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palefacestudentlove · 4 months ago

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the first spring - lewis hamilton

lewis hamilton x reader

summary: lewis have witnessed flowers bloom multiple times in his life. indulged the different colours that shine bold on a thousand different petals. but the frost has yet to allow him to encounter his long awaited spring.

The garden was alive, secrets dancing delicately through the air, carrying whispers of a promise everyone was waiting to witness that day. Through the towering trees, the breeze curled lazily, softening the warmth of the fairy lights into a soft haze. In the air, the scent of wildflowers marked their traces into each breath, painting a delicate magic that made time itself hold its breath. The world slowed beneath a canopy of emerald leaves, standing still to witness a magical moment. Guests sat on the transparent chairs that lined the garden's edge. Blurring the boundary between the outside world and the intimate space.

On the aisle was where Lewis stood. Under an archway, woven from old strong twisted branches, hugged by fresh white roses and silvery eucalyptus, with soft strands of veins trailing its way between the branches. The customized black suit hugged his figure with a contrast that made him stand handsome and sharp in the middle of the soft wilderness. A folded linen handkerchief rested in his breast pocket, pure, ivory in colour. Almost left alone on the dressing table in his hotel room, before Anthony drove back to the hotel, picking it up for his son. Making sure the soft linen was there, accompanying Lewis on the biggest day of his life.

In front of him, just two steps ahead, stood Y/N. The off white dress ethereal around her figure, cascading over every single line and curve of hers Lewis had traced and mapped a thousand times before. Her soft hands wrapped around a bouquet Lewis had picked himself for her, for this day. For his Y/N. Blush roses bloomed with purity and love at its heart. Among them, full petals of pale pink peonies nestled heavily while silvery sprigs of eucalyptus spilled outward. Classic.

Silence sat heavy in the air as Lewis straightened his figure. Inhaling a slow breath to ground himself as a thousand emotions swam through his veins. Sharpening every single detail of his Y/N—his wife. Blurring every other thing surrounding them.

“My dear Y/N, I've always thought I knew everything about love. I thought I had felt it, lived it, and understood it enough. Until you came. Loud and soft all at once. And proved me wrong, entirely. You've shown me so much. You have made me feel things I didn't know I ever could. You’ve filled spaces I never knew were empty. You brought my walls down, so effortlessly. And I let you. Because I wanted to. Because you're the only one I want to let in. Because you're the only one I want to build a home with. And that is also why I am so terribly scared, Y/N. I know very well how life can be so unfair at times. I know it takes things and rips them out from your hand when you least expect it. I've experienced it. I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes. And you—you are the one thing I can never afford to lose, my love. My sanctuary. Keeper of my heart. But, if the whole universe is cruel enough with its game and decides to take you from me, if there is ever a moment, a day, a year, a whole decade even, where your lips forgot my name, I will find you. I will come back to you. Again and again, I will never stop showing up. Even if your eyes no longer recognize me. Even if your hands no longer touch me. Because loving you is not a choice, Y/N. It's my oxygen. It’s written into me. Permanently carved into my heart and soul. So I promise you, Y/N. No matter what happens, I will always bring you home.”

Once the vow was sealed with a kiss, the breeze stirred, awakening the petals into the air, guiding them into a delicate dance, as if even nature itself had been waiting for a promise to be sealed on this very day. Applause blurred into the air, folding into the rustle of the old emerald tree canopies, but it was hardly noticed. At least for Lewis. His world, his eyes, had narrowed only to the warmth of his wife against him and the delicate weight of the moment. Intimate. Whole. One hand laid flat on the small of her back, forehead resting against hers. Two hearts finally sealed with a string of love and promise.

Lewis cursed a slow “shit” as he slammed his car door shut. Rushing toward the small florist, ignoring the cold bites of the morning air and the rapid beats of his heart. The frantic tinkle of the wind chime sounded harsh as he pushed the door open in a rush.

His rushed steps were quick to die as soon as he crossed the threshold, the world slowed down a beat. There she was. Right exactly where she always was, sat beautifully by the long wooden table near the counter, sleeves of her soft sage linen shirt pushed to the elbows. Hands carefully taking out long stemmed carnations from the freshly delivered box, trimming the stems, checking the petals. Familiar. Drowned in her routine. The mess of carnations and roses spilling out from the boxes had no power over the sight of her calming presence on him.

“A bit late today,” her eyes planted on the flowers, lips curving into a small smile.

“Traffic,” he lied through his teeth. Not getting a reply from her.

She got up from the small stool she was sitting on, moving toward the buckets, pulling the familiar blooms— blush roses, pale pink peonies, silvery sprigs of eucalyptus. Eyes and body still not turning toward his way. Her whole attention was on the bouquet she was working on.

“Please tell me you haven’t eaten yet…” That paused her, turning her head. “I did.”

“Y/N...” her name sounded soft on his lips. “A full breakfast,” her eyebrows wiggled, teasing.

He tilted his head, let the silence stretched, knew she was teasing. Fully aware of how it would ache his heart to break this breakfast routine whenever he visits. A ritual, a familiar rhythm. A chuckle interrupted his silence, soft and light. Her gentle hands proceeded to tuck a sprig of the fresh eucalyptus between the pale pink peonies. Smooth and effortless. A routine he had witnessed so many times he had lost the count. Lewis stepped forward, closing in on the wooden table decorated with the mess of her craft, placing the paper bag on the table. Inching closer to her, his hands took the bouquet from her hand. Placing it down on the table before tugging one of her sleeves, drawing her toward the table to sit down with him.

“I bought three. Save the third one for a snack if you want.”

He placed the bag of croissants in front of her. Still warm, fresh from her favourite bakery. Knows how she hates anything heavy for breakfast.

“You didn’t have–,” “I wanted to, Y/N.”

Y/N didn’t argue. She pulled one croissant out, the first bite she took puffed her cheeks out, doing things to him he didn’t want to unpack. The wooden table and her apron dusted with the buttery flakes. Eat slowly please, let me have more time with you. Her eyes and hand searched for something to clean the mess. But his hand was already taking out a piece of tissue, wiping the flakes clean. A soft chuckle left his mouth, teasing her. Something about how he’s always prepared, how she hasn’t changed. She laughed and it steadied him so quietly. Exactly the same every single time— early mornings, croissants, a freshly made bouquet—yet the ache of it dug deeper every single time.

Back at their house, the bouquet sits intricately in a ceramic vase. Lewis had made it himself during one of his trips to Hungary, right before the race weekend started. Knowing how she would love to have it filled with fresh arrangements every week. Usually, she would have the flowers replaced herself, but the routine had been taken care of by him nowadays. He even learned about how to care for it, ensuring its freshness lasted longer. Remembers how she'd always complain whenever he forgot to change the water. Although he must admit, his hands are not as delicate as hers on the blooms. She'll be home soon, hopefully.

When he crossed the threshold of the florist on the next visit, light drizzles of rain glazed its windows, painting the streetscape into a muted watercolour of grays and greens. She was sorting through a spread of ranunculus, a rare sight at the shop. Hands moving gracefully, fluid and precise. Hypnotic, the sight of her in her element. Never failed to undo him, these small moments, her being unaware of how much great of a space in his heart she owned. He took one stool and sat next to her. The calendar hung behind the counter. A date, circled in red.

“What’s the plan on the 16th?” his tone light. “Nothing, still opening."

A beat of silence. The petals tender and gentle against her finger. Caressing them as the tip of his fingers longed to do.

“People usually celebrate birthdays, Y/N. At least at home, with their loved ones.”

Her lips curved into a sweet smile. Hand dusting the traces of pollen on his knee.

“Stop by. I’ll make something special for you.”

Dangerously disarming. Her smile, her touch. Splintering his heart, pushing open the wounds in his heart wider. Of course I’ll be here with you. Where else would I want to be?

“Sure. I’ll stop by.”

The 16th came fast. Light drizzle greeted the morning air with a coldness so strange. She had arrived at the shop earlier than usual, something due to the fresh stocks had to be delivered a bit earlier than scheduled. 7:30 in the morning. One hour before she opens. Enough time to sort out the stocks before opening. Mindlessly, her left hand reached for the scissor in the kit box under the table. Sharp and swift, the blade of an opened cutter cut her finger. Hurriedly, she looked around for something to stop the bleeding. Pulling open a drawer under the counter where her dad always kept random things he brought on his visits, she reached for the first functional object she saw. Intricately folded on top of other things stuffed into the drawer. An ivory handkerchief. Linen. Soft linen.

Unfolding it, she wrapped it around her finger. Pressing the soft linen against the cut, crimson instantly painting the handkerchief. The soft drizzles of the rain were slowly getting heavier. A flash of lightning flashed the sky with a bright light. A soft hiss as she stared at the now crimson stained linen. Soft. Familiar. The thumb of her uninjured hand traced one corner of the handkerchief. Initials. Embroidered.

L.H.

Lewis.

Air froze in her lungs. Her breath ripped away. The whole shop blurred. Faded and muted.

A flash.

He stood across from her on the aisle. Large hands holding hers. Vows thickened the air, lacing its hands with the scent of wildflowers. The handkerchief. The exact same handkerchief. Peeking from the chest pocket of his suit.

“If the whole universe is cruel enough with its game and decides to take you from me…”

Another flash.

Her hand flat on his chest. Over the lion. Soft sheets covering their bodies. One of his hands was playing with her hair, the other one tracing circles on her flat belly. He whispered something soft, a question. A number. Fingers held up one, then two. And then a kiss on her forehead.

“If there is ever a moment, a day, a year, a whole decade even, where your lips forgot my name…”

Another memory. Sharper.

Him holding a cake. Lips singing the last line of Happy Birthday. She was laughing. Couldn’t stop. A simple celebration in the safety of their home, just how she likes it. As long as he’s by her side.

“I will find you. I will come back to you.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the counter, her breath frantic. Her head aches, her throat gasped for air. The pain of the flooding memories a thousand times painful, piercing her head with a thousand needles, numbing the cut on her finger. One more flash. The memory ripped through her.

Lewis stood across from her, eyes dark with something deeper than anger and frustration. Her voice cracked as she begged him for something. A split second of silence. Before pride ruled his heart. A split second. Before two irreversible words sliced the string of their love.

“Leave, then.”

“I will always bring you home.”

Lewis sat in his car. Still parked in front of the bakery he stopped by just now. The rain showered heavier, the sky pouring with a flood of tears. One year, four months, and four days since that day. Since that call from her dad at 3 a.m. woke him up from his sleep. He didn’t remember clearly what the conversation was like. But he remembered the way his heart stopped beating, the way his breath stalled. And unfortunately, he remembers the words vividly. Words that should never belong together in a sentence. Words that should never be written or spoken in the same sentence.

Y/N. Accident. Severe. Unconscious. ICU.

A week prior to the accident, he had let pride robbed the throne in his heart from her. His lips had uttered two words he didn’t even want to recall. The flash of pain so unspeakable was present in her eyes that night, before resignation took over. One nod. Just once. Before her hand reached for her car keys and her bag. Before her body turned around and the door closed so gently, not even the faintest trace of anger was there in her leaving.

Today is not just her birthday. It’s also their wedding anniversary. The third but the first without her. The first without her having a single trace of memory of who he really is, or who they really are. Not a single hold on the memory of his last name that accompanied her first name.

He wasn’t there when she first woke up from the coma, he had gone back to their house for some rest after long sleepless nights. The universe truly played its part beautifully. Playing with the timing as if it was some kind of a stupid game. Her father told him that she had no memory of her own name. And he remembers how her father sat down with him one night. Two broken men. Helpless. Weakened by the state of the girl they both love. That same night, Lewis had made a decision.

“Don’t tell her about me.”

Her father had to take a minute of silence to process the request. Even begged Lewis to think it through, knowing how it will murder someone in the process. Although at the time, her dad was unsure whether it'll be either one of the two young hearts or both of them. But Lewis was firm with it. Patiently, he explained it to her dad. How she deserved a clean start. She didn’t need the man who had told her to leave, back in her life again then. He’ll keep her ring until she comes home again, but he’s not going to force her to remember, let alone to welcome the very person who had put her through all of this in the first place.

She almost died. Against the pale white hospital sheets, her skin had looked like a ruined canvas. Bruises blossomed dark all over her body, a barely held together gash just a little bit above her left eye. And her hands—those soft and fragile hands—usually so full of life and warmth against his skin, were limp. Tubes and wires webbed to her body in a mocking cruelty. Machines left and right. Replacing her will to live, breathing for her.

What if she had been alone a little longer? Bleeding out alone in the dark.

What if the paramedics had arrived a little later?

What if the doctors hadn’t been quick enough?

Five minutes. Five more minutes. And that’s all it would’ve cost for death to pull her away from his hold. Forever.

So what right did he have? He himself had laid a red carpet with his own hands for her to walk out. Decorated the path with the promises he broke. So if the universe had decided to unlock a door to a fresh start for her, what right did he have to prevent it? Even when his heart yearned for it, even when he had collapsed against the door of their house as soon as he closed it the first night he came home from the ICU. He had made it crystal clear to her too, that the ring on her left hand meant nothing, if he himself wanted her to leave. So what right did he have?

And despite all his pleadings and the flood of tears staining her pillow that he had hugged every night since the crash, he was powerless. He had no power over fate. Probably because he had spent it all empty when he uttered the last two words that made her leave.

The vicious monster he was trying to protect her from all this time didn’t come from outside, it was inside him that night. It was him.

So he made the decision. If she was to come home again, he wanted it to be on her own will. If she was to walk toward his way again, he'd run to her. For each one step of hers, he’ll take another ten. He’ll hold her hand again, show her the blooms that had been long asleep under the spell of frost. But for now, all he can do is to grow the garden. Trim the old dead branches and tend to the blooms with his regrets and apologies. Until spring unveils itself, and allows him to take her home again.

A notification sound.

The sound woke him up from the harsh waves of flashbacks, memories. A reminder notification from the calendar app. Her birthday. Their anniversary. He straightened up in his seat. Securing the seatbelt as he took a long deep breath, readying himself to drive to the florist. Not knowing how he will be able to look into her eyes on this supposed to be beautiful yet tragic day.

As he stepped into the shop upon his arrival, the usually warm air was cold. Hollow and thick. Even the warm lights were off. Not even dimmed—off. Not a sight of Y/N. So he searched. One box sat unopened by the side of the wooden table where she usually does her arrangements. Delivery came early today?

“Y/N?”

The empty space echoed with his voice. His legs carried him deeper into the shop, eyes scanning, taking in the details of the room. Scattered stems on the table, crushed petals on the cold floor. Messy. Unlike her. And then—the faintest trail of crimson on the silver blade of the cutter that sat on the edge of the table.

“Y/N—” louder, panic coating her name on his lips.

A soft thud. Faint. Barely there. Behind the counter. He rushed forward, rounding the corner of the counter. Her small figure curled beneath the wooden counter, knees tucked close to her chest. Spine pressed against the wooden paneling, hands trembling as she held it close to her chest. Uneven and shallow, her breathing. Fingers still wrapped in the ivory handkerchief—his ivory handkerchief. Lewis dropped to his knees. Hands immediately reaching for hers. Gently.

“It was me wasn’t it?”

His whole body froze at the question. Silence hung sharp in the air between them, tearing through his chest. One breath. Silence, as he peeled the crimson stained handkerchief from her fingers instead. The gentleness made her head ache deeper. The cut wasn’t severe, but it had bled enough to seep through the thin material of the handkerchief.

"You always leave the damn cutters unclosed." Her breath trembled at his words.

Swiftly, he grabbed the first aid kit, pulling out a few things. He sat close to her on the floor, fingers started tending to the cut.

“What if it was more than just a cut, Y/N?”

His hands started moving with practiced care. Familiar. He had done this before. One hand reached for a small piece of clean cloth from the kit. Fingers curled around the small of her wrist as the other hand worked on cleaning the blood in silence. Steady and gentle. Every breath stretched longer in the thick silence. Her glassy eyes followed him. Please, say something. But the silence thickened. A long beat without a single word from him.

“It tore me apart."

Her breath hitched.

"It tore me apart that you don't remember my last name that you still carry.”

A longer beat of silence, before the soft rustle of the bandage touched the air as he wrapped it around her finger. Neat, secure.

“But I couldn't bring myself to ruin it.”

Lewis raised his gaze, finally meeting hers with something heavy and raw. Knuckles of his right hand brushed a strand of hair resting on her cheek.

“How can I? You were smiling again. You were... at peace. Who am I to take that away from you, when it was me myself who had destroyed it once before?"

His voice broke. Frayed with pain. The skin of her injured hand soft under the trace of his thumb.

“That night—” he paused.

“My regrets are infinite, Y/N. And I wanted to pull you back, so bad. But your happiness means so much more than anything and everything that has been killing me since.”

The ivory handkerchief—now stained with crimson, a loyal witness to their story—laid limp in the tiny space between them.

"So I settled on coming here once a month. Getting the exact same bouquet every time. Our wedding bouquet. Thought if I were to never hold you safe in my arms again, maybe I could still have a part of you with me. No matter how small.”

His lips curved into a faint smile. Chest raw with agony dipped in honey as he recalled the real meaning behind the bouquet.

“But—gosh, love... you have no idea. How it pains me, watching you as you arrange those bouquets, without having a single knowledge of what it really means to us. Or why I had it ordered every single time.”

Not a word came out of Y/N’s lips. Frozen by the devastation of truth and memories that were rushing in.

“You are safe in my heart, Y/N. Even when you were sailing away, you are safe in my heart. You still are.”

It’s the truth. Lewis had lived through every second of it. He watched the love of his life stand right in front of his eyes as fate robbed her from him, erasing every single memory she ever had of him, of them. His wife, his Y/N, had been sailing away from him for so long, on her own. Leaving him alone at the harbour, living through the seasons without her—his wife that remembers—by his side. But not even once during her time away, had he let anyone lay a finger on her name that etched deep in his heart.

He had kept it safe.

