, not for the sake of staying alive, and Legend talks with a similar cadence and manner to Fi when he’s caught up in expounding on this point or that, uninterrupted because Sky very much appreciates both the effort and the guidance.

For all Legend has to share with him though, the vet isn’t exactly someone he can turn to when it comes to problems with people. Honestly, sometimes it feels like he returns the kindness shown to him by the younger hero by covering Legend’s ass when it comes to social interactions, at least among their group. The vet’s left a terrible first impression on most of them, and since it seems everyone else is equally bad as he is when it comes to communication, there’s still many in their group under the impression that their vet is a total asshole.

So yeah, Legend is not the best person to ask for help when it comes to people issues. Time either. Time and he aren’t close by any exaggeration of the word, and while the older man is willing to offer advice here and there, Sky’s not certain he feels comfortable seeking it out. Typically speaking, he’s found that Warriors is the best person to ask about these sorts of things, being as he is a man and not a child and possesses the social skill necessary to address this sort of thing, only....

Only, it’s terribly hard to ask someone for advice on how to handle their own stupidity.

He is not blind. Okay, well, maybe, and to some things, but missing Time and Twilight’s relationship is likely more a matter of him not being close enough to either to really put much stock in their interactions. Their leader’s fondness for one of their number wasn’t too shocking considering how attached he himself has become to all of them in such a short time. He'd just assumed that Time moved slower and had begun to warm up to them one at a time, starting with the rancher and moving on to the sailor. He'd thought they’d all follow in time, not that Time just ultimately had favorites.

Despite missing that though, he’s not entirely incompetent. He sees his brothers, and much as they might have all assumed he was simply the tired, quiet one, just because he doesn’t speak up doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention. No, he sees what happens in camp. He sees Legend’s tentative bids for connection, Wild’s withdrawn attitude that hides behind the smile and the laughter. He sees Wind’s worry and Time’s stress. He knows Twilight is wrung out and confused after his secret was exposed and the rest of them have had to accept the fact that their silent, furry companion was, in fact, one of their brothers.

He knows that there’s a breach of trust there, or at least a perceived one. Those who didn’t regard the beast as a threat have often sought the company of their wolf companion in order to express troubles or thoughts that they didn’t wish to share with anyone else, including the rancher himself. Not knowing, they’d told him things, thinking he was just an animal and incapable of sharing them, told him things they didn’t want Twilight to know, things they thought or felt. Now, knowing that Twilight is privy to so many of their secrets, it’s perhaps natural that their barriers have been thrown up, their brothers guarded and wary of what he’ll do with the forbidden knowledge he possesses.

He knows it hurts the man, but he understands. He’d never shared his own feelings with their wolf companion, but if Crimson were to one day take hylian form, he’s sure he’d be at least the slightest bit worried about it, maybe even betrayed. Not knowing a dear companion could speak if they so wanted, could be like yourself, would be hurtful. To know they didn’t trust you when you poured out your heart to them...

Yes, he understands.

Unfortunately, that also means that Twilight is, very much, also not in the category of people who he can come to about things that are worrying him. Sadly, it seems none of them are. He’d never dream of asking the younger ones; Wind is a child and should not be burdened with such things, Hyrule is still struggling to make his own connections, Wild may or may not understand and most definitely has enough on his plate already, Legend is Legend, and he’s never been very close with Four.

Which leaves Warriors, who is, again, the course of his frustration.

Because, unfortunately, despite being a hero, and despite killing an actual god, Sky finds himself helpless to face a mere vice, a common demon that seems to have taken hold of one of his brothers.

It started simple. A night after a tough battle, one where he couldn’t sleep and had wandered downstairs from the inn-room he’d shared with a few of the others, a room where Wind was being kept awake for the sake of his earlier concussion from a battle. Stress was high across the whole group, and he’d needed the space so it was natural that he’d wandered downstairs, hoping to sneak outside and catch some fresh air like he used to on Skyloft.

Like on Skyloft, the awful visions that woke him up that night were also cause for his slipping from bed.

His intention had been to step out, to catch the breeze on his face and maybe watch the stars for a bit. Legend often says that the stars hold comfort and assurance, and while he doesn’t know nearly as much about them, or the stories and figures the vet can pick out from the heavens, he does know that cloudless nights remind him of home, and bright lights twinkling above had quickly become the only familiar thing between every place he’s gone.

Maybe that’s why Legend likes them so much; they’re an unchanging constant no matter where you go.

At any rate, he’d needed the space. He hadn’t expected to find any of the others up as well though, much less the captain. In the end, he never made it outside, instead sitting up and talking with the other.

He’d thought little of the nearly empty bottle of whiskey at the man’s side, too busy with his own thoughts and worries.

