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fayes-fics · 9 months ago

Text

Rebel

Paring: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: You only wanted a quiet refuge away from the ball, you got a lot more than that…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, rake!Anthony, innocent!reader, frottage incl. clit stimulation through clothing, female and male orgasms.

Word Count: 3.8k

Authors Note: For all the Anthony fans, sorry it's been so long since I posted a fic for him alone. I don't recall where this idea originated from other than my wanting to do a trapped-together trope for him. It turned out sweeter than I expected tbh. Thanks to @colettebronte for an awesome betaing, as always. Enjoy! <3

You are grateful to find a little oasis of calm. A small storage room that is cool, dark and quiet—a world away from the loud, stuffy ballroom. The perfect hideout from the undesirable whirlwind of your first-ever society event, escaping your aunt’s clutches at an opportune moment as she was detained by a verbose member of the Ton. Slumped against the wall, shoes removed, and eyes closed, you finally find a calm reverie, your flushed skin cooling….

Until that is, your refuge is rudely invaded.

There is a shaft of almost blinding light and then a whirlwind of movement. The door makes an odd clicking noise as it is practically slammed shut again.

And then a deep, wracked sigh that is decidedly male.

All of your serenity evaporates, a prickle over your skin at the realisation you are not alone. In fact, you are unchaperoned in a darkened room with an unknown man.

Fretting for a few moments, you know it's impossible to slip past him unnoticed. So you hope you can stay quiet enough and pray he will leave again shortly. Perhaps it's the darkness that heightens his hearing; maybe it's that you are unable to silence your breathing sufficiently in such a small room, but your hope is instantly dashed.

“Who is there?” his voice rings out loudly, and you wince, knowing it's probably pointless to stay silent but seemingly unwilling to speak.

There is the rasp of a match being struck, and then a tiny flame appears to illuminate the lines of a face. It looks youthful, handsome, well-bred… and very annoyed.

“What in God’s name are you doing in here? And who are you?” He questions as he swings the flame around, looking for a sconce to light, making a quiet sound of victory as he locates one near the door.

“I…I came to escape.” Your confession is easier with his back turned as he lights the fixture. “I'm Miss y/l/n. And you are?”

He guffaws as he faces you again. “Hah …”

“Did I say something amusing?” you squint slightly as you adjust to the light after considerable minutes alone in the dark.

“I believe you did...” he chuckles, bemused that you do not instantly recognise him. “Well, ‘tis of little consequence,” he sniffs, “as this is occupied, I shall bid you adieu and find a different private space….”

It appears he was looking for escape as much as you. But, what he probably hoped would be his parting words, accompanied as they are by a brusque nod, turn out to be anything but.

The polished brass door knob spins in his grip, but the door does not relent, staying firmly within its frame. He tries a few more times before huffing and starting to rattle it more insistently. Then, beginning to lean into the door with his weight as if hoping that would shift it.

The door opens inward, idiot… you roll your eyes unseen, assuming the man is playing a prank at first. But the more he repeats the same move, each a shade more frantic than the last, the more you realise it is perhaps not a comedic bit.

“We are stuck?!” You check, indignance flaring. The door was just fine before he got here.

“It would appear so, Miss,” not pausing in his actions as he answers, a curl of hair flopping rather fetchingly over his forehead.

You start to pace back and forth, only a few steps possible in the small room, but an overwhelming need to move to dissipate the nerves creeping up your spine.

“Well, bang on the door then!” you gesticulate, forgetting any manners in your growing disquiet.

“Outspoken...” he pauses to mutter under his breath, but it’s begrudging respect more than chastisement. He starts to do exactly as you suggest: pound his fist on the door and call out for anyone. He presses his ear to the door, hoping to hear an approach. When there appears to be none, he repeats. “You could help, you know…” he throws out pointedly, side-eyeing you.

“Tis not becoming of a lady…” you counter sarcastically.

“Neither is ordering me around, but you seemed to have no issue in that regard,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow that calls your bluff and has you springing to his aid.

With both of you thumping on the door, you hope discovery is imminent, but after a few attempts, no one comes to assist.

“Urghh! The ball is likely too loud, and this corridor too seldom visited,” you surmise.

“Most likely,” he concedes, a flash of what looks like admiration flitting across his features. “Perhaps we will need to remain in here until the ball is quieter.”

“That could be hours; my aunt will wonder where I am,” you slump your head into your hands before moving to pace again.

“Then maybe she will dispatch a search party. You are not the first debutante to hide in a storage closet, believe me. This may well be the first place they come looking.”