Time had been a loyal witness. Standing by his side as he waited for the universe to finally let him experience spring again. His two hands had been there all along with him too. Wiping his tears away in the middle of the night. And his heart. His heart had soared and sunk with him through it all. It had shattered again and again with every visit to the florist at the sight of her. Her smile. Her hands. Her voice. Her laugh. The way her eyes had looked through him—her husband—as a mere stranger at every visit.

But right now, as he looked into her eyes, he saw it: faint lines of memory bloomed bolder. Her memory mending in real time right in front of him, right now. Still jagged and weak, but slowly getting whole. His lips hesitated, still. Until his heart took over. A whisper, soft and weak. A plea.

“Come home.”

That was all he had left.

Come home to me. Let me take you home again. Please.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #f1 imagine #lh44 #formula 1 #formula one

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mooishbeam · 2 years ago

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『♡』 Besotted

♡ featuring: yandere!ajax x f!reader

♡ summary: the love of your life knows you without asking, selfless and caring. however, you're slowly starting to realize the man you loved was a mask of the truth hiding underneath. wc: 12.5k+

♡ cw/tw: modern au, mentions of violence/blood, mentions of suicide, stalking, obsession, possessiveness, manipulation, rough sex, sideways sex, cockwarming, mating press, cunnilingus, drugging, overstimulation, praise, pet names (lots of them tbh)

notes: im so sorry i know it took me a long time but my time has been consumed by exams and its finals week soon so ahhhh. it's going to take me a little longer than usual until my semester is over, forgive me!! art by jam8366_dday on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

“Caramel macchiato for… Katheryne?” Your quiet voice deadens among the bustling crowd of businessmen, secretaries, and construction workers alike conversing through their morning wake-up. It’s incomparable to the serene appeal of a corner coffee shop—piled high with board games and books, the nooks and crannies decorated with some sort of trinket or knickknack you collected along the way, baubles that brought you joy and spread some to anyone that entered the cozy hole in the wall—“The Mad Hatter”. People are free to add stickers to the cash register, so convoluted with color similar to graffiti, including the pink-hatted cat Lyney glued to the top. Coffee tables share space with buoyant sofas, opposite of the display case viewing a multitude of extra sweet desserts and breakfast sandwiches. At night, the fairy lights bordering the wide veiled windows glimmered a dim hue that made feathery snow sparkle like stars during winter. You set the coffee under warm lights dotting the ceiling, emanating above the wooden interior. No one is finicky for your tastes; you are happy to see the familiar cheerful or grumpy faces entering the shop. You remember names, faces, and minute personal details they’d forgotten they shared over a steaming cup of latte left to warm because the art was too pretty to drink. They’re busy, but patient; they've acquainted you long enough to not be angry at the wait, and most times come to your defense against unruly customers.

It's the worst—or for you, the best—in the afternoons, swarming crowds waiting for an afternoon pick-me-up. You and Lyney work to the best of your ability, serving up group orders with a quickness unparalleled by nearby chain coffeehouse’s. You regard it as your passion, although your parents were disappointed when you told them you and Lyney would be buying and renovating an abandoned property states over all for coffee; your delectable drinks have the potential to form long lasting relationships between you and other customers, and there’s a certain creative merit you relish whenever a guest takes pictures of the swan-like artistry foaming on the surface. The taste of bitter beans sparks moments of merriment, longing, and love—in some cases, it’s the best form of intimacy.

Your best memories live in this shop; the ground powder that scattered everywhere and painted Lyney like a chocolate sculpture when he tried to push the inventory to the highest shelf or staying up after close in the middle of a blizzard to make flimsy homemade decorations for the grand opening with help from Lynette.

It’s extra special that the very place you stand is where you found the love of your life. You met him at the register, loose curls dipped in autumn tones spilling over his long lashes. The void in his eyes motionless like the ocean before a low tide. You both stared at each other for a moment, taking in the lines and details of your flustering faces. You must’ve been staring for too long, as Lyney tapped your shoulder with a side eye that alerted you to the awkward silence and line heading out the door. You fumbled for apologies and took his order; the ginger boy chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck—Ajax—such a rugged name for a pretty guy. You prepared the Frappuccino with a drizzle of affection bespoken for him. When you gave him the drink, his hand grazed against yours, a kiss without lips. It left you breathless, and with an airy coyness he said, “I didn’t get your name?” You told him, and he tried out the sound on his tongue. You wished he’d say it over and over. With a rosy wash across his cheeks, “A fitting name for your beauty. Have a good day, (Y/N)” was all he said before he walked away, leaving you stunned and smitten. Lyney was the unfortunate victim that dealt with your wearisome fantasizing about Ajax.

But Ajax already knew your name. And address, and friends.

How could he not? When he saw you hanging lights in the windows on a particularly sunny morning that made your glowing face shine with pure radiance unrivaled by deities, he sunk endlessly. He vowed to walk at a distance at that same time every day to ogle your lustrous hair, your soft skin that didn’t break a sweat, the curve of your lips. You soon became an itch he couldn’t scratch, a plaguing thought that wiggled in the wrinkles of his brain and made it hard to sleep or work. You, you, you. Is your laugh a heavy snort or more lighthearted, do you have the same sense of humor as him? You’ll like what he likes, think what he thinks.

You were constantly on his mind, he wondered if you were eating when he ate or how good you were sleeping as he drifted off to his. It’s not his fault that he snapped discrete pictures of your smiling face, you were too adorable to ignore. He valued coming home to kneel at the little shrine he made of your printed gaiety, surrounded by consistently fresh roses and citrus candles he thought you’d smell like. If he stood close enough, it was like you were right in front of him. The apron tied around your waist was a vibrant crimson—his favorite color. It's fate, the way the stars aligned and sent angels down to bless you with a pinafore of his approval. You had to know he was out there; he was already imagining returning to a cheerful home, and your swaying hips as you whipped up a glacé delight. He’d kiss you on the cheek, and you’d pop a tart blueberry in his mouth. Yes—it had to be this way, it must be what you wanted, too.

Ajax coincidentally found himself rummaging through trash cans in the vicinity for an inkling of receipts from the shop. He stumbled upon it, of course—it’s not like he waited out until nightfall right before garbage day to have the highest chances of finding identification. The jagged fragment of a receipt led to your family, social media, and blogs you dedicated to your baking progress. And he’d monitor the sites on different screens with multiple tabs, an infatuated glaze over those dull eyes that kept him glued to the updates for hours. He made many accounts, liking your posts fervently with flimsy justifications of encouragement. You became reachable day by day.

The day Ajax decided to pursue you upfront, it was a dream he hoped never to wake. He’d rehearsed it obsessively until the moment he stood in front of the glass door, a tremble in his restless legs at the thought of looking ridiculous. Seeing you up close felt like a special occasion. His heart was beating off-kilter in his quaking chest, as if jumping free fall out of a plane, and he held his breath until it opened. The confidence he mustered up before he got to the register did little to suppress the giddiness rolling in his veins. His pulse paced the closer he got. Two more orders and there you were; the center of his universe, and you didn’t know it yet. Pictures didn’t do you justice—no, he needed to see your grace preserved in museums depicted in rich Renaissance paintings onlookers could only fantasize holding or loving, but you’d be for him, and him alone. He drew a blank. “May I get your name for the order?” His eyes flickered with a brand-new luster, it melded certainty and delusion.

She wants...my name.

My name.

The sweet harmony of your words lulled Ajax to an addicting turbid spiral that swept fondness through the tempest and scattered infatuation in its aftermath. A feeling too tenacious, it must be love. The incessant burn urged him to protect and guide you to him. You need him. Now he watched compulsively with a winded jaw, your smile to other men who couldn't compare to his devotion. They don’t know you like he does. He could map out the corners of your house from the slim backgrounds of your blog posts or name every club you’ve participated in since middle school. Hunger spread where his fists craved contact, like sunfire corroding the taught skin on his knuckles. They’ve breathed your air and existed in your presence. It’s undeserved, they’re unworthy.

How fucking dare they.

How lost you must be without him, led astray by intruding greed; he selflessly assumed his responsibility. You are his, after all. So, he stalked behind cars shadowed by harsh streetlamps to ensure you got home safe and intercepted your packages to check for threatening substances. The accomplishment he felt whenever he completed his—in his words, “duties”—instilled exultation beyond any memory. Within the envelopes, he’d leave an elegant note embellished with hearts hinting at his infatuation and the care he put in to maintain your safety. One letter turned to two, then five, to the point where you’d receive a sleeve stuffed with increasingly unhinged letters from your secret admirer that fanned out when you tipped it.

On Christmas Eve, a limitless cloak of frozen stardust decided to flurry right before your shift ended. You covered Lyney’s shift so he’d have time to spend with Lynette and Freminent; it wasn’t like you had anything to do afterwards. You counted the flakes of the storm through frosted glass, thinking about the wellbeing of your family back home. Mailed gifts couldn't console the grief you felt during the holidays. A knock on the door turned your attention to the silhouette of a man wearing a slouched beanie with a pompom on top. You unlocked the door, and it swung open from the whirling heft of wind and smattered white across the wood from empty streets.

“Sorry, we just closed-” You looked up, no time to register the freckled face from months ago, that stole your heart with a smile. Icy grains kissed his cheeks, as red as apples, and fused to the wool scarf draped around his trench coat. “Oh! Hello, again.” You tried to play it off, but the crack in your voice teetered. You were suddenly nervous. Ajax grinned hard and shuffled slightly inwards to escape the chill.

“Hi (Y/N)! I was really hoping you weren’t closed, it’s a good day to grab a hot chocolate, y’know?”

“It is. You’re probably freezing, please come in.” You should’ve been home by now, but for Ajax, you could spare a few minutes. He unraveled his winter attire to reveal a tightly fitted turtleneck and took a seat at the chair closest to you. You wrap around the counter and start the kettle, struggling with what to do next at the gaze gripping your mind. “One hot chocolate, coming up.”

“How much I owe ya?” he chirped, arms resting on the table while he watched you grab two mugs. “No worries, it’s on the house. Consider it your Christmas present.”

“I appreciate that, thank you. You really are kind...Lyney left you by yourself tonight?” You wondered how he knew Lyney’s name when they hadn’t met, but quickly brushed it off.

“Yeah, I wanted him to spend time with his family.”

“And you don’t have any here?” You didn’t retain your usual weariness towards acquaintances. On this lonely night Ajax didn’t feel like much of a stranger.

“Nah, moved away to start this.” Your hands gestured to the quaint interior. Ajax scanned his surroundings, marveling at the scenery before he spoke. “What you’ve done with this, it’s lovely. Your ambition and dedication are apparent from the way you treat the customers, I can tell you’re passionate about what you do.” Your body flared like summer and succeeded in hushing the breeze. You poured a cup full of thick cocoa and plopped a dollop of whipped cream on both. “It’s not much, but-” the mugs settled on the table, and you sat across from him. “It smells amazing, (Y/N). You’re an expert at this” he interrupted. You traced the rim with your finger and rested your head on the other hand.

“Thanks...I assume you don’t have family here, either? Think you’d be ripping open gifts by now if you did.” He took another sip. “Yup, they live in a different country. I should visit them soon” he sighed and glanced at the jumbled wool scarf. “Did a sibling make that for you?” you asked.

“Yeah, my sister. A parting gift.”

“It’s beautiful, she’s very talented” you remarked, admiring the delicate fleece. The bittersweet smile in response stuck to your heartstrings. “She is.”

You both drank in silence and occasionally met each other's eyes, only to turn away. Something unsaid hung in the air. "Winter has a way of making us reminisce. It’s so depressing” you confided. You hadn’t told Lyney, but you were terribly lonely these past months. You replaced your emotions with extra shifts, but they came crashing down in the darkness of your bedroom. Ajax gazed at you like he could see through you.

“The sky appears magnificent under the snow's embrace. Its purity is like the moon's gentle radiance. I don’t think there’s anything like a world covered in snow" he soothed. His words flustered you, and you homed in on the white trails dancing in your lukewarm cup.

“I’ve never thought of it like that. I used to hate snow. It feels...intruding, I guess.”

“But if we don’t allow ourselves to be intruded, how will we love?” he blurted. It was comforting to hear in the moment, and you returned his smile.

“Is the hot chocolate good?” you asked.

“It’s perfect.... you’re perfect.” You chuckled at the notion, mistaking it for pity. “I’m not perfect.”

“But you are. The way you carry yourself, your intelligence, your courtesy. You’re flawless, gorgeous inside and out and you don’t even notice.” The way Ajax looked at you, on the verge of his seat and studying your face, lips, and hair. You couldn’t deny the flattery that drowned you and dragged you the more he persisted. “How would you know from one encounter?” His mouth fixed to say it, the truth, but he tight-lipped and reached into his coat pocket instead. He grabbed a blue velvet box and slid it to you.

“I wanted to give you this. Ever since I saw you.” It felt expensive under your fingertips. You unclasped the front, and it opened to a twinkling pendant. It was a cable chain dangling an oval sapphire gem, with 18 karat white-gold halo sunbursts surrounding it. It’s breathtaking, as if stolen from the tomb of a goddess.

“Wow, this is...stunning. Ajax, I can’t accept this; it’s too much” you pressured. You’ve never received a gift of this caliber from anyone, it didn’t feel right to look at it.

“Consider it your Christmas present” he repeated. You shook your head and held up the box to hand it back to him. “I can’t, I shouldn’t-”

“Please” he pleaded. He clasped your hands, a reassuring thumb gently caressing yours. You were so focused on its extravagance that you didn’t notice the note stuck to the roof of the box. Refined script dotted with hearts; the same style as the hundreds in your closet. Your mouth gaped.

“This letter...you...have you been the one sending me all those love letters?” You should've had your suspicions, or the urge to back away, but you weren’t afraid. You tried to string together his ability to find your address or mail, or how he knew Lyney, but your brain couldn’t clear the fog of feeling loved after so many years. It’s a warm hug to the blood that instinctively ran cold. Your heartbeat’s fast, half with anxiety and the other with desire.

Ajax solemnly hung his head and retracted his hands. He fidgeted with his thumbs. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I thought about being upfront, but I was so scared of your response and I didn’t want you to hate me, so I thought maybe if I sent them anonymously you could start liking the person behind it or if I played my cards right you’d find out who it was...but that doesn’t make any sense now that I’m thinking about it, I just wanted to be near you. You’re so amazing and smart and beautiful, I just...s-sorry…I’m rambling. I hope you can understand; I-I didn’t mean to harm I just want to make sure you’re safe” he choked. The strained words tumbled over one another and broke in places, where they traveled off at the end. Ajax averted your eyes, pools of tears threatening to fall from the corners. The sudden mood change took you off guard, and you reached for his guilty hands. You were on the verge of divulging your entirety for him, be it the isolation of the big city or lack of attention. He didn’t seem like a bad guy; he might have been misguided. What’s the harm in giving him a chance?

“It’s okay, Ajax. I’m not upset, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered” you giggled. “The letters are sweet, I read all of them. They make me feel a little better about living in a shithole apartment. Thank you.” He looked at you, bottomless intensity searching for more. “I’m interested in you, too” you added.

“Then you’ll be my girlfriend?” It was phrased as a question but arrived as a proclamation. “...I would love that.”

Ajax moved around the table. You rose to wrap your arms around his neck while he squeezed your waist with his head lying on your shoulder. The duping tears vanished like they didn’t exist, and his shameful expression morphed into a conniving smirk stretching unnaturally in his triumph. Your authentic touch, the smell of perfume wafting in his nose. It’s not citrus, but it’s you. You, everything is you. This is how things were meant to be. His eyes curved like arches from sheer elation, biting his lip to stifle the cackle. You’re together, at last.

The snow stopped some time ago, but the blizzard was just beginning.

Your relationship with Ajax progressed fast after that day. A weariness dulled within you after you came to your senses from your prior confession, and you weren’t sure about the stability of his neurotic nature. However, when Ajax showed up with a bouquet of the loveliest flowers you’ve ever laid eyes on during an exhausting shift, it shined above all else. He showers you with consistent love and attention and worships the ground you walk on with doting devotion. He's clingy and somewhat suffocating, but his sick adoration blesses you with rose-colored glasses; you’re divinity on a golden pedestal in his eyes, and if he fell hard, you fell harder. The considerate, caring, good listener he is makes the small hiccups go over your head. In the first few months you were unequivocally enamored, the kind that tied your universe to his. You patter about him to Lynette, who gives you half-concerned approval at the story of how you met and the “little things” you cherish.

Like when he allowed you to move in without a second thought. The paint chipped around dodgy windowsills and fraying carpets, and your landlord wouldn’t pay for the fixes. Unfortunately, you needed a place to stay and couldn’t afford to speak up about the horrible conditions. You were used to your slumlord at that point, but the absence of working heat and busted appliances led you to the arms of your boyfriend, sobbing about the stress your landlord subjected you to. He scooped you like fragile glass as you faltered through shaky breaths grating your lungs and hushed your distress. Kissing your head, he rubbed your back and mumbled into your hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it...I’ll take care of everything.”

A week later you’d found out that your landlord died from a gruesome suicide, and all tenants had to leave the auctioned duplex. Ajax took you in, and you began adapting to his midtown townhouse. Though you felt like a mooch at first, the welcoming interior had you snuggling between his downy bedding in no time. He shouldered your burden, accepted your genuine self and lavished generous replacements of the items you couldn’t carry. You don’t lift a finger around him, and he readily cooks and cleans for your comfort.

You’ve gotten accustomed to his presence. When you wake, he’s either watching you sleep silently or preparing food for you to take to work. Ajax follows you around like an obedient pet, smoothing your hair and highlighting how beautiful you look in your rough post-morning wake-up state. He’ll try to kiss you before toothpaste, and you playfully mush his disappointed face off to get dressed. He compensates by kissing in other places, your clothed knee as he ties your shoes or your hands when they interlock. Prior to departing, he attaches that sapphire elegance to your neck. You grab your tidy lunchbox and stroll together in the early hours of the morning for your opening shift. “Have a good day, baby” he says, and places sugary smooches from your lips to your forehead and back again. You’d stand there forever, embracing his warmth if your alarm didn’t notify you to start prepping.