He’d thought nothing of it either when, after a terrible battle that nearly saw the loss of the traveler and ended with a passed-out Legend and a very bloody Four, he’d found the captain up stewing quietly over ill thought-out plans and reckless behaviors. The off-handed “I need a drink” had been something to just smile and shake his head at.

But then he’d begun to catch on. Rough battles, difficult nights, sleeplessness from worry, from pain and in his own case; from visions. It had resulted in many a night spent up in each other’s company. More worrying still was the constant presence of a little silver flask, held tight in fainty trembling hands as dulled blue eyes would linger over their younger ones.

He’d thought it strange, but it was Wind’s worried “has the captain been drinking again?” that really caught him by the ears and shook him. He’d thought it a passive thing, hadn’t paid it much attention because there was no true way to know what was in that little flask (Legend has one too, but it’s got some kind of sweet, spicey juice in it). The sailor asking about it though had changed that. It had revealed that, no, it wasn’t simply a passing thing and was very much a longstanding issue. It was not at all what he was hoping to find out. More so, the youngest can’t even say anything about it, because the captain knowing that his former charge is aware of the vice apparently would have some very, very bad results.

So, Wind can’t say anything without potentially making it worse. None of the others know or have seen it enough to realize the weight of the issue, and he’s left the only one who not only knows and witnesses it but has nothing he can do about it.

Long nights, dark eyes and pain, so, so much pain in the captain’s face and voice have left him stumbling. The quiet admission of how their elegant captain’s own stepfather was a miserable drunk isn’t any help either, although that conversation had rather quickly turned from him trying to bring up the issue and into the both of them commiserating on the lack of decent father figures in the world.

From there. It just... keeps happening.

He’s watching, trying to say something and so, so easily letting pretty words and prettier eyes distract him into talking about something else. Quite frankly, it would be terrifying if it wasn’t so impressive how the captain manages to dodge his every quiet attempt by redirecting him onto something else, turning the matter around or simply accepting his concern with a smile and an easy, gentle, so very believable dismissal. Yet, he sees the results. He sees the stress and the tension. He sees the misery that before had hidden so prettily behind a polished mask, but which now spills from time to time into a slippery mess before him, catching him in its mire and leaving him floundering, breathless, and scared.

He’s the hero, the one meant to save those around him from trouble, but he’s failing a battle with a bottle that’s he’s not even touching.

Watching the result of that failure, the downward spiral, it hurts. It hurts more than blades or arrows or even poison. In a way, it is a sort of poison; a slow working thing that, while he never touched it, has infected not only his own life but those around them.

As chaos sows itself across the kingdom, poison spreads within their own number. The attention of their brothers, and indeed, most of his own, is fixed on the protection of their home, on defeating the newly risen foe, on ending things so that their lives can return in some small manner to a semblance of normalcy. And somehow, he lets his worries fall to the background, let’s his mind turn to the struggles spawning up around him with the others, with himself, with things that are ever so much more prominent than a little silver flask. Even the yelling match that sprung up between the vet and druken captain hadn’t refocused him, his attention more fixed on other things in the aftermath; Legend’s behavior, his own aggression when shouting at the captain to just cease and desist with beating the dead horse before he’d marched off after the vet.

Fighting and travel have kept him busy since, but failure is as sure a trigger as anything, or so he’s learned. Even now, he watches as the others retreat to lick their wounds, to hide away in their inn rooms, silent and mournful, blood still staining their clothes. He’s sore himself, tired, weary, too worn from the events of things over the last couple of months to actually want more than to lay down himself and sleep, but he doesn’t.

No, because when the rest of them go to hide at the inn, the captain goes off alone, a cold, dangerous, dark look in that drawn and tired face, and worry gnawing at the skyloftian’s own heart will not allow for him to even entertain thoughts of sleep, not when he’s learned to know what that look means. He lingers only as long as he must to ensure all the rest are settled, safe and stable, before darting back out onto the streets.

Watching is hard. Seeking is harder.

There’s an awful sort of feeling that comes over him at the realization that the nearest bar is mostly the new location of his straying brother but finding it in the dark is nearly as difficult as dragging himself towards it, knowing full well what he’ll find inside. He does though, he does because he has to and because it’s the right thing to do. He does it because it’s what a hero would do.

Heroes save people when they’re drawn into danger, and the devil in the bottle is slowly urging his beloved brother and friend in. A steady hiss or whisper or however it’s call manifests for the captain, and one that, if he doesn’t make it in time, he won’t be able to stop from taking hold.

He can whisper a begrudging thanks to the heavens that Warriors is a gentle drunk most of the time.