“Not exactly ideal, or did you forget it would be a scandal if we are found here together?!” you point out tartly.

Again, there is a flash of something over his face, as if he enjoys it when you behave the very opposite of polite.

“Of course, I did not,” he gruffs, then softens his countenance. “I shall conceal myself in that alcove behind the door,” he gestures to the corner where, indeed, there is an almost hidden indent in the wall. “Your search party shall be none the wiser. I can make my escape once the coast is clear.”

His suggestion immediately assuages you, believing the sincerity in his tone. There is a beat as you both nod to each other as if sealing this pact.

“You still have not told me your name…” a need to know it after this gentlemanly gesture.

“You honestly do not know?” prompting an attractive furrow between his eyebrows.

“No. This is my first ball. I am here at the behest of my maternal aunt. I have no earthly idea who most of these people are,” you huff, gesturing towards the jammed door.

“Some may argue lucky for you….” his response laced with amusement before he squares his shoulders to continue. “Bridgerton. Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.”

“Oh…”

If there is one name your cousin has warned you about before tonight, it's the Bridgerton brothers. All handsome, rich, intelligent… and very unlikely to take a wife. It would be wiser to howl at the moon than expect the pursuit of a Bridgerton—her stark words of warning echoing in your mind as you sense him observing you curiously. Your response is obviously not what he expected, that forehead crease reappearing.

“Oh?” he mimics. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“I am… aware of your family…” You confess, unsure what else to say.

“It does not sound a pleasant recollection,” he astutely surmises. “Am I to assume my family has done yours some harm?”

“No!” you reply quickly. “Nothing of that nature…”.

“Then what?... Out with it!” a mild irritation rising as you hesitate.

“My cousin warned me about the Bridgerton brothers,” you blurt out.

He barks a brief laugh but takes a step closer, his stance relaxing and gaining a swagger.

“Oh, did she now?” his voice changed; deeper, smokier, firing something in your belly.

“Yes…” it's your turn to square your shoulders, crossing your arms defensively for good measure. The trouble is, it just draws attention to your breasts. You don't miss the way his eyes flick down briefly.

“What did she tell you?” he seems to move inexorably closer, dark eyes sparkling in the low candlelight.

“That I should not seek a dance with you,” you admit, seemingly unable to avoid answering this man truthfully.

“And why might that be?” his cadence almost a rumble now.

“You are not marriage material.”

“And is that what you want? Marriage?” Skillfully deflecting an admission it’s true.

“It’s what’s expected of me. What I may or may not want is irrelevant,” you sniff.

“What a pity. I think what you truly want may be something far more… interesting,” Anthony’s tone is like velvet as he draws closer, towering over you. Your body responds almost against your will, a flush running down your torso, a tingle in your arms.

“Irrelevant,” you repeat, as you defiantly glare up at him, heartbeat racing.

“Is it…?”

He seems to know you want this precisely because it's what you should not be doing. The tempting taste of rebellion wrapped up in a handsome face.

A warm hand rounds your elbow, and his lips suddenly brush your ear. “Also, it seems unfair to condemn me a rake based on the words of another, does it not? Should a man not get the chance to defend himself? Surely you are of sound enough mind to draw your own conclusions?”

The irony of attempting to defend himself against the accusation while acting the archetypal rake is not lost on you, even as you fight every twitch in your body, a want to grab and be grabbed, almost an itch on your skin.

“Your current actions, my lord, do not exactly dispute her assessment,” you counter boldly, pleased you can tamp the waver in your voice.

His laugh is a warm gust down your neck that makes you shiver.

“Perhaps not,” he concedes, “and yet… here you still are…”

You can’t argue with that. You could indeed easily move away, his hold on your elbow symbolic…. No, it’s that you most definitely don’t want to.

“You are a rake,” you murmur, even as your lips brush his cheekbone.

“And you like it…” he breathes raggedly, skittering across your skin as your heart pounds in your ears.

God, if that isn’t the truth.

“Do I?” you sass and pull back a few inches.

Anthony’s nostrils flare, and his eyes flash. The pluckier you get, the more it riles him up and reels him in.

“There is something you could teach all the other debutantes out there,” he tilts his head to one side and reaches for the dance card tied to your wrist, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Enlighten me…”

“That a feisty young woman is far more attractive than a demure, meek girl,” he breathes, a finger now tracing the ribbon on the card, lingering on the delicate skin of your wrist.

“So you can domesticate a free spirit?” you sneer disapprovingly.