When Ajax isn’t around, and you’re busy piping frosting onto cakes, there’s a profound hole in your happiness that can’t be filled with buttercream. The way his nose scrunches when he laughs hard, and those hot honey strands tickling your cheeks when you sleep because his face is directly on top of yours make you crave his sight and touch. Sometimes you ponder what you’ve done to deserve someone so over the moon for you. Hell, you’d give him the moon if that’s what he wanted; it’d barely cover a fraction of the benevolence he’s evinced. For now, you blink distraction away, and there's spread sloppily piled over the cakes and countertop. You simper to yourself; such a handsome, tender handful.

Your daydreams carry you through close, and you and Lyney remain as you wipe down tacky tables with rags lathered in disinfectant. You’re circling surfaces with vigor, quick to move to the next. You hear him laugh from another table. “Okay, speed cleaner. Missing your house husband?” he teases. You roll your eyes and pretend to throw the rag at him. “Hurry up, I wanna go home.” He fake cowers and throws his hands up in surrender. “Yes ma’am. Don’t waste all your strength, Lynette will be upset if you can’t dance with her tomorrow.”

“I’m not some old woman, Lyn. I can party.” You force away the memory of sleeping on Lyney’s shoulder in the lounge area of a booming club.

“Sure, grandma. Don’t forget your cane when I pick you up” he jokes. You chortle, and actually throw the rag this time. Too bad his agile form dodges it. “I gotta let Ajax know.”

“...Right.” Lyney loses momentum and stares at the steaming bucket for a pregnant pause, stirring the rag to buy time. You glance towards him, and he shifts a peccant look. You turn on your heels and lean on the back of a chair.

“Spill it” you demand.

“Spill what?”

“What you actually wanna say.” Lyney bites the inside of his cheek to physically restrain the itch that vents brutal honesty. “I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say.”

You narrow your brows and sigh in disbelief. “So what? We’ve been friends since high school, just tell me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and gulps a deep breath. “Lyney.”

“It’s about Ajax” he exhales. “Oh.”

“I’m worried about you.” You weren’t expecting the serious air, it sounds like an intervention. It's unnatural coming from your easygoing friend.

“Really? Why?” you question. He blinks for a few moments, dumbfounded at the innocent audacity, or willful ignorance.

“Some of the stuff you say about him...it creeps me out. How is it not creeping you out?” he stresses, gawking at the exorbitant gem.

“Hmm, I’m not sure what you mean.” To you, Ajax isn’t the scary type. Mysterious maybe, but his affection prevents you from seeing him as anything but the missing half of your soul.

“Okay. You don’t remember telling me how he kept that rotting coffee cup from when you guys first met? Or how he watches you sleep? He made your favorite meal first try and called it a ‘lucky guess?’” The more he goes on, the more disbelieved he becomes.

“I think it’s romantic” you chide. He expels his frustration.

“(Y/N), I'm not saying any of this to be a hater, but all of this is unhealthy. Unhealthy might be an understatement. I mean, the man acts like he can't live without you. What if you were to break up, can you be sure he won't lose his fucking mind?” The hypothetical calamity of separation sinks seeds in puddles of doubt. It’s not possible.

“We love each other. That won’t happen.”

“It’s been over a year, and you know nothing about him. He comes out of nowhere, sweeps you off your feet, love bombs you, and you take it at face value. Maybe he truly is the one and it’s love at first sight, but this whole situation is...odd. I care about you, (Y/N), and this guy scares me. He’s hiding something.” You attempt to formulate a fact you’ve learned about him, a detail to prove how close you’ve gotten, and come to realize there’s none in your reservoir. You know naught of his friends or family or wealth. Ajax tells you safe verities, like his favorite food and hobby. You don’t thirst for personal space or secrets when it comes to Ajax, and the stygian plunge in his eyes gives you no hints, but you believe the pleasing words that escape his lips either way.

You glance at the empty Tupperware on the counter, that was once packed with a hefty sandwich and strawberries carved into hearts. He's effortlessly adorable, a small berry-stained note with a simple phrase: "you'll do great today <3". Your dream man, he wouldn't hide things from you, you won’t fathom the thought. “I-”

Ding

That dazzling toothy gapped grin spreads warmth across your chest and the room instantly feels a bit brighter. Ajax saunters like he owns the place, engulfing your frame in his stature and placing a kiss on your head. Lyney freezes though Ajax ignored his existence. “I’m getting ready to leave” you muffle into the musky denim jacket. He nods, but his action won’t follow his hands sturdy on your waist as you shimmy out. You make haste to the back room, past the pantry dry goods and collect your sweater and bag.

You’re about to push open the swinging door when you pause, catching a glimpse of Ajax and Lyney through the oval window. They don’t normally interact in the same space, and you thought it best to respect their boundaries. Ajax is turned away from you, but you can see Lyney clear as day, a stone solid unease skipping on his skin that makes calculated breaths too obvious. It’s silent enough to hear a pin drop. His arms are stuck to the sides, and you observe the apron jumbled in his clutches shaking ever so slightly. He’s trained to the hickory grain of the floor, and from a small portion of Ajax’s visible face, it’s a dreadful expression unbeknownst to you.

There’s an almost tenebrous loom towering over Lyney, and you feel an alarming shiver settle in your lower spine. Were his eyes normally this gloomy? Your heart rate palpitates when it shouldn’t. You want to look away from the swirling dark depths possessing your soulmate, shooting daggers at your friend. His jaw is clenched to popping, veins on his neck and hands chasing bone. He has a lethal grip on Lyney’s shoulder, and the rough tension pulls at the wrinkling undershirt. But he sneers—a twisted, coiling kind that doesn’t match his glare—an impersonation of affability.

“Ajax” you mutter softly as you sway the door. He turns sharply, and it’s like a flipped switch. The rage decays to ash swiftly and he’s yours again, your adoring admirer. “I'm ready.” He waits for your approach and tangles your hands. You make your way out, freeing Lyney from capitivity. He holds the door open for you to leave, and you shout “Bye, Lyn! I’ll see you tomorrow.” A shell-shocked cast on his face, he doesn’t say a word.

You sit at the dining table, feeling disconnected from reality while the kitchen rises with a clatter of pans and glass. You scroll through posts on your phone and occasionally peek over at the corridor to watch Ajax work. His passion shows when he cooks, rocking the skillet to upturn the veggies sizzling within. His broad back flexes with skillful movements, and he looks at you, winking with a teasing pucker on his glossy lips. You giggle. I was just imagining things.

He slides the plates on the table and sits across from you. Ajax sits like a giddy child waiting for you to try their creation, and you take the first bite. The bountiful flavor dances on your tongue. “It’s really good!” you muffle through bites. A tinge of pink sets on his cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.”

You chew haphazardly out of focus. You can’t help but notice how quiet your phone has been since you’ve moved in, it feels foreign in your possession. Not a single call from your friends came through, forgotten and invisible. You contemplate apologizing to Lyney tomorrow, it was wrong to get defensive towards compassion. Ajax interrupts his eating to track your fork picking at the meal.

“You okay, sweetheart? You aren’t eating.”

You awake from your trance. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Just feels kinda off.” Ajax’s back straightens, and he tenses throughout at a semblance of negative diction. “What does? The food? I’ll remake it” he stumbles.

“No no, the food is great. It’s, I don’t know. I haven’t got a call from Tiggy in a while.” The corners of Ajax’s mouth contort.

“Really...I heard he’s been hangin’ out with some new people.” His tone is dry, it strives to be nonchalant. His elbows rest on the table, and he carves his knife into bloody steak like struggling living bone.

“So, I guess that means he can’t message me anymore, huh” you chuckle. He twists the knife deeper, as if it’s digging in his back. “He’s just a bad friend honestly. Not consistent, you even said he missed your birthday last year. Who needs a friend like that?”

“I guess.” Meanwhile, you flip through your contacts searching for Tighnari’s name; come to find out he’s nowhere in your phone. In fact, a lot of messages and numbers seemed to have dwindled over time. Your own parents, vanished. Perhaps you were so overworked you’d forgotten they deleted. You start scouring for his profile, but it doesn’t come up. You can’t imagine Tighnari wiping out his entire presence, and it’s not just him. Outside him are the piles of male friends you seldom locate, and you become flustered at your blindness. You look at Ajax, and his eyebrows quirk up to inquire about your confusion.

“That’s so weird. I should try calling him-”

“Don't.” It’s not suggestive, its one note, stern demand. It rings in your ears, and when that mask slips for a terrifying moment, you hold your breath until it recurs. “’S not that I don’t want you to, honey. He clearly doesn’t care in the first place, that’s not a sign of a good friend. I’m just trying to help; you know I always have ou- your best interest.” There’s an unrelenting pit in your stomach telling you it’s wrong. “You seem tense since we left, Ajax. Are you alright?” He stops, it leaves you on edge when a formidable shadow casts over his eyes from his bangs that make them look as endless as the bottom of the sea.

“I feel like...you’re straying away from me. You’re becoming more secretive. Have I done something to violate your trust?” You don’t consider how Ajax knew Tighnari, let alone how he’d find the password to your phone. It was your fault, it had to be. The solemn quiver of his lips clears your suspicion. You’d forget it all to see him happy again. You stand and sway to his side of the table, sitting on his lap to take his face in your hands. “Not at all, babe. My phone’s been acting up, I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just asked because you and Lyney looked high-strung. ‘M sorry.” You kiss him softly with reassurance, and he melts in your touch. The foggy residue shows on his blushing face, and you introduce another to his cheek. “I’m going to a party with Lyney and Lynette tomorrow, so I wanted to see if Tiggy would come.”

“Ah...okay. Don’t worry, darling, it was a short conversation.” Vague and unassuming, but it didn’t matter now. Ajax can’t deceive you.

The state you drifted off—lying on Ajax’s chest with his arms embracing your lax figure—is not how you awake. A piercing scream rises, and you jump out of bed in a drowsy stupor. “Ajax?” you addle. Metal clangs to the floor, and the sheets hang low on your hips before you dart down the stairs and through the dining room to discover the cause of the noise.

He’s kneeling on the kitchen tile, compressing his forearm. Vermillion overflows between his fingers and palm and spatters his shirt. The knife, along with a clumsily chopped apple, is muddy with blood. “Oh my god!” You sprint for a towel and first aid kit crammed underneath the kitchen sink. When you return, Ajax is hissing from the sting, salty tears smeared on his eyelashes. You accompany him on the floor, ignoring the crime scene peppering the cabinets and gently glide his hands to get free view of the wound. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, now that you’re here.” It’s a nasty cut, not a gash but painful, nonetheless. You bring him to wash the excess blood, and pat it dry carefully. The fizz from disinfectant makes his arm jolt, but you hold him steady to apply. As you bandage his arm, he blinks away the twinge.

“I’m sorry, baby. You have work in a few minutes, and you’re here taking care of me. Go ahead and get ready, I’ll do it.”

“No way in hell am I leaving you like this. Don’t apologize” you insist, the end of your wrap stuffed to secure. You can’t conceive clocking in or partying tonight while Ajax suffers at home. “I’m gonna call out for a couple days so I know you’re well. Relax, I’ll be right back, okay?” He nods, and you rush to the bedroom to retrieve your phone. Ajax wipes his face on his sleeve, streaking insincere sorrow near the serpentine smirk.

You spent the day cleaning the home, wiping the kitchen top to bottom and making dinner for Ajax. He rests in bed, and you often check in on him. Treating him like an intensive care patient might’ve been excessive, but he accepts your gentle touch and hand fed meals nursing him back to health. You’re lying in bed with him, and the load of his brawny chest forces yours into the mattress with your legs on either side. You massage the pads of your fingers into his scalp, and your breathing weighted blanket emits a groan. Dazed and fully lax, lulling from the rise and fall of your chest.

The second day is the same, but the lack of pressure divides your dreary lids. It’s midnight, and it casts a fluorescent glow that permeates the room. You feel your way from walls to banister, and as you’re about to step down the stairs to get water, you pause before the living room. Crouched, peeking through the bars of the banister, you see Ajax on the couch in absolute quiet. Shade stands in place of his facial features, obscured besides the hazy veneer in his iris that bores into the journal in front of him. The collage catches moonbeams on the coffee table, crowded with tiny notes that peak out the uniform pages, and polaroid pictures glued to each sheet, stacked so thick it can’t close. He uses the pen you thought you’d lost moving in, running his tongue over the older bite marks on its base. Squinting your eyes fails at registering the specifics.

You suck in a breath and take another step, hoping the unreliable foundation won’t give way to whining wood. He skims across the words as if they’re memorized, and crows to himself. Eeeeir. It conforms, and the minute you press into it and that haunting sound whispers through the house, Ajax cracks his neck to your position. You stiffen, a deer in headlights. He puts down the pen.

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry, did I wake you?” he coos. You shoot to a stand, and Ajax meets you at the bottom of the staircase. “I-I just wanna get some water.” You feel meek and small, fairly avoiding his gaze. He enfolds your jaw with his bad arm like it doesn’t hurt, and pecks you on your forehead, light with anxious sweat. “I can get that for you, dear.” Before he can go, you interrupt.

“Ajax.”

“Hm?”

“The book over there, did you make it?” He alternates between you and the book and glisters his pearly whites. He delicately hauls it to you, “I was going to wait for it to be done, but you can read it now if you want.” You hesitate. You aren’t sure if you want to read it. Regardless, you ferry it in your arms, hefty despite being incomplete.

You unfurl the cover.

Page after page, your pulse pumps sonorously in your ears, uncontrollable where goosebumps surge through ebbing limbs. Without a doubt, you’re frightened. Aghast, gaping mouth with eyes the size of dinner plates. Dating from your first encounter, poems and chaotic paragraphs of infatuation. Your sleeping silhouette, columns of reverence, strands of your hair taped like art—pictures of you you’ve never seen taken behind cars and lamp posts.

The lengthy muddled captions emphasize how beautiful you are, how gracious you must be, because he hadn’t met you yet. On top of it all, written repeatedly in red and smothered in hearts, “I love you (Y/N)”. You don’t want to hold it. It’s broiling on your palms; you want it thrown in fire and scorched to shriveling. It almost reads as a manifesto, with jumbled threats sprinkled above overriding ink. Brutal crimes he’d commit if you were ever harmed, the gory actions he envisioned doing to your male customers. It’s incoherent and unorganized. The last page you flip to etches drought in your throat; A dried scrap of the towel you used to tend to his injury is taped inside. A new entry:

“ (Y/N) takes care of me! without her I am nothing my sun and star ♡ my blood and bone ♡ ♡ my goddess, my angel, the very essence of my existence ♡ ♡ my love is infinite and eternal you are destined to be mine ♡ ♡ forever, forever she is mine ”

You peek up from the book, not prepared to face the source. Ajax ogles you with heart eyes that can’t contemplate the absurdity. They surround you, limit you from speaking undulating panic. Part of you is fearful, the other reserves pure love you still have for him.

“Do you like it, honey?” No, you hate it. It’s scary and not the man you fell in love with. But those sonnets and odes dripping in honey—descriptions that trickle raw vulnerability and expose his truest intentions—are hard to detest when he treasures you earnestly. His expression, he’ll shatter to flecks if you devastate him. So, you scrape back the bile and oblige a strained smile.

“I love it, Ajax. Thank you.”

You’re excited to be at work, and relieved to see Lyney. His banter distracts you from the overbearing air at home. Ajax proceeds like nothing happened, or at least nothing for him. It’s fresh in your mind, torments your thoughts as you get ready for the day. His bare chest hugs you from behind while your brush your teeth and he trails groggy kisses from your shoulder to your jaw. It leaves heat on your ears, and dread in your stomach. The necklace going around you is a cage.

Closing arrives, and you start wrapping things up.

“Could you get the dark roast box?” Lyney asks from the bookshelf.

“Heard” you reply, strolling to storage to find that unnamed box squeezed beside larger product. Balancing the contents, you swing open the door, and let out a gasp to your shock.

“(Y/N)!” Hollers from the dining area. Collei, Tighnari, and astoundingly, Zhongli swarm near Lynette and Freminent. They’re removing their sweaters, but you don’t give Collei or Tighnari time before you charge at them with an immovable hug.

“Tiggy, Collei! Oh my god!” She welcomes your embrace, and you hear a labored sigh from Tighnari as he tries to pry your arms. “You might fracture my ribs if you keep hugging so tight.” Collei chuckles, and you break the reunion. “I missed you so much!” she bubbles, practically doing happy feet to exert her enthusiasm. You move to Zhongli and greet him with a lukewarm “Hello.”

Zhongli, your college boyfriend. The terms you ended on were neither good nor bad. He was a cold selfish player, who wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Unfortunately, he got clumsy with the surplus of women he juggled, and you found out you were a number among many. You shed misery in front of his dorm room, and he stilled a detached glare whilst you shouted through its paper-thin halls with unfiltered rage. It was one of the worst moments of your life. A couple years down the line, and you’ve learned to forgive him for his disrespectful, arrogant attitude.

“You look well” he charms with silky bass. “I am.”

The couple hours you spend catching up and playing board games goes fluently. Tighnari, Lynette, and Freminent rib about the rules they established mid-way through their card game, and you and Collei sit enchanted by the cozy villager simulation on her handheld console. One of her legs is on top of yours, and you’re leaning in her space. Zhongli can’t catch your sight, purposely projecting louder than usual as he enjoyed a drink made by Lyney.

“She’s so cute! What’s that one called?”

“Merengue, she’s my favorite.”

“Hope Merengue helps you with your PhD thesis” Tighnari intrudes, followed by an annoyed sigh at the “+2” card Freminent puts down.

“Ugh, don’t remind me!”

“I didn’t know you were going for a PhD, that’s great” you praise.

“I guess you wouldn’t know, since you don’t bother to call. Had to find out how you’re doing from Lyney” he jokes. You tilt your head. “Me? You have me blocked on everything.”