The bar-room's floor is shockingly clean when he enters, considering it’s a farming town they’ve stopped to stay in at Time’s suggestion. Faint, dusty footprints from one or two people scuff in and out, but he can see where thick ash and dirt have clumped and marched across the floor, and following the trail is the easiest thing he’s done today after fighting a far larger, far more terrifying demon.

In his mind, Sky steels himself; if he can fight Demise and come out alive, he can face up to the captain about this most worrisome coping technique. The key is simply not to let Warriors distract him with something else, so at the first mention of anything that’s not the man’s own issues, he needs to start to redirect.

Hylia above, why couldn’t those cursed goddesses have granted him even just the smallest piece of Wisdom? Charging in is the easiest part, getting through the battle with a silver-tongued soldier is the thing it seems he can’t do properly.

Glass taps on polished wood, a heavy and familiar sigh following. Trailing his eyes towards the back corner of the room, he can easily make out the bloody and worn form of his brother, slumped against a small table and already with a hand ploughing through his ash dusted hair. Warriors looks like hell. Dark bruises beneath darker eyes, face drawn and still stained with the remains of their defeat. The usually proud appearance has been crippled, uniform torn and filthy, and blood still spattered over armor, leather, and skin. The man doesn’t so much as spare him a glace as Sky settles across from him at the table, keeping the barrier between them for both their sakes.

“Hey.”

A long, drawn-out sigh sounds off the wood of the worn bar table.

Sky waits. Pressing any of his brothers is counterproductive. Sitting quietly, taking in the situation, is the best approach, letting them determine whether or not they’re ready to speak yet. He won’t push either, he just sits and rests his arms on the table, glancing the empty glass and the blessed lack of a matching bottle.

“What d’you want, Sky?” Still not even a flick of dull eyes up towards him. “Shouldn’t you be with the rest?”

He shrugs, stiff, as though he’s not being eaten up a bit with guilt at leaving them. The other adults can keep an eye on things though, and Wind was already doing a marvelous job of talking them out of their heads. It’s up to him to handle the captain though, as the sailor may or not have even been allowed inside the bar. The kid shouldn’t be here anyway, for the captain’s sake and his own.

“I didn’t feel right about letting you go off alone.”

“The kids need you right now.”

“They need you too,” he challenges, leaning a bit closer and trying to catch the turned away eyes of the other. “And I think you’d do yourself some good to be around them.”

A twitch of the fine-featured face before him is his only answer as sooty fingers toy with the empty glass between them. It’s lifted briefly, before the other man seems to check himself and realize it’s empty.

Sky needs to prevent it getting refilled. Hopefully, he can drag the captain’s ass out of here and back to their brothers before then. The key is just getting through to him, and though it feels like ages since he’d looked at the other man and found only unreadable smiles and perfection, there’s still a barrier that stops him really understanding what the captain might be thinking. Goddesses above, how is it that even Legend is easier to read than this man?

“Wars, you’re worrying me.” He tries. Slowly, softly enough that no other patrons in the place will hear him, but it seems the captain doesn’t hear it either.

No, the man just taps his glass against the table-top, distracted, and sigh so heavy he seems to shudder. “Go back, chosen.”

“No, captain.”

In battle, maybe blue eyes hold the flames of the goddesses themselves, but in the dim light of the bar, there’s only a dullness and flickering darkness that makes him want to shift and draw away. He doesn’t though, doesn’t dare. Instead, he sits under that stare for the brief second it's spared, and then the soldier is shutting his eyes with yet another heavy sigh. “Rest, you need it.”

“I can’t.” You’re here, he wants to add. You’re out here and you’re worrying me, and I can’t sleep easy until I know we’re all safe.

Fine features twitch, shifting into a frown that would be very terrifying indeed if Sky hadn’t gotten used to all the harsh looks of his team over the last while. Time’s dark looks and Warriors’ disapproval aren’t nearly as weighty all things considered, and he carefully doesn’t respond when the other looks up at him again, brows drawn low and tightly together, jaw twitching slightly. “Sky-”

“Link,” he returns, sharp to match the look he shoots at the other. Their given name slips strangely off his tongue and earns a twitch of the brows in answer. “No. I’m not letting you sit alone a stew.”

“Even if I want to?” The glass taps loudly against the table, a sharp contrast to their low voices. “Does that matter at all?”

Okay, that’s just a bomb-burr waiting for him to walk too close. “Link, please,” and the use of their shared name seems to have fingers closing tighter over the mouth of the whiskey glass, “we both know what will happen if I leave.”

His words are proved by the lack of verbal answer, instead the tapping of the glass back onto the table as dark eyes meet his. They’re blank again, impossible to read past that closed off, stern expression. It's not one he’s used to facing much these days, but he’s seen it turned on the younger ones plenty of times.