“Oh no, no. The very opposite. To let her run wild…” his fingers trail up your forearm, causing goosebumps in their wake, your breath quickening. Then he leans in, his lips by your ear again, breath hot “....and hang on tight because that will be the ride of your damn life.”

“Rake,” you murmur.

“Rebel,” he rumbles in return, goading.

Exhilaration makes you turn a fraction into his cheek, and it’s the permission he needs, moving to capture your lips with his.

Fireworks explode in your body as, for the first time, a man kisses you. And not just a peck. No, it's a soft, sensual dance at first, his lips warm and wet, opening yours and inviting you to take it further. And you do. Grab his jacket sleeves, feeling the muscular outline of his biceps underneath as his hands move to grasp your waist and haul you against his body. The kiss turns hot and electric, his tongue entwining with yours, you following his motions, a flash of heat spiking through you as if struck by some powerful force. He pulls back, breaking the kiss, both of you breathing hard and staring at each other.

“Tell me to stop…” he challenges, but everything in his demeanour tells you it's the opposite of what he wants. And it's definitely not what you want.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

There is a noise, male, hungry, utterly arousing, and then he is back on you. Kissing like wildfire and walking you backwards against the wall, velour wallpaper tickling the skin of your shoulders where your dress scoops lower. His hands are hot through the thin silk of your gown, grasping your waist and pulling you into him. His mouth tastes of whiskey, a hint of smoke and something earthy that is sinful.

“What do you want to know?” he asks teasingly, his mouth ghosting over yours. “Do you wish to know a man’s body, to know pleasure, or possibly both?”

Each option sounds wonderful, tempting, perfect even. But there is one that trips from your tongue.

“Pleasure,” you answer greedily, feeling selfish to continue chasing this fizzing effervescence you have inside, both sweeter and tarter than any champagne.

“Mmm, I thought you might say that,” he chuckles, nuzzling your cheek.

“Next question. And I shall offer no clues as to what this might mean if you do not know already…. But do you want…” he pauses to swipe his tongue sinfully into your mouth, “tongue…” he breathes, pulling away a fraction, “or…” his hand cups your chin, then two fingers push between your lips, an earthy, smoky taste from holding cigars now lingering on your tongue, “...fingers.”

Instinctively, you close your mouth around the invading digits and suckle lightly, his eyes flaring, and a groan catches in his throat.

1“Good god, I wish you had said you want to know a man….”

You have no idea what he might be referring to, but you can't resist suckling harder on his fingertips, feeling wanton but enjoying the power you seem to hold over him in this moment, his entire dazzling focus on you.

“You did not answer my question, y/n,” he scolds gently, slowly removing his fingers from your mouth and trailing your saliva over your own throat.

“Whatever you will,” you breathe, already missing him in your mouth as his fingers trail lower, leaving a dampness over the swell of your breast that makes your breath quicken.

His lips are back on yours, demanding, plundering kisses that have you wanting more. So much more. As he pulls away, his lips are red and damp, and his dark eyes intense, sparkling in the candlelight.

“Perhaps my fingers are best, for this circumstance at least,” he opines, sounding a touch reluctant, “less incriminating should we be swiftly interrupted…”

Part of you wishes there was some furniture you could push against the door so no one could disturb you, let him do whatever - everything - he wants. Because if it makes you feel anything like what you do now, you’d know you would allow it, consequences and propriety be damned.

“Pull up your dress,” he orders lowly, his lips on your cheek.

He makes a tiny noise of approval as you put your hands at your hips and grab handfuls of your dress and chemise until the hem is high above your knees, looping the fabric over your forearms, the air cool on your thighs. He drops a little soft kiss upon the shell of your ear as if to reward your obedience.

But then you gasp as suddenly his hand slides down your front and cups between your legs, so much heat through the thin layer of your silk undergarment. He makes an approving noise, apparently liking what he finds, pulling your earlobe into his mouth and grazing it softly with his teeth. Two of his fingers drag achingly slowly against the soft material. Your skin seems as if it could vibrate straight off your body and you cling to him, eyes going wide at the intensity from just a light touch.

“So perfectly responsive”, he gusts. “I almost forgot how very beguiling an innocent can be… and such a keen one at that.”

You can tell from his inflexion it's intended as a compliment; he seems so very charmed by your willingness. And you are so very eager for him, for the sensations he is wringing from your body never to cease. As those fingers keep stroking, your mouth is slack, and you press your breasts into him, wanting no inch of your body away from his. His lips are hot on your cheekbone, the other arm caged around you.