“You don’t come up for me either. I’ve tried calling you a few times, but it went to voicemail. I assumed you had a new phone” Collei supports. You reply with a dry chuckle, and navigate accounts you blocked, evidence they were restricted. It concludes with blank lists where their names should appear. Nothing, not even a way to add them again. This whole ordeal makes you feel like you’re going crazy. You feel bile filling the chambers of your throat, accompanied by a distinct unsettling swell on your temples. Collei notices your furrowed brows and rubs your back.

“Is everything alright?” Her voice is removed from static hammering your eardrums.

“Uh, y-yes. I need some water.” You move to the register, where Lyney is wiping down the counter. He slides you a water bottle from the mini fridge. “Don’t throw up, I just cleaned this.”

“I’ll do my best” you retort. He slants to you, whispering, “Sorry about Zhongli, they didn’t tell me he was tagging along.” You wave it off and take a swig.

“We gotta talk later. You were right...he’s hiding something.” He gives a comforting nod, and a slender hand enters your peripheral vision.

“You mind making another, Lyney?”

“God, you’re insatiable” he complains, and takes Zhongli’s cup for a refill.

“You both did an outstanding job with the café. It’s homely.” You snort, head resting on your hand. “Is that your way of saying it’s shit?”

Zhongli frowns, “I’m being serious, I’m proud of what you’ve done here.”

“Interesting. I’m surprised this isn’t a downgrade to you.”

“Anything you contribute to is an automatic upgrade.” That sad attempt at flirtation makes you scoff. “Guess your post-college affairs aren’t as frequent if you’re stooping this low.” Maybe you weren’t over it completely.

“How many times must I apologize?”

“Until you die.”

“I’m willing to do that, as many times as it takes.”

You huff, “It doesn’t matter, Zhongli. I’m in a relationship.”

“Are you happy?” You don’t have a quip for that question, and it rains on your emotions when you consider it. A flower struggles to bloom through intense downpours.

“Of course I am.” His smile is frail, and he places a mellow hand on your shoulder. “Then he has all he could ever ask for.”

The door abruptly opens. Collei’s holding it, and behind it, is Ajax. Dire tension hangs in the air, arid like the anticipation of disaster. Faint smirk and murky glower; the swirling spiral coaxes the same fear you felt last night, and the previous days. His face can’t decide what demeanor to convey, it forces gladness where darkness veils his stare. You tread away from Zhongli, praying he didn’t see the hand that was on you moments ago. Your friend's wave, but he doesn’t return the friendly gesture, instead firing a shaded cast of disgust. He saunters to you with wrenched posture, and each step makes your heart race.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t answer the phone. I was worried.” He guides you to him by your lower waist. Zhongli watches as Ajax kisses the corner of your mouth, and you beam from the one that tickles your nose. “’M sorry, not feeling so good.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d be at a party.”

“It was a surprise.”

“Ah, I see. These are your friends?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

“Yeah, from back home.”

“Hello” Zhongli chimes in, holding out his hand to shake. Ajax methodically turns his head to him. You swear you see a vein popping out of his forehead, a splitting stress on his teeth. “Who are you.”

“Zhongli, I’m an old friend of hers from college. We had a few classes together.”

“...Friend” he mocks with rictus, “I’ve never heard your name before.”

“Emphasis on '’old’. I figured I’d stop by since everyone else was here, it’d be a shame to waste such lovely weather-”

“You talk a lot” he states monotone. Zhongli sneers, “Some may say. I’m quite talkative during social gath-”

“So shut the fuck up.” The room hushes. You feel the witnesses shrinking themselves at the crushing tension.

“Excuse me?”

“Why were you touching her.” He’s jittery, suppressing the turbulent urge shredding through him.

“I didn’t realize she was your ‘property’” Zhongli scolds.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You put yourself between them, splaying your fingers across Ajax’s chest. His mood switches easily at your expecting gaze. “Ajax, baby, I’m tired. Can we go home now?” He pauses for a final glare at Zhongli.

“Of course. Let’s go.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and hold onto his arm as you storm out of the coffeehouse, no time for goodbyes from your friends. You center on leashing Ajax home. Blocks down, you hear the far-off patter of footsteps on stone getting louder. It’s too dinning to ignore, and as you turn around your free arm is snatched by Zhongli. You shriek, “(Y/N), wait, don’t go yet-”

Whack! His head flies back and pushes him off balance before his feet find stability. It happens so fast, and you look at Ajax, who has a most terrifying dusk pouring on his livid features. Blood gushes from Zhongli’s nose, but he straightens up tall with his fists held in front of him. Ajax cackles, and jabs between the fists that barely have time to block. His movements are fluid, swinging effortlessly after they fall to his sides. Zhongli paces back, and Ajax charges towards him with quick solid blows that make his loafers scratch on the pavement. He plants a mean gut punch to his torso, and Zhongli doubles over until Ajax punches him in the eye with steel knuckles. He collapses, but his fighting hands linger, any chance to defend himself against your merciless boyfriend. That is, until Ajax sits above him, and begins beating him to a pulp.

Whack! Whack! Whack! His hits are thundering and vicious, tracking blood to his skin from the momentum. You feel lost to time, lost on what to do to save this situation. It sounds like bone swimming in curdling clots and makes you sick. You dive to Ajax, gone by the dead visage. You snake your arms around his waist.

“Ajax! Please stop!” you scream at the top of your lungs. It falls on deaf ears, but you continue to scream. You’re sobbing into his back and yelling to a hoarse end, when suddenly the punches stop. He gets off Zhongli mechanically and braces your faint legs to rise. It’d be wholesome if not for the blood splattering his hands. He notices your tears and wipes them away, streaking faint blood across your cheek. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here now.”

The entire walk home, he’s silent. You hate it when he’s silent. There are cuts spread over his hands and blood steadily runs from the top lip to his swollen bottom lip. He stares off in the distance, concentrated on something—rage, anger—stirring in his cotton-filled brain. You can't read him, and you wonder if you ever had that privilege.

The pieces come together themselves in a puzzle you unconsciously rejected. You can’t recall the last time you spoke to your parents. His ability to know your favorite meals without talking or gifting you outstanding presents that surfaced memories you’d long forgotten. Collei, Tighnari, Lyney, it’s unmistakable. You beg to be naïve again, hopelessly in love and enraptured.

You’d rather keep your eyes shut. The sinister rampage spilling out of him is miles apart from the Ajax who serves you breakfast in bed every day and places soft kisses on your body from head to toe. Love is enough, and you know how much he does to show it. Was there another way? Is it your fault this happened? You can’t focus either or organize your jumbled thoughts, and find yourself searching for reassurance within him, any inkling of affection to prove he still loves you. When you sheepishly reach out to grab his wounded hand, he curls around it, and the thump in your heart reignites. A pulse loud enough to subside the dread clamoring in your feet, warning you to run.

You make it home, and Ajax goes to the kitchen sink to wash away his crimes. He watches red cyclone down the drain, and you lean on a counter close to him.

“Ajax?”

“Yea?” he chirps.

“Zhongli...will he be okay?” you meek.

“Mhm. I didn’t kill him.” The matter-of-fact reply renders a shudder in your bones.

“Is something wrong?” The kitchen is small, and from the way you’re standing you’ve closed yourself off to him.

“No baby, nothings….nothings wrong” he says, that convincing tone, smooth like satin.

“But I’m worried. You’ve never acted like this before, tell me what’s on your mind.” He shuts off the water, and the cylindrical pull seeps a guttural groan. He grips the granite, and even that seems to deform. He finally turns to you, a hurt expression colliding with fiendish somber eyes and taut lips.

“Am I not good enough for you?”

“You are more than enough” you hearten. Ajax rebuttals a bitter laugh and spouts the candor he’d been gnawing on.

“I tried. I tried ignoring your kindness. I tried being pitiful, hurting myself so that your eyes were only on me”, he creeps towards you, and your feet move on their own backpedaling. The echo of his self-inflicted scar produces beads of sweat, distracting so that the back of the wooden chair presses into your back and you almost topple over. Nowhere to go, and now he overshadows you with delicate fingertips slithering across your paling cheeks and behind your jaw, “but you’re surrounded by love. People love you.”

His words drag and descend further, “Ohh, and it’s not fair at all.”

“Why are they allowed your attention. It should be me. Only me. Don’t you want me?” Laced with love, but you can’t taste it. His dilated orbs ping-pong as they scan your face for confirmation. You bring your palms over his and muster fading courage in timid waves.

“I love you Ajax. So, so much. But the way you’re acting scares me. It’s my fault and I could’ve gone home, but I haven’t seen them in a long time. I didn’t think things would end up like this.” He pauses, and engulfs you in an ardent embrace, his hand on the back of your head and another on your lower back. Oh, sweetie muffles through strands of your hair as he sways your bodies. You’re mannequin-like in his stifling sight.

“Nononono, it’s not your fault honeypot. You’re too pure for this world, so kind without thinking. So perfect” he mumbles, absurd drivel seeping through the coherent parts in formidable notes—how he loves you, needs you, can’t live without you— “but they’re leeches. They try to taint you, show you horrible, disgusting things. That piece of shit was looking at me, he was asking for a fight. And he tried to put you in the middle. You could’ve gotten hurt, or God know what. I’ll protect you, my sweet, at any cost."

“Ajax, I don’t need your protection.” It’s silent, profound when he retracts. You forget how to breathe or talk as he slides to your shoulders and holds them in place. His voice lowers.

“You don’t need…me?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying-”

“So let me help, let me be yours” he pleads. You don’t respond—you can’t. Each explanation you formulate sticks to the roof of your mouth and swells like a spell drunk in your throat. Ajax tenses, clinging to your skin. He reflects on a thought, and it blooms with a twinkle.

“What if I just...lock you up?”

“...What?” you say, hardly above a whisper. It’s arid to swallow, and shivers ripple under sweltering heat prickling your limbs.

“I wouldn’t put you anywhere bad. It’d be a pretty place; I’ll take good care of you like I always do. Wouldn’t you like that?” He has a hopeful grin on his face, and when he lets you go for a second you jerk away from his reach. Your back hits the opposite wall, nauseous and lightheaded, shaking your head aggressively to push away the existence of the idea. He wrenches his neck, and you glimpse the deluded flush on his face. “No... I’m not gonna do that.”

“Ah, sweetheart, I know it sounds scary. Can we try it first?”

“You’re not gonna put me in some fucking cage like an animal” you assert. His eyebrows furrow, offended at your assumption that he’d trap you somewhere unpleasant.

“I’d never do that to you. I love you.” He inches towards you, and you inch farther. The keys are in front of him, you can’t leave on your own. The steps you take feel critical.

“Let’s sleep on it, we can discuss in the morning.” No. No no no no. You pan to the staircase, and Ajax curiously watches your paranoid glances. Before he can grab you, you sprint for the stairs. Wind travels in your ears and settles at your graceless movement catching hold of the banister, leverage used to leap. Adrenaline flows steadily in your veins, and your senses feel muddled to mush, focused on pushing your legs to proceed. There’s no room for thinking past the will of your body. You hear airy tsks coming from the dining room, and a singsong “Don’t make me chase you, baby.”

Suddenly, the creaking floorboards succeed at a roaring parade marching behind you. Closer and closer, a sound you didn’t know he possessed. You don’t dare turn around; the squeak waltzes with your deafening heartbeat. You change direction, making haste to the peaceful bedroom you share, now eroding under his hearty stomps. You clash with the door, and barge in. Slamming it shut, your shaky hands promptly lock the knob. Ajax stops in front of the door and lets his fingertips dance along the wood, “Open the door, please.”

The knob shakes aggressively, rattling in the socket and threatening to pop. It’s pulling against the edges of the door that rive at his harsh yanks. He perpetually pulls and twists it, “Darling, c’mon open the door, my sweet.” You’re sure if you don’t, he’ll axe his way through instead.

“Please let me in, baby. Please, I’m dying without you.”

“I don’t wanna fight anymore... please”, his tone barely lifts above the depth of wood, but you hear the faulty voice keeling in cracks. You know you shouldn’t open the door, but his sorrow beckons you as it often does. He wails so hopelessly, as if you’re punishing him for an unavoidable inevitable. It’s an innocent sob peerless to the ruthless violence he displayed hours before; the harrowing glare of the man you thought you knew was all too terrifying. But he’d never do that to you, would he? You’re his darling sweetheart, his infinity now and forever. You filled his divergent heart and sutured it anew. He needs you.

Though your hands fidget to stay at their sides from common sense tucked in a forgone crevice of your headache, you force your hand up, and turn the knob. Maybe you should’ve never let him into the shop on that cold night, instead bidding him farewell and trudging in the snow to your crumby apartment. You’d continue running the shop as usual with Lyney. Things would’ve been different, wouldn’t have been so complicated to cut loose from tangling lies knotting the more he consumed you.

But no, that couldn’t have happened. He would find you, it’s destiny that you’d never part. Stalking in bushes and narrow alleyways until the perfect moment he could walk towards you and catch your eye again, and you’d fall for another pass of courting words.

Ajax stands there with sparkling sadness streaming down his cheeks that mingle with his quivering lips. He drops to his knees instantly in prayer and looks up at you with doey puffy eye bags that nearly make you overlook everything, about Zhongli, about the red flags that grow green the more you squint. It’s just you and him, that’s all it had to be. In times like these you reminisce about the sweet boy you cuddled and confided in, and things feel as they were. The messy-haired Ajax you remember pulls your lower half close to him with large hands that latch onto your waist the more you adjust. His face is mushed to merging in your stomach, and he sighs heavily, taking in your scent like the last breath he’ll ever have. They snake around you, and you meet eyes again. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I love you angel. So much I’d rip my heart out and put it in your hands…. you control me” Desperation clings to Ajax, and you urge to console him. You intertwine your fingers through his hair.

“Ajax, this can’t happen again. Okay?” you caution, a warning dripping with compassion.

“Mhm. Okay.” Unexpected warmth blooms over his cold aura, but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands travel the contours of your hips and thighs, occasionally squeezing with an appreciative huff. He parts your legs and dips to your inner thighs to mold the doughy fat as his lips traverse your lower abdomen, decorating it with wanton kisses. “Love you so much” he utters. His touch is impassioned and fluid, he softens underneath your bottom and circles his thumb like a masseur. Ajax takes his time navigating your sensitive points, and switches between fluffy and solid pressure that licks down your back. Skin to skin contact wasn’t enough, he wanted to crawl in your ribcage and live in your lungs so he could sense your steady breaths. He wanted to bask in your existence, feel the radiance of your touch and ethereal voice curl and melt into him, to make him nothing and all in your eyes.

Your digits tangle in his hair, and when he nips your tummy, you tug his scalp. “Fuck” Ajax groans, strained through his lips. The peachy wash draping his cheeks is cherubic, appeased by the rhythmic kneading. One hand slinks under your shirt and guides a fingertip vertically on your spine, the other sculpts your rear. It’s dizzying how easy it is for Ajax to captivate you, a trance that turns your knees to jelly and leaves you at his mercy. You ignored the impulse igniting your muscles to push him off. You want him closer, suffocating you so deep the clouds of his scent dismantle your fear. You take his chin and redirect his attention, and he waits for order like a loyal dog.

“Ajax.”

“Whatever you want, princess” he toys, that boyish simper releasing butterflies through your body.

“I want you.” He hoists you up without a word and carries you to the bed. He brings you down, a priceless vase above the pillowy cushioned bedding. “You comfortable?” You nod, blushing from the way Ajax gawks at your half-hiked shirt, and shorts hanging low on your hips. “Good.” He’s breathless, restraining his impulse to pounce and devour you. No matter how restive he was, Ajax usually prevented himself from indulging beyond your comfort; but tonight is different. It's starving while a succulent meal taunts you, only satiated by the sight of it. He hastily removes his shirt and pants, freckled muscles flexing as he discards them to the floor. It’s hard to avoid the growing spot staining his stretched white briefs. Spreading your legs, he crawls between them. He regards you for a second, but when you reach behind his head he plunges into a longing kiss.

A longing kiss followed by hungrier ones. It’s abruptly rough and needy against your bruising lips, some skimming the corner of your mouth and tracking to the main course. He frees you for a breather, but the space doesn’t subdue the dull ache thrumming in your core. His nose brushes against yours, and you pull his flyaways back to get the full scale of his feral demeanor, sweating and reddening in the unshakable heat.

You collide again, hands behind your head through the wild exchange. You can’t keep up; he bites your bottom lip and relieves it with the glide of his tongue. Your slow and steady lover begs for entry with a ravenous push, and you allow it to ruin you. The wet appendage invades your senses, explores your mouth in nonsensical shapes and withdraws with a filthy sound before returning. “So. Fucking. Good” he exhales through your intertwining tongues. You’re moaning into each other, lasting in the moment, forgetting everything. His hips start to grind against you, practically dry humping your clothed lower half. You wrap your legs around him and steer his twitching length to roll into you, nudging the inseam of your shorts to your neglected clit. He engulfs your moans, and retreats with strings of spit connecting your tumid lips.

Ajax descends to your neck, and places damp and eager kisses along it. You feel the piercing remnant of a bite accompanied by sucking. His fangs pinch and snag and make you whimper. A budding purple and blue blend blotches to your collarbone--draining you like a vampire. His hands stay busy committing your curves to memory in greedy gropes. Ajax doesn’t notice his low rambling, “yea, you’d never leave me, right? I’m all you need”, to “you're mine.” It’s overstimulating, and so is the hammering pulse in your clit.

Your abused neck is exposed to the delicious sweep of cold air, and he hurries to your shirt. In one swoop, it comes off with the impatient unclasp of your bra. He submerges a stiff peak in warmth while he works the other. His tongue swirls around the nipple, pushing in with a stiff tip and trading it for sucking. It elicits a moan where teeth graze and tweak the bud. “My pretty girl” he murmurs and delivers attention to the next. Ajax massages your spit-soaked tits firmly and diligently in fondling motions. His passion renders him shameless, and it encourages you to fold. You find yourself swerving your hips to his bulge to goad his thirst. He responds with languid nudging, and glances at the space inside your shorts, coated with slick film from your panties. Whine caught in his throat, he salivates and unconciously holds your legs apart. You impel him downwards, and he nuzzles the line to the hem of your shorts.