“I leave,” he presses, “and you’ll drink.”

There’s the faintest tightening again around the glass still clutched in sooty hands. “It could be worse.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, nodding slowly, “it could. I could keep ignoring it and you’ll keep getting worse.” He steels his own jaw, folding his hands if only for something to do with them before he meets the stare now fixed, heavy and harsh, on his face. “When we all met, you hardly touched the stuff save maybe after a bad battle, and I mean a really bad one.” The same as Time here and there. The same as any man likely might. A really bad day is fair enough excuse for one drink, but Warriors used to stop at one, and now he doesn’t. “Now it seems every time our backs are turned...” he motions to the glass, watches as blue eyes dart down to follow his gaze.

The captain’s hands aren’t shaking like they normally do. They’re perfectly still as he clutches hold of the empty cup.

He doesn’t like it. The tremor is normal, it is a sure sign of ease. He knows the after effects of their last battle, the magic in it, the illusions cast around them of the worst they’ve seen, worst they’d imagined, used as a distraction shook all of them, but seeing the man still so tightly wound, still so caught up in his head that his body is still responding as though he’s in immediate danger, it doesn’t sit well with him.

“Come back to the inn,” he begs. “We all-”

The sudden shriek of the chair as the soldier stands might be what cuts him off, the cold look in closed off eyes definitely is though. “I don’t know what that demon showed you, chosen, but know this: you can fight gods and you can win, but some of us have fought men and believe it or not, there’s something quite different and more terrible about that.” It’s the clipped soldier’s voice that speaks to him, resounding enough in the bar that everyone else present has fallen silent and tense, looking up from their own conversations to stare. “So go back to the inn, get over what you saw, and let me do the same here so we can face the demon again in the morning.”

“Wars-”

The other turns, heading back to the bar and no doubt with full intent to refill the glass he holds.

Sky darts after him. “Please, Link! This isn’t good for you!”

“Well, it isn’t exactly hurting you now, is it?” Is the sharp answer as barkeep approaches the two of them, wary.

For a moment, Sky debates between telling the barkeep to not serve his brother and telling the captain to just walk away. Caught betwixt, he misses the opportunity for both, too distracted, too unfocused, to slow, and when his brother motions for the bottle in the hands of the barkeep, it’s only then that he gets his wits about him enough to catch hold of the thing himself.

The barkeep darts away, no doubt eager to avoid the mess as snapping eyes fix on storm cloud blue as Sky’s voice rumbles low like thunder between them. “You doing this hurts everyone that loves you. We can’t stand to just sit back and watch anymore.”

“Well no one asked you to watch,” the captain bites, “or care.”

“But we do,” he answers back, trying desperately to catch those eyes again, “we chose to be your brothers, and thus we chose to stad beside you.”

“Then don’t blame me when your choices get you hurt.” The hand he’s set on the bottle is knocked away as, once more, Warriors turns his back on him and heads back to his table.

He’s not sure if he should chase or walk away or give up. He’s left standing for a moment before darting after, again, unable to stop the other as a finger of amber is poured and knocked back without so much as a flinch. Well, not a flinch from Warriors, he finds himself recoiling just the slightest bit as he watches.

He tries again, this time not daring to push further by touching the forbidden poison, but instead trying to break through and get the other to just look at him. “Link, please, you’re killing yourself like this.”

Dark eyes are empty, lifeless, as they turn upwards to look at him, like visions of the sealing grounds were once, thousands of years ago; barren and ruined by battle and death. “Good.”

And then it’s gone, another glass knocked back and Sky left standing, only able to watch.

What else is there to be said? What argument is left to beg, to plead, to convince? He’s the hero, he’s good with his hands, his blade, his strength. He sees foes and he crushes them. He sees allies and he aids them. But when an ally embraces the foe, what then? What’s left for him to do? What course of action is there left save to beg? And when even that fails there is nothing.

Nothing but watching, unable to go back without fulfilling his mission and unwilling to let his brother be left alone in the weakened state the quickly emptying bottle will leave him in. All he can do is watch as golden poison flows, as sooty, bloodied, burned hands lift and toss back, as glass clacks against the tabletop again only to be refilled once more. There's nothing else he can do or say. There may be other arguments, but they’re lost to him, buried instead under that horrible stare and the cracked and shattered soul that had glinted through on that single, devastating ‘good’.

It’s not the first defeat he’s faced today, but between the two, this is the one that leaves him truly helpless in it’s wake.

#febuwhump #linked universe #lu warriors #lu sky #legend of zelda fanfiction #fanfic

71 notes · View notes