He doesn't make any move to discard your underwear. Instead, he just keeps stroking over a spot between your legs that is rapidly swelling under his touch, viscous warm liquid leaking into the silky material and seeping through onto his fingers.

“Perfect,” he growls and moves faster.

“It feels so different…” you gulp, then clarify, “...to when I touch myself.”

He inhales sharply, his eyes flashing dark, and his fingers curl more insistent against your nub.

“You do this to yourself? An innocent?” He looks unbridled now with both admiration and lust.

You just nod, biting your lip.

“My perfect little rebel….” he lauds.

He is huffing into your hairline now, scenting you as you writhe instinctually on his questing fingers. Someone else’s touch is a magnified experience of what you have done alone before. This is wholly other: another human with you in this moment, him panting with desire, his body heat seeping through clothing, his fingers calloused in a way that catches perfectly on your swollen flesh as his resonant voice and smoky mint breath pleads with you not to stop.

Grabbing onto his lapel, needing an anchor, you stare up into his deep brown eyes, the look on his face utterly triumphal, his lips lowering to cover yours, breathing each other’s air. Something hard pressing into your hip bone as you ride boldly upon his fingers now. A shiver runs up your spine at how good this is, little sparks firing from the pinpoint of pleasure between your legs. The coiled spring of desire is so much more profound with him, a delicious tension in your whole being. He keeps muttering low words of praise of how well you are doing, and how beautiful you look. Your skin flushes with arousal and exertion, and a bead of wetness runs down your inner thigh just as you are climbing to that point of no return.

Suddenly, he withdraws his touch, your responding whine trailing off as his fingers swipe through that trickle of moisture. Then you stare transfixed as he brings it up to his mouth and sucks the dewiness from his fingertips, a hungry noise hitching in his throat as he does. It makes you desperate for him, for this. To reach that pinnacle with him. A burning want to do it time and time again. To find your pleasure with him, for him. To experience everything that can happen between a man and a woman.

“I want to know a man too,” you exhale unevenly, not able to censor your wayward thoughts, your abandoned clit throbbing hard in your soaked underwear.

He groans, the vibration of it quaking through him and that hand now cups your jaw. “By god, you will,” he asserts roughly, and you can smell traces of your arousal on his fingers as he leans in and kisses you deeply, the flavour of it tart on his tongue.

“Please touch me again…” your voice a broken plea.

His smile is devilish handsomeness personified, as he does just as you ask. You cry out over his lips as he expertly swipes over that spot again, rubbing even faster now. Rocketing you right back to the point where you have to cling to him, your knees buckling.

His other hand snakes around your body and grabs your breast through your dress. It makes you groan loudly, a yearning for him to strip off the layers, rip away your stays and snag your pebbled nipple between his teeth.

“What are you thinking?” he demands hotly, and you realise your face must give away something of your licentious wishes.

“I want your mouth on my breasts,” you confess the truth raggedly, riding his fingers again, whimpering and moaning with each expert flick of his fingers.

He growls, more untamed creature than man, and he pinches you through the layers, seemingly knowing exactly where your nipple is. The sensation, even though dulled through cotton and silk, makes you shudder and call out loudly. To the point he hushes you, deciding next to swallow your cries with kisses. Stealing your breath with his tongue as his fingers swirl in a rough circle between your legs, a drag that is so delicious, it hurls you right over the edge you skate and into oblivion.

Your whole body convulses, him pressing you into the wall to stay upright, your lungs tight as you scream your release into his mouth, vision swimming, a complete fuzziness as you float away. Nothing like you have experiences alone, a hundred times more visceral, carnal—utterly addictive.

As you return to the room, he is rutting himself against your hip bone, a solid mass between his legs. The feral nature of his movements awakens something in you, and you grasp his neck and pull him down to your lips.

“Do it,” you challenge through gritted teeth.

Wanting him to reach his peak as much as you just have. Not yet understanding fully what is happening, but everything between your legs clenching and aching for something you can't articulate as he follows your bidding and ruts himself against you furiously now, grunting. You kiss him with ferocity and reach around to grab his shapely rear to encourage his movements.

That’s the catalyst he needs, and, with an almost howl, he stills, pressed harshly into you, his face contorted, slack-jawed, and you feel a bloom of warmth through the wool of his trousers.

There are no words spoken for a few moments, just harsh breathing, the air heavy with the tang of sex. Then he moves to cup your face tenderly, closing his eyes and tilting his forehead on yours.

“Good god,” he sounds gravelly, sated, floored. “I….”