“Can I taste you, princess?” It had to be hypothetical, since he was already unbuttoning them with his teeth and tearing them off. “Please?” he pants, a half-lidded mess itching to immerse in your desire. Before you can answer, a rrrip shreds through the room; the culprit of your mangled underwear remains, and you shriek. “Ajax!” you scold, but he’s not bothered when he rips the rest of it to display your arousal. “I’ll get you new ones, I’ll buy you the whole store” he sighs, forcing your thighs rearwards with his hands. He angles himself like a sniper and submerses in your pussy.

Ajax doesn’t rush, he lazily trails his tongue around the outside and plays with the folds shlicking against him. He outlines the clit and meticulously weaves his skillful tongue, caring for the spots that make your back arch; paying special attention to your entrance, as he teasingly delves in just enough to coax a moan, then laps a flat tongue over your wetness. Ajax’s ministrations are torturous, rapturing all while ignoring your release. He parts the labia and plashes the juices covering his chin and glossy lips. Your heart is in your ears, winding and coiling at the flicks of his tongue, his fingertips forging red indents on your thighs. Ajax begins to rock himself into the mattress, a fleeting friction comforting his sore erection. His leisurely grinding matches the pace of his mouth making out with your pussy. Mmmf he groans, and the vibrations oscillate. He gently slurps your lips, gasping for another mouthful and lapping at your clit. Your back levitates, and you tug his scalp. It only earns another growl, and faster swipes over the sensitive bud.

“O-oh fuck” you moan, watching Ajax lose his composure and rut himself into the bed like an animal. He’s panting with a quiver, whimpering some rendition of your name until he sputters. He jolts from the material emptying his balls and soaking the sheets, but his energy doesn’t deplete—It seems to motivate him as he hoists you to his mouth. Ajax always prioritizes your pleasure, but it’s difficult to stop him once he’s invested. And he isn’t done feasting, sloppily eating you up with little concern for your fluttering senses. He rides out his orgasm and brings you to yours, and you hardly realize the intoxicating slide over your clit spelling his name. Ajax, Ajax, Ajax, marked into you; It brings you to a chant as you come undone. Ajax doesn’t waste a drop, avidly cleaning up the juices pulsating out. “Thank you, fuck, thank you so much” he whispers. He swills the bud, and you spasm and squirm from ecstasy in his iron grip. “Ajax, p-please.”

“I got you.” He gives one last French kiss before exiting tranquility. A combination of spit and arousal blankets his mouth, and he smiles like the happiest man alive. “You okay?” Not a thought in fruition, tender mellowness smothering you. You wince from the prolonged position, and he immediately puts you on your side.

“Need to feel you.” He wrings his underwear down, and reveals his pulsing shaft adorned with beads of come dribbling down the rosy pale tip. He’s above you, trapping one leg over his shoulder, and aligns himself with your sex. “Perfect tits, perfect pussy. You’re so beautiful, all for me.” The bulb slips in effortlessly, and he sighs at the muscle clenching around him. Each inch drives seamlessly into you, stretching your unadjusted frame. He lulls on your ankle, absorbed by the coziness enveloping the base until he bottoms out. Then it’s unmoving. Agonizing, even, the way you feel him twitch inside. “Y-you can move now.”

“Let’s just stay like this for a little.” He rubs your leg, savoring the serene patter of rain smacking the wide windows and toasty light dusting your dazed appearance. It’s intimate and placid minus the rise and fall of your bodies, and you’re surprisingly shy. You rush to cover your face, but Ajax grabs you. “Don't hide, pretty girl. You’re stunning” he flirts, kissing your hand.

“Do you love me?” His blinks are exaggerated, confused that you’d ask such an obvious question.

“Of course.”

“What do you love about us?” He brings your hand to his cheek. “You complete me. You’ve forgiven me, loved me, and accepted me for who I am. I can be open around you.” He kisses your wrist, silken as to quell the trivial thoughts resurfacing.

“I’ll love you until the end. I’ll find you in the next life and start all over, even when this universe collapses. I won’t let anyone get in our way, so love me forever.” Ajax pulls out to the tip, and you whine at the loss of wholeness. Then, he drives his sticky cock unhurriedly to the hilt. You mewl, and he palms your chest. “Shh, ‘s okay.” The milky translucent trail links you and erupts obscene syrupy noises. “What are you thinking for baby names?” You can’t focus, the swinging strokes graze your g-spot. You’d say anything to him at this point; you need him deeper. He casually thumbs your clit and continues at a sluggish tempo. “I really like the name Aleksei” In and out, veins embellishing your walls. You meet his thrusts and shudder, though he stops occasionally to redirect the sopping length.

“A-ahn, you’re so wet, it keeps slipping out” he moans. He picks up the speed, squelching stirring with whimpers. “I love you, honeypot. Sosososo fucking much, just wanna breed this pretty pussy every second of the day. Ah- you wanna be a mommy, yeah? We can have a big family, hah, just you me and the kids. Wouldn’t you like that, darling?” He’s drilling into you, stuffed to bursting. You feel yourself approaching and seize his wrist. “’M close!”

“Give it to me, fuck, please” Ajax whines, and you climax under him, juices saturating his balls. You don’t get time to recover; he fucks you through your orgasm. You’re reeling, clawing at his forearm when he puts you flat on your back. “Wanna come inside. Can I, please? I want it so bad” he pleads. He adjusts you to a mating press with brute force, and plummets inside.

It’s vicious, staggering plap’s and squelching audible from outside. The headboard bangs on the wall while he pummels your pussy. A sheen of lust shrouds his eyes, and his heavy balls smack against your ass as he wrecks you. More, more, more drowns him in senseless fucking, precome frothing at the base. You convulse around him, and he burrows full throttle. When his tongue finds yours, you interweave through the sloppy pumps. His balls tighten, and he chases his high frenetically bobbing. “O-oh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” Harsher, meaner strokes hit you quick, and Ajax melts into endless whimpers striking his climax. Ropes of thick white paint your insides, teeming to globs where they crowd your pussy and leak to your ass. Ajax bucks into you, and you milk him dry. The shakes eventually stop, and he goes limp on top of you. You feel him softening, his steady inhale. He smiles at you, showering you with affection you couldn’t resist.

“I should use the bathroom” you suggest, patting his back as a signal to get off. “Sure. Wait here, I’ll get you cleaned up.” He returns after an eternity, with cloudy water and a tepid towel.

“Here, drink this.” You take the cup and sip. Ajax tips it a bit, urging you to gulp. He wipes you down lovingly while you swallow the contents. He disregards your vulva, however, collecting the come on his fingers and pushing it in. Oddly, you’re leaden—insanely leaden, so much so that your head tilts to one side and threatens to give up entirely. Your knees are wobbly, and your bones are lost in a dreamlike state. Ajax passes the towel under your chest.

“You know, I didn’t feel bad about it, when I strung his guts across the wall. I only thought of you.”

No. It can’t be true.

You can’t scream or fight, and simply gape at the words hulking through your numbed rationale. The towel cools your sweat, but the fear persists.

“I met him behind your complex. He was bitching about rent, sleazy fucking scum. I asked him if you live there, and he went on a rant about it. Saying nasty stuff no one should ever say about you. I couldn't help it, (Y/N), I had to see his organs carved out of his body.” Your jackhammering heart doesn’t compare to your sloth behavior. You want to run, move in with your parents again and pretend; pretend like your life hasn’t been propelled into disarray, pretend that the ginger boy caressing your face didn’t butcher a man.

“Ajax, let me go” you cried, a teardrop coursing across your temple. He wipes it, “I’m not holding you, dear. You can’t stand on your own right now, but the effect will wear off after you sleep. Rest for now, okay sweetie?”

“What did you put...in my...” You’re swooning, ferried by the effect of the unknown medicine sprinkled in your cup. With no will to combat, your eyes reluctantly close. His pupils are desolate and obscure, the night of a severe blizzard.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

tags: @zhochikennugget (if anyone else would like to be tagged, dm and i'll tag you on the next one :)

#genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin au #ajax smut #ajax x reader #tartaglia smut #tartaglia x reader #childe tartaglia ajax #childe smut #childe x reader #genshin impact #genshin tartagalia #i need ajax BAD #so sorry about the wait this time

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thatdammchickennugget · 6 months ago

Text

A Shop Apart

pairing - theodore nott x fem!reader

summary - of course, neither of you would admit the stolen glances—theo, catching moments of your infectious laughter as you chatted with customers; you, secretly admiring the precision with which he handled his craft. these thoughts remained buried, drowned out by the day-to-day chaos of running rival businesses

warnings - rival shop owners who are not so secretly into each other, teasing, theo is really type a in this, kinda whimsical!reader

wordcount - 2.9k

Diagon Alley was as alive as ever, a magical artery of commerce where enchantments hung in the air as tangibly as the smells of freshly baked pumpkin pasties and brewing potions. The cobblestone streets thrummed underfoot, lined with vibrant shopfronts that called out to the passing crowd. Among the kaleidoscope of stores, two stood shoulder to shoulder, their stark differences impossible to ignore.

To the left stood "Nott’s Enchantments and Potions," a haven of precision and order. The display windows gleamed with carefully curated items: neatly labeled potions, sleek enchanted tools, and a sign in bold, no-nonsense lettering that read: Efficiency Without Extravagance. Behind the counter, Theodore Nott presided like a general overseeing his army, his sharp eyes darting over every detail to ensure perfection. His world was structured, predictable, and above all, logical.

Next door was "Whimsy & Wonder," a riot of imagination come to life. The shop practically glittered with charm, from its ornate, swinging sign to the window displays bursting with enchanted trinkets and shimmering fairy lights. Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with unrestrained energy. Shelves overflowed with colorful potions, dancing figurines, and glittering baubles. You, the shop’s owner, swept through the space like a living embodiment of your brand—a flowing robe adorned with embroidered stars trailing behind you as you greeted customers with a radiant smile.

The contrast couldn’t have been starker. And neither could the tension.

From the moment Theo and you became neighbors, the clash of styles had been inevitable. Your first disagreement—over a garland of enchanted flowers draped across your awning—had been as small as it was explosive. Theo had accused you of obstructing his display. You’d countered with a suggestion to brighten his shop up a bit. That had only been the beginning.

“Your nonsense is distracting my customers,” Theo had declared one busy afternoon, glaring at a flock of animated butterflies that had dared to flutter into his territory.

“And your brooding is dulling the magic out of Diagon Alley,” you had shot back, arms crossed in defiance. “Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone even notices your shop.”

Thus began a rivalry that had become as much a fixture of the alley as the cobblestones. Customers, drawn to both shops for entirely different reasons, found themselves entertained by the ongoing battle of barbs. More than one shopper had walked away with their purchases and a knowing smile, whispering about the unspoken tension beneath the snipes.

Of course, neither of you would admit the stolen glances—Theo, catching moments of your infectious laughter as you chatted with customers; you, secretly admiring the precision with which he handled his craft. These thoughts remained buried, drowned out by the day-to-day chaos of running rival businesses.

.・。.・゜✭・.

It started with the smell of cinnamon buns.

Theo had barely unlocked the doors of "Nott’s Enchantments and Potions" when the rich, sugary aroma drifted in from next door. He paused, his fingers tightening around the sign he was flipping to Open.

Inside "Whimsy & Wonder," you were cheerfully setting out a tray of enchanted pastries—warm, golden buns that floated gently above their plate. A sign hanging beside them read, Cinnamon Wishes: A Treat to Sweeten Your Day! Customers gathered, drawn by the smell and the soft hum of magic that made the pastries glimmer faintly.

Theo watched from the corner of his eye as a witch with a shopping list as long as her arm stopped mid-stride, sniffed the air, and made a beeline for your shop. He scowled. Another potential customer lured away by glitter and nonsense.

He stormed to his counter, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the neatly stacked jars of ready-to-brew potion kits. By the time the third customer wandered past his door to join the growing crowd in your shop, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He strode out of his shop, his footsteps clipped and precise against the cobblestones. He appeared in your doorway, the bell jingling sharply as he entered.

“Pastries?” Theo said, his tone dry and unimpressed. “Really?”

You looked up from arranging your display of charm bracelets, a bright smile already forming on your lips as you spotted him. “Good morning to you too, Theo.”

“Cinnamon buns, enchanted glitter, butterflies—do you ever stop trying to turn this alley into a carnival?”

“Do you ever stop scowling?” you countered, leaning one hand against the counter. “Besides, I think my customers appreciate a little sweetnes with their morning shopping. You might want to try it sometime. Merlin knows your shop could use some cheering up.”

Theo’s expression darkened, but before he could retort, an elderly wizard wandered in, drawn by the smell of the pastries. He looked between the two of you, his eyes twinkling.

“Ah, young love,” the wizard said, chuckling as he picked up a pastry. “You remind me of my wife and me back in the day. Always bickering.”

Theo stiffened, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “It’s not—she’s not—”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” you said smoothly, your smile widening as you handed the wizard his pastry. “He’s just cranky before he’s had his tea.”

The wizard laughed, shuffling out of the shop as he carefully cradled the sweet treat in his hands. Theo, now thoroughly flustered, muttered something unintelligible under his breath before turning sharply on his heel.

The bell jingled as he left, but not before you caught the tiniest twitch of a smile on his lips.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The next confrontation began when Theo caught sight of your newest addition to the shop—a sign so large and flamboyant it seemed to radiate its own personality. Hung high over your entrance, the sign proclaimed in glittering, color-shifting letters: Whimsy & Wonder: Brighten Your Day, One Charm at a Time!. Each letter sparkled with enchantment, the colors shifting as they caught in sunlight. Worse yet, it played a jaunty jingle whenever someone walked by.

Theo, standing in front of his own impeccably tidy storefront, clenched his jaw as the cheerful tune reached his ears for the fifth time in as many minutes. The noise carried into his shop, muffling the sound of his steady cauldron stirrer, and he could feel his meticulously controlled world unraveling at the edges.

With a sharp inhale, he crossed the cobblestone threshold into your shop once again without hesitation. The bell above the door gave an almost delighted chime as if thrilled by his arrival. He stopped a few steps in, arms crossed tightly, his gaze sharp as a freshly whetted blade.

“What,” he began, his tone low and measured, “is that?”

You glanced up from a table near the center of the shop, where you were adjusting a display of snow globes that occasionally sang lullabies. The twinkle of mischief in your eyes told Theo you already knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Good afternoon,” you said, straightening up and brushing your hands together with a cheerful smile, as if you were greeting your favorite customer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Theo gestured sharply toward the door. “The sign.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, you mean the fabulous sign? Isn’t it delightful? Took me ages to find just the right jingle charm to go with it.”

“‘Delightful’ isn’t the word I’d use,” Theo said, his voice edging toward exasperation. “Obnoxious, overbearing, and excessive are all closer to the mark.”

You crossed your arms, mirroring his stance but with an air of mockery that made his teeth grit. “Really? I thought it was perfectly eye-catching. Customers seem to love it.” You nodded toward the street, where a young witch was instructing her husband to snap a photograph of her under the sign.

Theo followed your gaze and then pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thinner by the second. “It’s overhanging my shop,” he said flatly. “And worse, I had three customers ask if they’d walked into the wrong place because of your ridiculous jingle.”

You laughed—a soft, musical sound that only deepened the crease in Theo’s brow. “Well, that just means you’re not doing enough to make your shop memorable. Maybe a little jingle is exactly what you need.”

“Memorable doesn’t mean gaudy,” Theo shot back. “I’ll thank you to remove it—or at the very least, silence the tune.”

“Silence it?” you repeated, pretending to be horrified. “Absolutely not. It’s part of the charm!”

Theo opened his mouth to argue further, but the conversation was interrupted by a cluster of children who scampered into your shop. They were chasing after one of your enchanted stars—a tiny glowing orb with trailing golden sparkles. It zipped through the air, weaving around Theo’s head before landing in your outstretched palm.

“There you go, darlings,” you said, handing it back to one of the children with a warm smile. They all giggled in delight and darted back out into the street.

Theo stood there, momentarily thrown off by the scene. He watched as you returned to the counter, your expression now smug and triumphant. “See? People love it here,” you said, gesturing broadly to your shop. “You might want to loosen up a little. Maybe even—dare I say it—have some fun.”

Theo scowled, but the sharp retort he’d been preparing fizzled away as he caught the way you were looking at him—bright-eyed and unapologetically challenging, like you thrived on provoking him. He tightened his arms across his chest.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

As he strode back to his shop, the cheerful jingle of your sign trailed behind him. By the time he reached his door, it was already stuck in his head.

.・。.・゜✭・.

It started innocently enough—or so Theo would later claim.

Mid-morning sunlight streamed over Diagon Alley, and a steady stream of customers bustled between the shops. Theo had spent the better part of the morning reorganizing his shelves after an unusually busy rush. His meticulous attention to detail meant every label was aligned and every potion bottle gleamed.

But the sound of delighted laughter drifting through the open door of Whimsy & Wonder grated on his nerves. You had enchanted your bell to chime a cheerful little tune whenever a customer entered, and every time it went off, Theo felt his eye twitch. Wasn’t the jingle of your sign already too much?

Enough was enough.

Theo didn’t consider himself a prankster, but he was no stranger to cleverness. He grabbed a jar from his workbench—one of his most efficient creations: Silent Snuff. The enchantment inside was harmless, designed to suppress minor magical disturbances like unruly sparks or fizzling potions.

With a flick of his wand, Theo set the jar hovering discreetly at the edge of your shop’s awning. It pulsed faintly as it activated, the glittering lights and floating charms in the vicinity dimming slightly. To Theo’s satisfaction, the jaunty music from your enchanted sign faltered, the cheerful melody turning sluggish before sputtering out entirely.

He didn’t expect the immediate effect. You appeared in your doorway not five minutes later, your hands on your hips and your eyes blazing.

“Theodore!” you called, your voice carrying over the chatter of the street. Several shoppers turned to watch the unfolding drama, eager for what they likely assumed was another spat between the famously feuding shopkeepers.

Theo stepped out of his shop, the picture of calm indifference. “Yes?” he replied, a hint of smugness lacing his tone.