But he is interrupted by the sound of the door handle being jiggled violently, making you both spring apart lightning fast, clothing being rapidly rearranged. The door finally relents, and a footman’s face appears in the crack. He likely can surmise, and perhaps indeed scent, what has just transpired.

“I wondered where you had got to, Sir,” he clears his throat, “but then I was passing by and knew this had to be you,” a barely contained smirk suggesting he could well have been guarding the door for a while.

“Jenkins!” Anthony’s relief is palpable.

“The carriage, Sir, I presume?” he offers pointedly.

“Yes, please,” Anthony nods. As the man disappears, leaving the door ajar, Anthony’s hand slips into yours. Then, in a tone that brokers no argument - not that you have an ounce of interest in doing so - he declares, “You, my delicious little rebel, are coming with me….”

masterlist • wips • taglist (must be following this blog to be tagged)

Anthony taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @delehosies @m-rae23 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower @black-kitten-imagines @detectiveviridian @themadhattersqueen @tinypinkdragon @fudge13 @fanfiction-she-wrote

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 3 months ago

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Mrs. R Part Two

Part One | Part Three

Notes: Hi welcome to part two okay love you bye

Not beta-read.

Warnings: Angst; fluff; all that good stuff

Summary: You can’t remember the last time you and Robby were this close.

“You got any more lightbulbs in here that need changing?”

You lean in the doorway of the living room, watching Robby unscrew the old bulb and toss it onto the couch before lifting his hand to screw in the new one.

“I don’t think so. Unless you wanna go around and change a few preemptively.”

“Think we’ll just stick with this one for now.”

You bite your lip, glancing down at your bandaged hand and picking at a stray strand.

“How was the rest of your shift?”

“Oh, fine. You know.”

But you still don’t. You bite your lip, fighting back the argument as you pick at another stray strand.

“How’s the hand feeling?”

“Oh, fine. You know.”

You shoot him a coy smile at his sidelong glance. He shakes his head as he turns his attention back to the light, fitting the fixture back over the bulb. He climbs down from the step ladder, folding it, and leaning it against the bookshelf.

“Where was that, anyway?” You ask, nodding toward it.

“In the basement.”

“Ah. I don’t go down there much.”

“Yeah, the film of dust gave that away.”

Your smile widens at the tease, then falters as he turns away, dusting off his hands.

“Alright. I should head out.”

Your stomach twists as he straightens, heading for the door, and where he left his bag. “Oh?” You fight to keep your tone even as you straighten up. “I ordered pizza. Should be here soon if you’re hungry.”

“You’ll have leftovers.”

“Sure! Sure.” You tuck your hands into your back pockets, wandering after him as he reaches for his bag. “I could just um…Wrap it in foil…Stick it in the back of the fridge…Forget it’s there for a few days until I inevitably remember that it’s in there on Friday. Nuke it, gobble down a couple of slices, give myself food poisoning, and then I’ll, uh…” You smile as he turns to face you again. “I’ll see you back in the ER.”

“Does it bother you that they still call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Mrs. R.”

You catch the slight delay in his movement, the pause in raising his beer to his lips. His eyes stay set on the tv, and you watch the flash and flare of the screen's glow lighten and shade his face. For as long a day as he’s had, it should be easier to read his expression—or maybe you’re more out of practice than you realized.

But you know that he heard it. It’s not as if he can pretend that he didn’t hear Evans or Langdon say it. You hadn’t gotten a good look at him when they’d had though not for lack of trying.

“Why would it bother me?” He finally asks.

“Because we’re not married anymore.”

“You change your name yet?”

You turn back to the tv as Robby’s head turns. It’s your turn to fall silent, to take a sip from your beer.

“It’s a lot of paperwork.” It’s the lamest of excuses. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the entire truth, either. You hear Robby huff a soft laugh through his nose, and you can’t help the embarrassment that pulses through you. You push the feeling down, leaning forward and setting down your beer.

"You want that last slice?” You glance toward him and find his lips pursed. He wants to say no, but you’re positive he barely had anything to eat that day.

“You wanna split it?” You correct, already taking up a knife to cut it down the middle.

“If you really want it, you can—”

“Oh, shut up and eat the slice, Robinavitch,” You lean back, holding it out and raising your own slice to your mouth.

“Half slice.”

“You’re way too particular for this late in the day. Did you get all hangry on the ducklings?”

“...Not on the ducklings.”

Your brows rose at the admission as you tore off a piece of the crust, popping it into your mouth.

“Wanna talk about it?” You asked after a moment.

“Nope.”

Figures. You couldn’t even bring yourself to be wholly disappointed. But he’d come over, he’d changed your lightbulb. He’d stayed. Months of not seeing one another and now this. It felt like two steps forward and one step back…Though, for what it was worth, that was still one step forward.

You chalk it up to muscle memory. A late-night hazy wake up, an infomercial droning on the tv, and Robby's head in your lap. You manage to nudge him up, shut the television off, and find his hand to lead him to your bedroom. He doesn't gripe or grumble. His movements seem as automatic as he strips down to his underwear and climbs into bed with you, each on your own sides.

You think, as you sink into the pillows, that you’re almost glad Robby is too tired to gripe or argue that he should be going back to his place.

And you think, as sleep takes full hold of you, that you feel his hand curl around yours under the sheets.

You wake up to the steady thump of Robby’s heart beneath your ear, and the rise and fall of his belly beneath your arm. You don’t open your eyes for a few moments—you don’t dare. You can’t remember the last time you and Robby were this close.

For the last few months of your marriage, the two of you hadn’t slept in the same bed, and with the separation and divorce that had followed, your physical connection had ceased to exist.

The closest the two of you had gotten was when he’d bandaged your hand at the ER the day before.

Of course, that same hand is now throbbing.

You wince, wiggling the fingers a little and holding back a hiss of discomfort. Damn, you should’ve taken some Tylenol before you went to bed last night. You just hadn’t been thinking about it. You reluctantly push yourself up, sliding out of bed as gently as you can, wary of waking him.

You freeze as he shifts, watching him roll closer to the warmth you left behind and pressing his face into your pillow. You relax as he settles, and turn to your closet, sleepily fishing out your favorite hoodie and tugging it on over the PJs that you hardly remember changing into.

By the time you hear Robby coming down the hall, you have 500mg of Tylenol in your system, and coffee has nearly finished brewing. You glance back in his direction as he comes into the kitchen. You’re chagrined (but not surprised) to find him fully clothed.

“Morning,” You greet. His answer is to take two mugs down from the cabinet, setting them by your wrist on the counter.

“Sleep okay?” You prod. Robby leans against the counter beside you, and you glance up, watching him scrub his hand across his eyes.

“Yeah,” He finally admits. “Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Sure,” You shrug. “My fault, anyway. I talked you into staying for pizza.” You pick up the coffee pot, filling both mugs. Robby mutters his thanks as he takes one up, drawing in a sip. You let the silence settle back in, but you can only handle it for so long: “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About whatever it is that’s been fucking with your sleep lately.”

“Do you wanna talk about why you haven’t changed your name yet?”

It catches you off-guard, and you whirl around to face him.

“I told you, it’s a shitton of paper work—”

“If you’d started when we filed for divorce, it would be done by now.”

“Well if it bothers you that much, why didn’t you fucking say so last night?”

“I didn’t say it bothered me, I just find it weird—”

“It isn’t that weird—And how the fuck did we get on to me? We’re supposed to be talking about you.”

“We don’t have to talk about me.”

“Yeah, we fucking do. Something is off with you, Michael. You’re not sleeping, you’re snapping at people—I get that you’re under pressure—”

“You don’t get it.”

“Alright, maybe I don’t know how it feels, but I can see how much it’s fucking messing with you—”

“Forget it—”

“Mikey, c’mon, just talk to me—”

“Let it go!”

The snap and bark of his voice startles you, and you unthinkingly take a couple of steps back. You become more aware of the way your face is crowding with heat, your heart pounding in your chest. You turn away from him, shoving your hands in your pockets and curling your good hand into a fist. You’re not gonna cry, not when he’s right fucking there. He’s going to leave, anyway.

You hear him push out a weary sigh, chased by the sound of him putting the coffee mug down. He’s going to put his hoodie on and just fucking go—

“Hey.” His hands curl around your shoulders, and he sighs again as you shrug him off. You step away, turning back to your mug and taking it up. Maybe you can take a big gulp and pretend that your eyes are tearing because the coffee’s so hot.

You feel the heat of him as he crowds up behind you, his hands landing on the counter and caging you in. You open your mouth to tell him to back off, but fall silent as he gently nuzzles his temple.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

“And I know you’re a closed book, so why do I fucking bother.”

Robby inches closer, curling his arms around your middle.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to take this stuff on.”