“What did you do to my sign?” you demanded, gesturing toward the now dim and silent display. “Half the charms on it stopped working, and my butterflies won’t stay afloat!”

Theo shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe your enchantments aren’t as robust as you thought.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer until you were nearly toe-to-toe. “You’re awfully smug for someone who ‘has no idea.’”

“I’m always this smug,” he said, his voice cool. “But perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling you to tone it down. Simplicity can be... refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” you repeated, incredulous. “I’ll show you refreshing, Nott.”

Before Theo could react, you flicked your wand. A puff of bright pink smoke erupted from the nearest flowerpot outside his shop, transforming it into an enormous, glitter-covered daisy. It loomed like a whimsical sentinel, completely out of place against the austere backdrop of Nott’s Enchantments and Potions.

Theo stared at the flower, his expression blank. “Very mature,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you replied sweetly, giving him a saccharine smile.

The tension between you was palpable, drawing curious onlookers. Some whispered bets on who would win this particular round, while others simply enjoyed the spectacle. A witch passing by muttered something about how the chemistry was “so obvious, it’s painful.”

Theo caught the comment and felt his cheeks heat, but he refused to look away from your determined gaze. He tipped his head slightly, his tone deceptively casual. “Careful, or I might start to think you actually like me.”

The remark caught you off guard, your expression flickering for just a moment. But you recovered quickly, tossing your hair with a laugh that was just a bit too loud. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, turning sharply and retreating to his shop.

As he closed the door behind him, he allowed himself the faintest smirk. You, meanwhile, were left staring at the glittering daisy, already plotting your next move.

.・。.・゜✭・.

After Theo’s stunt with your sign and butterflies, you decided it was time to hit back. Subtlety was for amateurs; you wanted something with flair, something that would be impossible for him to ignore.

The plan was simple: an enchanted banner that would unfurl above Theo’s shop with a playful, mocking slogan. Something like “Efficiency: Where Fun Goes to Die.” You spent the better part of the evening crafting the perfect enchantment. The banner would hang just long enough to catch everyone’s attention before vanishing in a harmless puff of glitter.

At dawn, when Diagon Alley was still quiet, you crept outside with your wand in hand. You whispered the incantation, watching as the banner fluttered to life, rising like a mischievous phoenix. But as it reached the apex of its ascent, the enchantment wobbled. A thread of magic sparked and fizzled, and suddenly, the banner wrapped itself around you like a determined snake.

“Really?!” you groaned, struggling against the enchanted fabric. It tightened, pinning your arms and tangling around your legs until you toppled backward into a stack of flowerpots. The clatter echoed down the street, shattering the quiet morning.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the door to Theo’s shop swing open.

“What in Merlin’s name—?” His sharp voice cut through the air as he stepped outside, his eyes landing on your predicament. A slow smirk spread across his face. “Well, well. What have we here?”

You glared up at him, thoroughly ensnared in your own creation. “Don’t just stand there, Nott. Help me.”

He crossed his arms, clearly savoring the moment. “Help you? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of this... creative experience. Seems very on-brand for Whimsy & Wonder.”

You wriggled against the banner, which only tightened further. “I swear, if you don’t—”

“Alright, alright,” he said, stepping closer. “Hold still, or this will take even longer.”

Theo knelt beside you, his wand outstretched as he murmured a counter-spell. The banner loosened its grip, but as he worked, his hands brushed against your arm, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and surprisingly pleasant.

“Do you always get yourself into these messes?” he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind.

“Do you always enjoy watching people suffer?” you shot back, but the edge in your voice had softened.

He glanced up, and for a moment, your eyes met. The banter dissolved into silence as the proximity between you became impossible to ignore. His face was closer than you’d realized, his expression unreadable but intent.

You both stilled, the world around you fading into nothing but the sound of your breathing. His hand brushed yours as he untangled the last of the banner, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

For a second, it felt inevitable—the pull between you, the way his gaze flicked to your lips and back again. Then—

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

A vendor’s voice rang out, shattering the moment. You jerked back, breaking eye contact as Theo stood abruptly, the banner now limp in his hands.

“Nothing to see here,” he said coolly, tossing the banner onto your stoop.

You scrambled to your feet, brushing dirt off your robes and refusing to look at him. “Thanks,” you muttered, your cheeks burning.

He lingered for a second longer, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking back to his shop without another word.

As you watched him go, you couldn’t decide what burned hotter—the embarrassment of being caught or the way your pulse still raced from how close you’d been.

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orchidsarchives · 1 year ago

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I am kinda curious

What would Jason be like if the coffee Cafe owner!reader built in a small library in her Cafe just for him,like she saw he liked reading and went like 'yup. I am building a small library for him'

This is such a fun idea, but omg please forgive me, I went a little overboard. Once I figured out what to write, I couldn’t stop. I apologize for how long it is. But omg also, I was literally kicking my feet and giggling writing the end lol, Anyways enjoy!

Owning a cafe was a difficult job, there was always much to do— customers to attend to, drinks to make, and maintenance to do. You were always busy, but you loved your job.

You had spent a lot of time curating the perfect atmosphere for your beloved customers. The lighting was warm, with fairy lights and lanterns dangling from the ceiling. There was wooden furniture and two old couches that sat by the glass windows. The tiny space smelled of freshly brewed coffee and sweet bread. The cafe was always inviting.

You had many regulars at the coffee shop, each one with their own story, a different purpose.

For the past six months, twice a week, every Thursday and Saturday morning, a tall man walked in. Jason, you recalled his name from the many times you prepared his drinks. He’d order the same thing every time, a small London fog and a walnut banana bread.

He’d sit at the table nearest to the entrance, his back never towards the door.

Every morning, he’d come in with a new book. You had seen him read Franz Kafka, Oscar Wilde and Jane Austen; he’d read a lot of Austen.

He was a mystery and you wanted to know more.

You found Jason quite handsome. His skin was scattered with scars and you often found yourself staring at the permanent wound near his lips. You wanted to run your fingers along it, to trace it, to kiss it.

His eyes were always kind, a deep shade of green, forest-like you’d think to yourself.

He spoke with kindness. His voice velvety and rich, much like the espresso you’d brew everyday, except his voice was never bitter, almost always doused with honey.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking over at the counter, at you, you’d hoped.

Your coworkers were afraid of him, telling you to stay away, but you couldn’t help yourself. He was like an enticing book, waiting to be read. They’d warn you, “do not engage in too much conversation with the strange man.” But it was as if they were talking to a small child, their words would go in one ear and out the other.

“Strange,” you would never use that word to describe him.

From the small talk you had with him, to his choice in books, to even his taste in tea, you’d never describe him as strange.

Gentle was the word you’d choose.

He was huge, all height and muscle, terrifying to most, however to you, he was everything but that. You saw an angel and you didn’t even know him… yet, you’d tell yourself.

There were days, where you almost gained the courage to ask for his number, maybe ask for small detail, perhaps get a glimpse of his life. But each attempt was futile. Why was it so hard to speak to him for more than five minutes, you’d curse your inability to speak to attractive men.

You were beginning to give up on your dreams of getting to know the beautiful stranger, when he walked in through door.

The conversation began as per usual.

“Morning Jason, what can I grab you today,” you asked politely. He smiled softly in return and you stare at the scar by his lip as he begins to speak.

“Uhh surprise me,” you look at him confused, he’s never done that before and he finds himself smiling harder. “Just kidding, I’ll just the take the usual please,” he says as he places his copy of Jane Eyre on the counter to take out his wallet.

“Brontë, why am I not surprised,” you reply, gazing at the book. You take the cash from his hands and your heart drops. Shades of purple and crimson coat his skin. They’re bruised, again.

“What can I say, I’m a man of taste,” he smirks. You roll your eyes and giggle.

“Now who told you that,” and he shrugs. Then there’s a lull, you don’t know what to say now. It isn’t awkward, but you find yourself starting feeling a little uneasy. God, if you only you could come up with something else to say. You shake your head slightly and begin to warm up his banana bread.

You turn around and wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t walk away to his usual table this time, instead he takes a seat next to the counter. Odd, you thought.

Jason’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second, he watches you in admiration, you don’t quite catch on.

If you thought Jason was handsome, then he thought you belonged in a museum. You were a work of art in his eyes. The kind of beauty they wrote poetry about. Absolutely stunning.

He wanted to get to know you, speak to you, but he was afraid. If you didn’t reciprocate his feelings, then he may never be able to see you again. The trips to the cafe would no longer be necessary and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

However today, Jason pushes his fears aside, he feels bold. He finds his confidence and he speaks.

“Do you read much,” he asks suddenly. You place his cup of tea and bread in front of him, and nod your head.

“I do, but not what you read,” you reply and he stares into your eyes, curious. “I mostly read magazines, you know Vogue and stuff,” his smile drops a little, he’s trying really hard to not look judgemental. Cute, you think. “Kidding, I read fantasy mostly,” and his face lights up again.

“So like J.K. Rowling,” he questions.

“No, Harry Potter’s good, but I’m not really a fan of her, you know as a person. I’ve been reading a lot Neil Gaiman recently though,” you say.

“Oh fuck, yeah, she’s said some pretty crazy stuff huh,” and you nod again. “Gaiman though, I don’t think I’ve ever read his stuff before, he any good,” he asks and your eyes go wide, you’re excited.

You spend the next hour of his visit speaking to him about books, about the things that you both like.

You only part from the conversation when there was a customer.

You’ve never felt this way before, all the assumptions you made about him were true. He was an angel, a kind and gentle one.

A month goes by and you notice your relationship with Jason change. Now, instead of sitting by the entrance of the cafe, he sits near you, back against the door. A sign of trust, you assumed. He smiled more, he showed his teeth and he laughed, hard. You loved the sound of his laugh. His eyes looked brighter, greener, emerald-like. He still walked in with a new book, but when the conversation began, it was long forgotten.

You watched his bruises heal and you watched new ones appear, you were always curious, but never had the courage to ask. He’d tell you when he was ready.

As time went by, you found yourself wanting to do something for him, you wanted him to know that you cared. You thought that if your words were going to fail you, then maybe your actions would prove otherwise.

Working a closing shift at the cafe on a gloomy Tuesday evening, you find yourself thinking of different gestures you could do.

Ideas came and left, nothing felt good enough. He deserved the best. Trying to busy your mind elsewhere, you begin to sweep the floors and that’s when inspiration hits you.

There, in the coffee shop, lies an empty corner. An odd spot, not necessarily small, but also not large enough either.

A perfect fit for a decently sized bookshelf. A library, for the community, but most importantly for Jason. You smile to yourself, proud at the thought. He’d love this, you knew he would.

The next morning you find yourself drilling holes into the pale walls of the cafe, trying attach the large shelf you lugged down to the shop.

Once everything was fixed into its rightful place, you begin adding the books, by genre and then by the authors’ last names. You add many of Jason’s favourites, multiple copies of Austen. You add children’s books, comics and something for yourself.

The shelf fits right into the ambiance of the cafe, elevating it honestly. The corner looked cosy and you found yourself wanting to sit by one of the couches with a book and a cup of hot chocolate.

You stare at the shelf once more, proud. Now, you just had to wait.

Jason walks into the cafe the next day, he’s late. He arrives near closing time. It’s just you and him in the cafe, most of your staff left for the day and not many people stayed this late. It’s quiet, the only sound coming from the machines on your side of the counter. He’s holding another book in his hand, but he has no intention of reading tonight.

His hair is slicked back, and there’s a small cut on his forehead. He’s dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants. He looks like he’s coming back from a big event or maybe he’s going to one later. Either way, he looks pretty like this, his arms look more defined and you can make out the muscles on his back when he walks around the room, waiting for his drink.

His eyes wander around the cafe before settling on the bookshelf nestled in the odd corner. His eyes soften, he’s never noticed that before, it must be new, he thinks.

“When’d you get this,” he asks, his fingers running along the spines of the books. He’s smiling, there’s so many books.

“Yesterday, it’s for you,” you say, holding your breath. This is it, the moment you’ve been preparing for.

“For me,” he looks over at you as you settle his tea on the counter. You begin walking over to his side, slowly, riddled with nerves.

“Yes, since you’re always here, I thought you’d like having a book shelf here. It’s like a library, you take a book and then you-“ he cuts you off suddenly.

“You made a library for me in your cafe, are you serious,” he’s trying to hold back a smile, you can tell. His scar gets more prominent when he does that. “Why,” he as asks, his voice is soft, it feels like warm milk with honey, comforting.

“You’re gonna make me say it,” you can’t see your face, but it feels hot, you can tell you’re blushing.

“Yeah, say it. Why is there a library in your cafe for me,” he says, enunciating the words “your” and “for me.” He’s smirking now. He knows the answer, he just wants to hear it from you.

The point of the library was to not have to say anything, for your actions to speak for you, but here you are. Ears burning and palms clammy.

“I…,” you trail off, you look around the room, anywhere but his face. He notices and walks closer, his hands gently make their way around your waist.

“Say it,” he exclaims, it’s not forceful, he’s smiling and shades of pink dust his cheeks.

You close your eyes shut, fuck, you’re going to have to say it.

“I really like you jas-,” and with that, his lips find their way to your own. You move in harmony, much like matcha and oat milk. His lips are sweet, he tastes like the banana bread, he decided to eat while pacing around the cafe. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, you pull back and smile. You peck his lips. Once where the scar is and once more on the centre. He grins.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that from you,” he mumbles against your lips, waiting for you to kiss him again.

And you do, you kiss him again and again.

#this was written before i found out how disgusting neil gaiman is #gn!reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

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dollyswishingwell · 19 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.14

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluffyyyy, reader being a protective mama, very much based off my own mother lol, the boys being good husbands who listen to their wife

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You will home school your baby girl

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𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your arms were wrapped tight around your precious babygirl, the two of you curled up on the plush fainting couch in your artfully decorated sunroom, pastel curtains drawn, soft light painting your matching pink robes in a gentle glow. Her little cheek was pressed to your chest, eyelids fluttering as you brushed your fingers through her lilac curls.

“She’s too small,” you whispered, eyes glassy as you looked down at the little girl who looked so much like Rafayel, same soft features, same lashes, same dainty little pout when she dozed off. “They want me to send her to daycare? To preschool? At her big age of two and a half? Am I a joke to this city?”

“She’s advanced,” Rafayel murmured, already lounging at your feet with his cheek against your leg, scrolling through something disinterestedly on his tablet. “Her cognitive patterning is off the charts. That’s why they suggested it.”

“They can keep their suggestions,” you snapped quietly, protectively covering your daughter’s ears. “What do they even do in preschool? Sit in a circle and eat cheese sticks? She already knows her ABCs and half the constellations, because I taught her myself—while baking.”

Rafayel looked up lazily, blinking with those dreamy mismatched eyes. “Love, no one’s forcing her. You sound like you’re preparing for war.”

“She cries when I leave the room for ten seconds,” you said, voice cracking. “What makes them think she’ll be fine being dropped off like a package? And what if she forgets I’m her mommy? What if she calls another woman mama?”

That got him. His tablet thunked to the floor.

“She’s not calling anyone else mama,” Rafayel said immediately, now fully sitting up. “That’s sick. Who even made the suggestion?”

“It was in that stupid parent packet. Something about building independence and socialisation. But my babygirl has me. She doesn’t need strangers or snotty-nosed toddlers teaching her to snatch or bite. And if she’s socialising with me, she gets emotional intelligence, grace, and couture.”

Your daughter stirred a little, rubbing her sleepy eyes and mumbling something about you being soft and warm. You kissed her chubby cheek like a shield, glaring protectively over her head.

“She is going nowhere without me.”

Rafayel gave you that lazy smile, the one that meant you’ve already won. He draped himself over the side of the couch, one hand playing idly with your frilly robe ribbon, the other gently stroking his daughter’s back.

“So we homeschool?” he said. “Hire twelve specialists, rotate them weekly, create a custom curriculum of space physics and watercolor painting. Make a cute little uniform. Pastel sailor collars.”

You blinked.

“…That’s actually perfect.”

“I know.” He grinned, eyes gleaming with amusement. “She gets one-on-one education. You get to be clingy. I don’t have to see either of you cry at a drop-off. And we get to act like you’re the queen of an exclusive finishing academy.”

“I am the queen of an exclusive finishing academy,” you muttered, kissing your baby again. “It’s called ‘Being My Daughter 101.’ And she’s valedictorian.”

Rafayel laughed softly and leaned in to kiss your cheek, then hers. “I’ll text the staff. We’ll convert the east studio into a learning suite. She can start next week with Fairy Tale Lore and Beginner Cello.”

“And I’ll be right there with her,” you murmured, voice sticky with emotion as your daughter finally drifted fully asleep in your arms. “Because no one will ever take her from me.”

Rafayel nuzzled your temple. “They’d have to go through me first.”

And that was that.

The next morning, Thomas received a cancellation letter for all preschool appointments, and an additional task:

To Do:

• Fire anyone who suggests separating mama from babygirl ever again.

• Hire the top ten tutors on the continent.

• Order a miniature baby desk to match her mommy’s tea vanity.

• Deliver daily croissants to the classroom. No raisins.

Signed,

Her Royal Highness the Pretty Housewife

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in the middle of your kitchen, barefoot and furious in a pale pink satin robe, arms protectively crossed as Zayne read the early education enrollment packet you had aggressively slapped onto the counter moments ago.

“She’s two,” you hissed. “Two, Zaynie.”

His calm hazel-green eyes lifted from the paper. “They said she’s ready. Cognitively ahead for her age. Social skills well-developed.”

“She only has good social skills because she mimics me,” you snapped, jabbing your manicured finger at the paper. “She’s polite because I taught her to say ‘please’ for every tea party snack and scolded her for forgetting her thank-you kisses. Do they think a bunch of sticky-fingered little strangers are going to teach her better than her own mother?”

Zayne exhaled quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose, still in his perfectly pressed dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “You’re emotional.”

“Of course I’m emotional! My baby, my sweet, chubby-cheeked mamas girl, is being scouted like she’s some kind of prodigy, and all they see is her data. You think they care about her naptime rituals? That she needs her bunny and her blanket and five kisses before she sleeps?”