“I don’t feel like I have to, Michael.” You turn in his arms, meeting his eyes despite the tears lingering in yours. “I’ve only ever asked because I want to, because I’m not okay if you’re not okay.” Your throat grows tight as you admit it, and you blink rapidly as more tears well up. You drop your chin, closing your eyes as you shake your head, fighting to steady yourself.

Robby lifts a hand to cup your chin, thumb sweeping tenderly over the apple of your cheek as he tips your head up. You sniffle as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, then rests his forehead against yours.

“You shouldn’t still worry like this.”

“I know.”

Robby tips his head, nose gently nuzzling against yours. You can’t help but chase the touch, a few tears escaping and slipping down your cheeks. You each go still as your lips brush, then stop just a hair’s breadth from one another’s. Robby’s breath puffs warmly across your mouth, and you feel his chin tip up just a touch more.

“Don’t,” You breathe, then hurry to explain—”Don’t do this if you’re just trying to fix it.”

For a few harrowing moments, neither of you move; you hardly breathe. And then Robby’s hand lifts to cup your other cheek, thumbs gently disrupting the few tear tracks. He brushes tender kisses to your closed eyelids before his mouth descends tenderly on yours. You shiver, curling your hand in the fabric of his shirt and drawing him closer, until he’s pressing you fully against the counter. Your lips part and your tongue teases gently against his, his beard brushing pleasantly against your skin.

The kiss breaks slowly, with Robby stealing another two languid pecks before resting his forehead back against yours, his hands smoothing over your shoulders again, fingers rubbing across the familiar fabric.

"...Couldn't find that last hoodie, huh?" He asks knowingly. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking into a guilty grin.

"Misplaced it."

Robby hums knowingly before he dips his head, giving you another tender kiss.

"How's that hand feeling?"

You grunt, raising it and wiggling your fingers.

"Better now. Hurt like a bitch when I woke up, so I took some Tylenol."

"Good." Another peck before he draws away, and you reluctantly let him go. You expect him to head into the front hall, to grab his backpack. But he goes into the living room, taking up the stepladder. You frown, straightening up.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To check the other bulbs."

Next Part

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ;

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

@mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 ; @veryprairieberry

#Mrs. R #Michael Robinavitch x Reader #Michael Robinavitch x You #Doctor Robby x Reader #Doctor Robby x You #Dr Robby x Reader #Dr Robby x You

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skeltnwrites · 7 months ago

Text

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / part one masterlist

part two - at the rec center's fall festival, you and steve finally make plans to hang out 11k

a/n - how did this end up twice as long as the first chapter this was supposed to be a short one!! general warnings/tags here

── .✦

Utah’s pretty this time of year. Fall is in full swing. The maple and cottonwood mellow into rich shades of orange, there is a constant crush of leaves underfoot, and the crisp scent of pine needles mingle with the breeze. Your neighbors go all out to decorate. Pumpkins are for sale on every corner and the apple orchards buzz with families for the harvest. This kind of weather has every brush of sunlight feeling like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

The rec center hosts an annual fall festival, bringing hayrides, corn mazes, and costume contests. And though you wouldn’t normally volunteer on a Sunday, Steve’s hard to say no to. It’s not like he begged you or anything, a half-shrug and simple “If you want to” was enough convincing.

You’d volunteer with or without Steve. You have the time and the goodwill and thus it’s a cork on the end of your monotonous work-week. But there’s no denying that Steve makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable. He’s the sunrise after a long night, guiding you into the days ahead. And yeah, maybe you’re romanticizing too much. Too caught up in the way his tongue sticks out when he’s concentrating or how he mumbles to himself when he forgets you’re near. But working with him is delightful, nonetheless.

You and Steve are friends now. Well, work friends. You’ve never actually hung out outside of the rec center but there isn’t a Friday that one of you doesn’t mention it while you eat lunch in his office. You’ve learned trivial little things about him, like his favorite brand of pen, the store he buys his groceries from, and how he likes his coffee– hot enough to burn, with as much sugar as he can get away with without attracting strange looks. You ask about Penelope often and he’s very open; eager to rant and rave about the latest details of their lives. She visits every now and then, usually too sick or naughty to be at school. So you’ve come to know her just as much. That she loves Barbies and Salt-N-Pepa and insects but not the furry ones.

Being in each other’s lives is routine at this point– parking beside his car, leaving sticky notes on his desk, setting your bag in his office. It would be crazy to say you love him, you don’t, obviously, but you feel like you could. And you know you’d be devastated if he left the center. Your shift assignments are arranged so they almost always thread with his.