Zayne was quiet.

“She still cries when you go to the hospital in the morning,” you said, voice cracking slightly now. “She screams if I even pretend to leave the house. She sleeps on my chest, Zayne. And now I’m supposed to just drop her off with people who don’t even know how she likes her strawberries sliced? Are you insane?”

He finally moved, stepping around the counter and gently taking your face in his hands. “Look at me.”

You did.

His voice softened. “You know I trust your judgment with her more than anyone. But I also want to make sure she’s not missing opportunities just because—”

“We are rich, Zayne.” Your eyes were wide, defiant, sparkly with emotion. “We are influential. You are a literal heart surgeon. We could fund our own school if we wanted to. Why would I ever send her away when I could keep her with me and build something better?”

Zayne was silent again. Then: “…You want to homeschool her.”

“I want to curate her childhood, Zayne. I want to make sure her world is beautiful and warm and full of love. I want her to learn astronomy from the telescope on our balcony, literature from my lap, and math with cookie shapes in our kitchen.”

“She’d never leave your side.”

“Exactly. Because she doesn’t want to. Because she’s a mamas girl. And I’m a mama who doesn’t let her precious baby cry in a stranger’s arms.”

He let out a soft sigh. “You’re not going to budge on this.”

“Not even if you showed me statistics from Harvard themselves,” you said firmly, holding his gaze. “My baby girl stays home.”

Zayne was quiet for a long beat, then nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll convert the second study into a home classroom. I’ll have the pediatric development specialist visit weekly. You’ll build the curriculum with them.”

You blinked. “So… we’re doing it?”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your pouty lips, and finally bent down to kiss the top of your daughter’s head as she clung to your leg sleepily.

“You win,” he murmured. “You always do.”

You sniffled dramatically and scooped your baby up. “That’s because I’m her mama. And no one protects her like I do.”

Zayne’s phone buzzed. He silenced it immediately, not taking his eyes off you and your daughter.

“I’ll call the school and decline the offer,” he said. “…And then I’ll send the full education stipend to you, Dr. Housewife.”

You smirked. “I accept. Now excuse me while I go design her monogrammed learning folders and print her first homework assignment: Give Mommy 20 Kisses Before Nap.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You were curled up in the middle of your bed, wrapped in layers of lace-trimmed blankets, your pastel phone tossed aside as you held your daughter close, her tiny arms clinging to your frilly nightgown, her head resting beneath your chin.

Xavier stood quietly at the door, holding a flyer someone had rudely slipped into the mailbox this morning.

“Love,” he murmured, voice gentle, “someone from the Deep Space Child Advancement Board sent a message.”

“I read it,” you said flatly, not looking up. “I considered printing it out just so I could burn it.”

His blue eyes blinked slowly. “…You want to set government mail on fire?”

“They want to take her from me.” You kissed your daughter’s soft cheek, glaring past her head like someone had personally declared war on your soul. “They want me to drop off my two-year-old baby with strangers. In a sterile cube with bright lights and overly cheerful educational songs. Xavier, they want to socialise her.”

“…That’s the crime?”

“Yes,” you snapped, finally looking up at him with glassy eyes. “She is the sweetest, softest little thing in the world. She only ever says please, thank you, and ‘mommy you’re so pretty.’ Do you think I want her spending eight hours a day with feral children who throw blocks and eat crayons?”

Xavier blinked again, thoughtful. “…You do paint a compelling image.”

“She needs me,” you said firmly, holding her tiny hand to your cheek like a precious artifact. “She sleeps beside me. She panics if I’m not in the same room. She follows me around while I do my makeup and hands me my lashes one by one like I’m royalty. She’s a mamas girl and she was built that way. You think a daycare can handle that kind of emotional nuance?”

Xavier crossed the room, quiet and slow, and knelt beside the bed.

“She’ll cry if we make her go,” you whispered. “And then I’ll cry. And then you’ll have to hold both of us while we sob and cling and beg to be reunited. So let’s skip all of that and just admit the truth.”

He raised an eyebrow slightly. “Which is?”

“We are rich and unreasonably clingy. I will homeschool her. I will curate her lessons. I will hire a harpist to play in the background during her fairy tale modules. I refuse to let her leave this house unless it’s to attend a princess etiquette tea I personally planned.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned in and nuzzled your cheek, speaking in that dreamy, low voice he reserved only for you and your daughter.

“…We’ll turn the upper sunroom into her private classroom. Morning lessons, nap in your arms, and late night stargazing for science credit.”

You blinked. “Wait. You’re agreeing with me?”

“Of course.” He gently kissed your temple, then pressed one to your daughter’s chubby cheek. “You’re right. She’s too soft for the world. And so are you.”

“She’s not going to school ever,” you murmured as he curled into the bed beside you, tucking the both of you under his arms. “You’ll have to pry her out of my cold, glittery, pastel-painted hands.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly, already half-asleep. “I’ll call the Board and tell them the baby’s spiritual development is best maintained in her natural ecosystem: attached to your hip.”

You sighed in relief, burying your face into your daughter’s soft curls. “Thank you, baby. We’ll name our homeschool… Moonlight Academy. Or ‘University of Mommy.’ I’ll design the crest.”

“Put stars on it,” he mumbled against your skin. “And lace.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were sitting in the middle of your walk-in closet, lace robe bunched around your thighs, face buried in your daughter’s soft, chubby neck, as you cried. Not the quiet, elegant sniffles Sylus had seen you do when watching romantic movies. No, this was full-on, ugly crying. The kind that soaked your collar and left you hiccuping into your baby’s curls while she patted your cheeks with her tiny hands, confused but clingy.

Sylus stepped into the room silently, dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up, red eyes sharp, until they landed on you.

His jaw clenched.

“What happened?” His voice was already low, warning.

You looked up with glassy eyes, mascara smudged prettily under your lashes. “They said—” You hiccuped, cradling your daughter tighter, “—they said she should start preschool, Sylus.”

He blinked, and you could feel the way the air shifted. Dangerous. But controlled.

“Who,” he asked slowly, “is ‘they’?”

“Some advisor from one of your stupid elite boards. They sent me a file. An entire pitch. And do you know what it said, Sylus?” You were trembling now, voice shrill with betrayal. “It said she needs independence. That it’s healthy for her to leave her mother’s side!”

You wailed softly into your daughter’s shoulder. “She doesn’t even like being held by anyone else! She hides in my skirts and cries when I go to the bathroom without her! She’s my babygirl, my kitty, and they want me to just… abandon her for eight hours a day??”

Your daughter was trying her best to hold you back now, her tiny voice whispering, “Don’t cry, Mommy, I’ll stay wif you. I wanna stay wif you forever.”

Sylus’s heart cracked, and it showed, only in the way he exhaled slowly and sank down onto the floor across from you. All his power, all his icy composure, and here he was, kneeling in his wife’s closet, looking at his sobbing princess and their wide-eyed daughter who was clearly her mother’s clone in soul, his in face.

“I’ll make the calls,” he said calmly. “Anyone who mentioned separating the two of you will be immediately removed from any decision-making process. Permanently.”

You sniffled, glaring at nothing. “Don’t you have literal global influence? Why would we need daycare when I can curate a private curriculum? She can learn politics from you and princess etiquette from me. I’ll homeschool her and let her nap in my lap and teach her real skills, like how to glare when someone tries to touch her hair.”

Sylus watched you spiral, then reached forward and gently cradled your face in one hand, tilting your teary eyes up to his.

“You are not sending her away,” he said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re mine. She’s yours. That makes her untouchable. You want her home? She stays home. End of discussion.”

Your lip trembled again. “You promise?”

He kissed the center of your forehead. “I’ll build her a classroom next to your dressing room if that’s what you want. Fully staffed, pastel-coded. Tutors will enter only when summoned. If they look at her wrong, I’ll send them to Antarctica.”

Your daughter nodded seriously like she was also in agreement with the execution orders.

You let out a wobbly sigh of relief and collapsed against his chest, holding both your daughter and your husband tight as the last of your sobs faded.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I just… I want to keep her little. I want her with me. I don’t care what they say.”

Sylus kissed your head again, eyes sharp over your shoulder.

“I built this empire so you could rule your world. So go ahead, kitten. Create your tiny kingdom. She’ll be your princess.”

A pause.

“And anyone who tries to take her away from you will vanish without a trace.”

You sniffled, finally smiling through your tears. “You’re so romantic when you threaten people.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You didn’t even try to be subtle.

The moment the word preschool left his mouth, your face fell, lips wobbling, hands gently stroking your baby girl’s back as she sat in your lap chewing on a biscuit with zero idea her whole world was about to be challenged.

Caleb was still talking. “It’s just a preliminary inquiry, pipsqueak. They reached out since she’s showing early cognitive dev—”

“No.”

One word. Small. Soft. But final.

He blinked. “Pips, I wasn’t saying yes. I was just—”

You sniffled. He froze.

Your voice cracked just a little. “She still sleeps on my chest. She cries if I leave the room. She brings me my lip gloss and says, ‘here Mommy, so pretty.’ You want me to let her go to a building with strangers?”

Caleb’s mouth opened. Then closed. His hands twitched like he was either about to cradle you or burn down the school.

“I know you’re used to commanding fleets and delegating missions and sending people away on rotations,” you whispered, eyes welling. “But I don’t do that with my baby. I don’t leave her. She needs me.”

Your daughter looked up at you, mouth covered in crumbs. “Me stay wif Mommy. No go anywhere.”

And that? That was it.

Caleb reached over the table and scooped you both into his arms without another word. Strong arms wrapping around your waist and your baby, holding you tight, like you were the only two living things in the world that mattered. Because to him, you were.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your shoulder, voice already raw. “I’m sorry, pipsqueak. I wasn’t thinking. Don’t cry.”

You buried your face in his neck, holding your daughter close between you. “She’s just a baby. My baby.”

“She’s ours.” He kissed your hair, then your daughter’s head. “And she’s not going anywhere.”

You sniffled, still not fully trusting him. “You’re not just saying that?”

“I’d rip my own heart out before letting you cry like this,” he said fiercely. “You were my baby before she ever existed, and now she’s your baby. So I protect you both. End of story.”

“She can stay with me forever?” you asked in a small, pouty voice.

“She can sleep in your lap until she’s forty if that’s what you want.” He kissed your tear-streaked cheek, then her chubby one. “I’ll fund your curriculum. I’ll design the uniforms. You want matching Mommy and baby notebooks? I’ll have them custom embroidered in Skyhaven silk.”

Your daughter clapped at the word “matching” even though she didn’t know why.

You nuzzled your nose against his, finally smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he murmured. “Now tell me where to build her little classroom, and I’ll start on the renovations tonight. No one touches my girls.”

He tucked you both against his chest like you were the most precious things in the universe, because to him, you always would be.

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dunmomee · 3 months ago

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Coffee and Classicals

Summary: Levi never meant to notice you, but it was hard not to when you showed up every Sunday night, ordering the same coffee and burying yourself in the most atrocious romance and fantasy novels he’d ever seen. He swore you were smarter than that filth. But when you stayed past closing hours, he finally confronted you. And somehow, between sarcastic banter, unsolicited book recommendations, and lingering stares, Levi realized he might just want to keep you around. a/n: This is my first time writing a Levi Ackerman fanfic and my third fic overall. I hope I’m doing well! It feels great to finally write after being an avid fanfic reader for so long. This is also up on AO3, and you can check out my other works there too. I hope you’ll enjoy this enough to be excited for Part 2! I'm Aizen_Bankai on Ao3.

☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

Part one: Isn’t that filth?

He shot drilling looks that could kill at the bespectacled lady engrossed in the most grotesque book. It was well past closing time, yet she showed no signs of leaving.

You sat tucked in the back, bathed in the dim glow of yellow lamps and fairy lights, their soft shimmer casting a warm hue against your skin. Your eyes stayed fixed on the unfamiliar words sprawled across the pages, lips resting idly on the rim of a ceramic cup.

The cover was an aberration to him. An abomination, even. A shirtless man with a smoldering expression clutching a red-haired woman in a dramatic embrace. Levi suppressed a scoff.

He began stacking chairs together, the noise deliberate—pointed, even—as if to shake you from your trance.

Levi had been working weekends for two months, and every Sunday evening, you appeared—without fail. And, just as predictably, you always picked up a book that made him want to throw himself into a pit. Hideous covers. Terrible titles. But you had always left before closing hours... so why was this night different?

Levi wiped your table rather aggressively, the force of it shaking the coffee in your cup as it clattered slightly against the saucer. Still, you didn’t stir. Your eyes remained glued to the page, lost in the words, utterly unaware of his growing irritation.

“It’s bad enough you’re reading that atrocious book—but now you don’t even want to leave?”

The deep voice cut through your trance like a blade. Your head snapped up.

Levi jerked back. He hadn’t expected that. The glint in your eyes caught him off guard—wide, innocent, yet sharp. It was the first time he had ever really looked at you. Cat-shaped glasses sat idly on your nose, lips slightly parted, hair cascading over your shoulders in quiet disarray.

Your gaze flickered to your watch.

10:15 PM.

You gasped. You had completely lost track of time—lost in the book, lost in another world. Hurriedly, you gulped down the last of your coffee, slung your bag over your shoulder, and, without a word, bowed slightly to a bewildered Levi before rushing out the door.

The atrocious book remained on the table, staring back at him like an offense.

With a scowl, Levi picked it up and flipped to the first chapter.

He read the opening line.

Then promptly slammed it shut.

Grotesque. Atrocious. Horrendous. Horrific. Appalling.

-----

The next Sunday evening, you were back.

Levi noticed you the moment you slipped in, just as he was working the espresso machine for another customer. You drifted toward the fantasy section, no doubt searching for yet another smutty, abominable book.

This time, your glasses were bright yellow, matching the short, sleeveless dress that flared around your legs. A beige tote bag hung from your shoulder. A small crease formed between your brows as you scanned the shelves.

He knew you wouldn’t find that book there. But still, you kept looking.

Finishing with the customer, Levi made his way to you, slipping effortlessly into your space.

“I believe you’re looking for this.”

He held up the very book you had been searching for.

You snatched it from him without hesitation. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened next.”

Levi leaned against the bookshelf, just a little too close, caging you in with the wall at your back. The air grew thick. He wasn’t much taller than you, but at five feet, it didn’t take much to make you feel cornered.

“Oh, let me guess,” he drawled. “The mafia boss slaughters the rival gang to get Miss Little Red Riding Hood back.”

You gasped. “Is that a spoiler?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s how these corny books go. You’re wasting your intellectual capacity on filth. Those writers should be beheaded and fed to sharks.”

His comment earned him a slight moue, lips pursed in quiet irritation.

You retreated to the back seat, snuggling in as you flipped through the pages, searching for where you had left off.

From behind the counter, Levi watched. Lost in that book again.

With a sigh, he took the initiative to make your usual coffee—the only one you ever ordered.

He had first noticed you in his third week, though not intentionally. You made it impossible not to. After all, he was the one who always had to return your distasteful books to the shelves.

Like clockwork, you came in, ordered the same coffee, a tote bag slung over your shoulder, and disappeared into the back, burying yourself in some cringeworthy romance or fantasy novel.

If he had it his way, he’d destroy that entire section of the book café. But he knew better—those ridiculous books brought in customers, and his mother needed every bit of income they could get.

Still, something about you gnawed at him. You seemed... smarter than this. And for some reason, he wanted more from you.

You looked up to find a steaming cup of coffee placed in front of you—and the rude barista standing there, his steel-gray eyes searching, probing.

Marking your page, you set the book down and reached into your bag for cash. You found your purse, but before you could pull out any notes, he spoke.

“It’s on the house. Thought I should apologize for the way I spoke about your book of choice.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, meeting his gaze.

“I think you can make it up to me by recommending books that would—what was it again?” You smirked. “Oh, right… build my intellectual capacity.”

He stared at you. Long. Unblinking. He couldn’t believe you were mocking him.

“If you’re not in a rush, I’ll be closing up soon. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two, Miss Riding Hood.”

You snickered. “It’s barely 7:00.”

“Slow night,” he said with a shrug. “And I’d rather spend the rest of it nurturing intellect into a heathen.”

Heathen. You bristled. Who does this smug man think he is?

He was infuriating.

And gorgeous.

And the way his jeans hugged his ass—fuck. He was so hot.

Back at the counter, Levi moved with practiced ease, clearing the area at a leisurely pace. The café wasn’t even supposed to be open today—Sundays were meant to be a day off. But ever since moving back home, he had started coming in anyway. They needed the money, and besides, it gave him time to read.

He glanced back at you. You hadn’t even flinched at his words. He would make sure you learned what real books were.

#attack on titan #levi ackerman #levi x y/n #levi x reader #levi x hange #levi x you #kenny ackerman #kuchel ackerman #erwin smith #hange zoe #alternate universe #college au #books and reading #first love #crush

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kirbyoctournament · 6 months ago

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Hello again all! After the riveting finale of last year's tournament, we've spent a few months collecting a selection of fun stats into our final 2024 Tournament Review!

From which participant had the most propaganda posted, to the total number of votes cast across the event, to which canon Kirby species was most represented, we hope you'll enjoy this send-off for the 2024 tourney!!

. · ͙ * ̩̩͙˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩̥͙ ✩ * ̩̩̥͙ ˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩͙ ‧ ͙ . . · ͙ * ̩̩͙˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩̥͙ ✩ * ̩̩̥͙ ˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩͙ ‧ ͙ .

★ POLLS WITH THE HIGHEST NUMBER OF VOTES a selection of the highest performing polls that attracted the most public attention

Mama D vs J: 848 votes

★ Dawn vs Starry Dee: 749 votes ★ Fylass vs Clark: 741 votes ★ Astro vs Noir Fontaine vs Techie: 592 votes ★ Sir Meteor vs Life: 554 votes

★ CHARACTERS WITH THE MOST PROPAGANDA characters who had the most propaganda posts for them, either from their own creator or from other artists

Fecto Flora 155 posts

★ Valfrey 112 posts ★ Sir Uther 108 posts ★ Noir Fontaine 98 posts ★ Dotty 95 posts

After applications closed at the end of April, the tournament ran from May 10th, 2024 to October 28th, 2024, just a few days shy of six months! During this time...

★ 143 competitors joined the tournament and made friends ★ 1,813 Propaganda posts were made by the community supporting those competitors, and reblogged to the @kirbyoctournament blog ★ 202 polls were made pitting your favorites against each other ★ across those polls, 43,165 votes were cast ★ and of all these, winners starstruck dee and Rope MF received 1179 votes and 699 votes respectively over the course of the event

★ RANDOM STATS

★ 36% (52) of entered OCs were of the "orb" species, with 33 of those taking up the mantle of "knight" specifically. far and away the most represented species ★ Waddle dees were the next most common entrant, with 17 OCs. ★ Ripple Fairies were the least showcased non common-enemy/custom species type, with only a single representative! ★ Of all OC names, "S" was the most common initial at 16 OCs, a statistic we do feel is influenced by the frequency of "sir" before names. Removing those, it was the letter "A", with 13. ★ The least successful initial was the letter "J", with all but one of their 4 representatives (75%) falling in the first round.

★ PROPAGANDA WITH THE MOST CHARACTERS INCLUDED most tournament characters included in a single piece (or single series) of propaganda

★ Tournament OCs Part One and Part Two by @ivynajspyder with a total of 60 competitors

★ 55 competitors Havent You Noticed I'm A Star? by @giantchasm ★ 29 competitors and 2 non competitors (total 31 characters) Congrats To Fecto Flora! by @ceoofmetagala ★ And an honorable mention with 13 competitors and 15 non competitors (total 28 characters), Stargate Commemorative Piece, by @moonverc3x

During the tournament, creators and fans of all kinds arrived to showcase their best skills in support of their own ocs, their friends, and even brand new favorite characters they had found. While it's of course impossible to pick just one stand out piece -and we strongly recommend you check our full propaganda tag to see many more of these incredible works- here are some notable and unique highlights suggested by the Kirby OC Tourney community!

★ Propaganda Hijack; Music cover by @boa35 ★ Vote Dotty; by @cauliarty ★ Vote Flora; by @metagalacafe ★ Valfrey icon; by @gethoce ★ Friendly Talk; by @sacrificecage

★ Dont Stop Rope MF Now; Animated music video by @mint-termsandconditions ★ Just another Astral; by @aseuki ★ Tea Time; by @quanblovk ★ Nighty Knight Mod; by @windstriker427 ★ Tournament armours; by @rosiegardenlove

★ Havent You Noticed I'm A Star; Animated music video by @giantchasm ★ Motifs and Symbols; by @kirbybecomesastarwarrior ★ Surprise propaganda; by @poppybros-jr ★ Go Life!; by @shippyo ★ Not In The Lead; by @hnm-tech-support

★ Noir's Field Trip; Masterpost of art, comics and asks by @desultory-novice ★ Space battle; by @pinkestmenace ★ Only In Passing; by @what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me ★ Wolfbell's Illustrated Roleplays; by @zombiecicada ★ Not Over yet; by @a-stardusted-sky

. · ͙ * ̩̩͙˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩̥͙ ✩ * ̩̩̥͙ ˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩͙ ‧ ͙ . . · ͙ * ̩̩͙˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩̥͙ ✩ * ̩̩̥͙ ˚ ̩̥̩̥ * ̩̩͙ ‧ ͙ .

And with this, we officially conclude the 2024 Kirby OC Tournament event!

Over the next few days we will reblog a few final propaganda posts we received notifications for since October. We also have a new pinned post with an FAQ regarding the tournament and when things may be picked up next!

Thank you for coming along on the ride with us, for sharing your creativity and supporting OCs, and for helping us to make this into a wonderful and enriching community event!

See you around!

#kirby oc #kirby oc tournament #wrap up post

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months ago

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I would buy this funky little house just for the stove exhaust hood. It's a cute 1925 fairy tale cottage in Seattle, WA. 6bds, 2ba, 2,190 sq ft, $1.125m.

Nice living room with a fireplace, shelves and leaded glass windows give it a Craftsman vibe.

Good size dining room. It needs some decor and it would be a lovely home.

Modern IKEA style kitchen.

But, THIS! The exhaust hood is a giant NOSE! The nostrils even light up. I've never seen anything like this, it must've been custom made.

The cabinetry doesn't look that great. If it's not laminate, maybe you could sand it down, re-stain it, and put in a backsplash, but then again, they want $1.125m for this.

Not impressed w/the smallish primary bedroom. Seattle prices are out of control.

Smaller bedroom.

Standard old 3pc bath. The window's nice, though.

On the 2nd level there's a larger bedroom by that nice front window.

Small closet doesn't even have a door.

Another small room.

The closets in this room remind me of morgue bins.

Finished basement has a full kitchen.

Basement bedroom with a private entrance.

So, it was originally a 1 bath home, but they put a small shower room down here.

Laundry room looks like a sun porch, then there's a small deck and a yard that's part dirt/part gravel. Plus, it looks like they patched the roof. $1.125m.

There's a little shed up there.

Geez, you can see that roof from outer space.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/339-23rd-Ave-E-Seattle-WA-98112/48725856_zpid/

#houses #house tours #home tour #houses seattle

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valkyriexo · 1 year ago

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My Favorite Princess | Hyunjin

ᑉ³pairing; Husband! Dad! Hyunjin x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Fluff

ᑉ³warnings; none

ᑉ³Authors Note; Hope you all enjoy :)

As you prepare for your daughter, Areum's Cinderella-themed birthday party, the air is alive with anticipation. Your little princess has been dreaming of this day for weeks, and you're determined to make it a fairytale come true.

With Hyunjin by your side, you dive into the task of transforming your home and backyard into a magical kingdom straight out of a storybook. The party decor team bustles around, hanging shimmering streamers in shades of blue and silver, while fairy lights twinkle like stars in the night sky.

"Let's place the Cinderella carriage centerpiece right in the center of the table," you suggest, pointing to the elegant coach adorned with sparkling crystals. "And we can scatter glass slipper confetti around it for an extra touch of magic."

As you direct the placement of each decoration, you can't help but feel a surge of joy at the thought of your daughter's delight. This party is more than just a celebration—it's a chance to make her dreams come true.

"Mommy, Daddy, look at this!" your daughter exclaims, twirling in her blue tulle dress as she examines the decorations. She is dressed in a custom-made Cinderella gown. As for you and Hyunjin, you've opted for a more casual approach to your attire, both donning outfits in shades of blue to match the party's color scheme.

"It's like I'm really in Cinderella's castle!" she continues.

You smile at her enthusiasm, feeling a warmth spread through your heart. "It's all for you, sweetheart."

Hyunjin crouches down to his daughter's level, his eyes sparkling with affection as he takes in her excitement. "You look absolutely beautiful, just like Cinderella herself," he says, his voice filled with warmth.

She giggles, twirling once more, the skirt billowing around her like a cloud of magic. "Thank you, Daddy!" she chirps, reaching out to take his hand. In her other hand, she clutches Jiniret, dressed like one of the mice from Cinderella. "I'm so happy!"

Your heart swells with love as you watch the tender moment between father and daughter. Despite the stress of last-minute preparations, seeing the joy on their faces makes it all worth it.

Hyunjin takes her hand gently, his touch reassuring as he leads her out towards the backyard. The sun casts a golden glow over the meticulously decorated space, where shimmering streamers in shades of blue and silver dance in the gentle breeze. A canopy draped with twinkling fairy lights adds a touch of enchantment to the scene, creating an atmosphere fit for a princess's celebration.

Meanwhile, you continue to oversee the placement of decorations, your attention focused on every intricate detail. Each corner of the backyard and house is adorned with magical touches. Banners depicting scenes from Cinderella's story flutter gently in the wind, adding to the whimsical ambiance.

As the party guests begin to arrive, your home fills with laughter and excitement. The air is filled with the aroma of freshly baked treats, from cupcakes adorned with edible glass slippers to sandwiches cut into pumpkin shapes. Tables are adorned with bowls of fruit arranged artfully to resemble a majestic castle.

Areum eagerly greets each newcomer with a radiant smile, her eyes scanning the crowd in anticipation, hoping to catch a glimpse of the "real-life Cinderella." She can hardly contain her joy as she awaits the arrival of the enchanting princess she's been dreaming of meeting.

"Daddy, Mommy, when is Cinderella coming?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Hyunjin chuckles warmly, ruffling her hair affectionately. "She'll be here soon, sweetheart," he assures her.

Your phone suddenly buzzes with an incoming call. With a furrowed brow, you step away to answer the incoming call. You were eagerly awaiting the delivery of the cake, and were hoping it wasn't a last-minute hiccup.

"Be back soon," you murmur, offering a reassuring smile before stepping away. "Hello?" you answer.

On the other end of the line, you hear a hurried voice speaking, delivering the news you had feared. "I'm sorry to inform you that the princess performer has fallen ill and won't be able to make it to the party," the voice says, its tone apologetic.

Anxiety begins to creep up within you as you hang up the phone, your mind swirling with worry. How will you possibly break this devastating news to your daughter? And more pressing still, how will you salvage her dream birthday party now?

In the background, curiosity sparkles in your daughter's eyes as she turns to Hyunjin. "Daddy, what do you think Cinderella's like?" she asks, her voice filled with wonder.

Hyunjin grins down at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, I think she's probably very kind and brave, just like you," he replies, his voice soft and reassuring.

Your daughter beams at the comparison, her heart swelling with pride. "Do you think she has a prince, like in the story?" she asks, her excitement growing with each word.

Hyunjin's smile widens as he considers her question. "I think so," he says with a playful wink. "But let me ask you something, my little princess. What do you like the most about Cinderella?"

Your daughter's brow furrows in thought as she considers his question.

As she nods enthusiastically, she reaches out to squeeze Hyunjin's hand. "I love that Cinderella's prince always finds a way to be there for her when she needs him the most."

Hyunjin chuckles at her observation, his eyes shining with affection. "Ah, so you're a fan of the prince, then?" he teases, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

"He's like a hero," she declares, her eyes shining with admiration.

As your daughter's excitement fills the air, your thoughts race, scrambling for a solution to the sudden dilemma. It's already an hour into the party, and with the festivities in full swing, so finding a replacement princess performer seems virtually impossible.

Hyunjin's laughter breaks through your frantic thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present moment. His gaze flickers briefly to you, sensing something amiss. A subtle shift in your demeanor doesn't escape his notice, and a furrow creases his brow as he registers your troubled expression.

"Mommy, are you okay?" your daughter asks, her concern mirroring Hyunjin's.

You force a smile, attempting to reassure her. "I'm fine, sweetie," you say, your voice catching slightly. "Just... thinking about somethin-"

But before you can even finish the sentence, he's already spinning a new tale. "Oh my goodness, look who's here! Your best friend Ha-ri just arrived!" he exclaims, his voice filled with excitement.

"Really?" your daughter gasps, her eyes widening with anticipation.

Without another word, she darts off towards the entrance, her Cinderella gown billowing behind her as she races to see her friend.

As your daughter bounds off to greet the guests, Hyunjin's playful demeanor fades, replaced by genuine concern. He stands beside you, his hand gently squeezing yours as he senses your distress.

"Is everything alright?" he asks softly, his eyes searching yours for any hint of what has occured.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "The princess performer... she's unable to make it," you explain, your voice tinged with disappointment. "I don't know how to tell our daughter."

Panic continues to bubble within you, your mind racing with thoughts of your daughter's shattered expectations. She had been so excited for Cinderella to be there, and now you're at a loss for how to break the news to her.

"She's going to be devastated," you murmur, your voice catching with emotion. "All she wanted was Cinderella... she didn't even ask for presents."

Hyunjin's expression softens as he listens to your words, his heart aching for both you and Areum. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close in a comforting embrace.

"I don't know what to do, Hyunjin," you admit, your voice trembling with worry. "How do we make this up to her?"

Hyunjin's arms tighten around you, his touch a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. "Shh, love, we'll figure it out," he murmurs, his voice gentle and soothing. "We'll make her birthday unforgettable, even without Cinderella."

Your words hang heavy in the air, the weight of disappointment pressing down on both of you. "But we'll never live it down if it doesn't happen," you whisper, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

Hyunjin's touch is tender as he brushes away a stray tear. "Don't worry about that," he says softly, his voice filled with determination. "You worry about greeting the guests and looking pretty. I'll take care of it, okay?"

His words wrap around you like a warm blanket, offering a glimmer of hope in the darkness of your despair. With a shaky nod, you lean into his embrace, finding solace in the strength of his arms.

"Okay," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "Okay."

As Hyunjin presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. With a shaky exhale, you reluctantly release yourself from his embrace, returning your focus to the tasks at hand.

As you make your way to the backyard to check on the guests, Hyunjin disappears into the depths of the house, determined to salvage the birthday celebration. Amidst the hustle and bustle of serving guests and attending to last-minute details, you lose track of time.

An hour passes in a blur, and as you glance around , you realize that Hyunjin is still nowhere to be found. A sense of worry hits you.

Where could he be?

Before you can dwell on your concerns any further, your daughter's voice interrupts your thoughts. She stands before you, eyes wide with anticipation, hope evident in her voice.

"Mommy, is the princess coming soon?" she asks eagerly.

You search for the right words to soothe her, but the truth catches in your throat.

"I... I'm not sure, sweetheart," you reply, your voice faltering. "But let's focus on enjoying the party, okay?"

As your daughter's questions become more persistent and her restlessness grows, you feel the weight of your uncertainty bearing down on you. Each inquiry chips away at you, until you're on the brink of revealing the truth to her.

But just as you open your mouth to speak, the sound of hoofbeats and the creak of carriage wheels cut through the air, stopping you in your tracks.

Your daughter's eyes widen in wonder as she turns to you, a spark of hope dancing in her gaze. "Mommy, do you hear that?" she asks, her voice tinged with excitement.

Before you can respond, the source of the sound emerges from around the bend, and there, coming into view, is a magnificent horse-drawn carriage led by a majestic steed.

Your heart skips a beat as you recognize the unmistakable look of a horse-drawn carriage. At the reins is Minho, dressed in regal attire from head to toe. And in the carriage, dressed in shimmering all-white attire, is Hyunjin, a dazzling smile gracing his features.

As the carriage comes to a stop before you, your daughter's face lights up with sheer delight. "I get to have my own carriage!" she exclaims, her voice filled with joy.

Hyunjin chuckles warmly, stepping down from the carriage and sweeping your daughter into his arms. "Of course, my dear," he says, his tone tender. "Why bring Cinderella when you are already a princess? My favorite princess, at that."

Your daughter beams at the compliment, her cheeks flushing with happiness. "And every princess needs her prince, right?" she says, her eyes shining with adoration.

But the surprises don't end there. Coming out of the the carriage is Chan, dressed in an elaborate costume that can only be described as the Fairy Godmother.

Chan, with an exasperated sigh, straightens his posture and adopts a stern expression. He clears his throat.

"Hello, I am Chanita, your Fairy Godmother," he announces in a deadpan tone, clearly not thrilled about his role. You watch as Minho snickers in amusement.

But before he can continue, Hyunjin elbows him so hard that Chan's tone changes abruptly, now filled with excitement. "And I'm here to grant all your birthday wishes!" he exclaims, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

As Chan waves his wand theatrically, a burst of glitter fills the air, and your daughter's laughter fills the space around you. "Fairy Godmother!" she cries with glee, running towards Chan.

Your daughter giggles with delight as Chan scoops her up in his arms, placing her gently inside the carriage. She squeals with excitement as he lifts her, her laughter echoing through the air as she settles into the plush seat.

Meanwhile, Hyunjin descends from the carriage and comes to your side, a grin playing on his lips.

"How did this happen?" you ask incredulously, shaking your head in disbelief.

Hyunjin chuckles, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I may have called in a few favors," he admits, his tone teasing. "You know, just to make our little princess's birthday extra special."

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist pressing for more details. "And how on earth did you convince Chan to be the Fairy Godmother?" you inquire, still trying to wrap your head around the unexpected turn of events.

A grin spreads across Hyunjin's face as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "Well, let's just say Changbin wasn't available, and Chan and Minho both lost a bet and owed me a favor," he confesses, his voice laced with amusement.

As your daughter's joyful laughter fills the air, she calls out to Hyunjin, her voice echoing with excitement. "Daddy, come ride with me!" she exclaims, her eyes alight with anticipation.

Hyunjin's eyes sparkle with amusement as he glances at you, a silent question in his gaze. With a nod and a smile, you encourage him to indulge your daughter's request.

As Hyunjin climbs into the carriage, he keeps his gaze fixed on you, his eyes filled with so much love it's palpable. A smile blooms on your lips, and the warmth in your eyes doesn't go unnoticed by your daughter.

"You really love mommy, don't you?" she observes, her voice filled with curiosity.

Hyunjin's smile widens as he turns his attention to his daughter, his heart overflowing with affection. "Yes, sweetheart," he confirms, his voice tender. "Your mommy is my favorite princess."

Your daughter's eyes light up with understanding, and she snuggles closer to him, her small hand finding his. "That's why you're always going to be my favorite prince."

"Why?" Hyunjin asks, his gaze softening with affection as he looks at his daughter, waiting for her answer.

"Because you love mommy more than anyone else," she continues, her gaze unwavering. "And I want to be just like you, loving someone so much it makes magic happen."

Hyunjin's heart swells with pride as he listens to his daughter's heartfelt words. "That's right," he murmurs, his voice filled with tenderness. "Your mommy is the most special person in the world to me."

He intertwines his fingers with hers, holding her hand gently as he speaks. "And you, my dear, are the most precious princess," he continues, his eyes shimmering with love.

With a shared smile, they set off on their enchanting carriage ride, the gentle clip-clop of the horse's hooves accompanying their journey.

As the wind tousles their hair and the golden sunlight bathes them in its warm glow, Hyunjin leans in to whisper in her ear. "Happy birthday my sweet girl," he says softly, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand promises. "I love you."

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