He’s always hated asking for help, but then you came, puttering into his office with a lovely smile and open arms and suddenly it’s not so bad. He’ll ask for your assistance on more projects than not: your advice, your creative eye, your hands to hang something that he most certainly could do alone.

Like now, you trail only a few paces behind Steve, cradling a wicker basket full of decorations. He billows a tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, considering your dispute over the best holiday.

“I dunno, I’m more of a Christmas guy,” Steve shrugs, smoothing out a ripple in the fabric. “The music is just inarguably better. You get to open presents and eat delicious food. Not really a contest in my book.”

You hum, centering a plastic pumpkin.

“Penelope is like the queen of Halloween, though.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “This morning, she told me she wished she was born on Halloween so she could go trick-or-treating on her birthday.”

You wear a similar expression, gaze flicking over to Penelope. She’s not far, crouched in a strip of dirt, parting a pile of leaves to search for ladybugs and other creatures. “I bet she’s excited for all that candy.”

“That’s all she’d eat if I let her. I’ve already scheduled a dentist appointment for her in November– But, I’m just as bad, she gets her sweet tooth from me,” he admits.

“Figured. The amount of Reese's wrappers I find in your trash.”

He squeezes your shoulder playfully, not hard enough that you should need to squirm away but you do. “Whatever. Why are you going through my trash anyway, weirdo.”

You click your tongue, “I wasn’t going through your trash! They are on the top where anyone could see.”

“Mhmm, whatever you say… dumpster diver.”

Joan, the youth counselor, whisks over to interrupt with arms full of mason jars before you can retort. Steve smothers his smirk with an answer to her question. Your tongue prods the inside of your cheek to prevent your own.

It’s like this with Steve, now. Teasing and taunting each other like schoolchildren. A game of tug-of-war, where every knowing glance and light-hearted jab pulls the rope just a little tighter between you. It’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking.

It’s not much later when guests filter into the festival. The earliest glow of sunset mists the courtyard in gold. There’s cider stations and pumpkin carving and a whole bunch of apple bobbers fighting to win a pumpkin pie. Monster Mash bleeds from several speakers lining the trail to the tented area you find yourself in. People dance and laugh and drink. It’s a very successful event for the rec center.

Steve plops down on the bench across from you, Penelope at his hip. A silent, self-invitation he knows you won’t decline— you enjoy their company more than people-watching. He seems to find you no matter which way you drift, even through a sea of townsfolk.

A big scoop of chili is spooned from his paper bowl into a second. “Blow on it,” Steve reminds, planting it in front of Penelope.

She does blow on it, a spray of more spit than air that merits her a shoulder nudge to knock it off.

Penelope simpers over her steaming food as Steve offers you an apologetic look. Last you saw her, she was waving her way up the stairs to the costume contest. She’s since been bundled up– a tiara traded for a knit beanie and the gown from her dress-up bin crammed underneath a thick sweater and spilling out the hem.

The string lights bathe their faces in a white glow. It highlights the beauty mark on the slope of Penelope’s cheek, like a half of Steve’s pair in the same spot. It’s not often you get to just enjoy their company. No scrambling about deadlines or standards. It’s a calm you could get used to. But Steve’s always ten steps ahead, already plotting which crew needs the most tending to when he’s finished eating. He’s selfless like that. Your feet ache from running around, but Steve’s probably worse.

“Penelope, is that what you’re wearing on Halloween?” You ask.

Her chin presses into the neckline of her sweater. “No,” she recalls, mouth full of sauce. “I’m being Dorothy.”

Steve swipes a napkin across her lips before anything drips.

“From The Wizard of Oz?”

“Mhmm,” she grins, popping the spoon out of her mouth.

“Very cool. Did you get your costume yet?”

She nods, glancing at Steve, “Daddy made it.”

Steve’s in his own little world, slurping his belly full of warm food and basking in the second of peace he‘s been given. But he blinks back into reality at your questioning stare, leaning in to hear you over the boisterous laughs of nearby people.

You try to reel in your surprise, soften your features. “You made her costume?”

“Oh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “I just sewed a shirt to a dress. Nothing fancy.”

“Still– that’s really cool, Steve.”

He stirs his food, voice torn with guilt. “I dunno. It’s cheap.”

“Costumes are better homemade. The ones in the stores are tacky. I bet it looks amazing.”

Fragments of a smile find his lips, more a peace offering than a true one.

“I painted my shoes red and I put so much glitter on them so they sparkle,” Penelope adds cheerfully.

“You did?”

She nods, shining with pride.

“It’s been two weeks and I’m still finding glitter everywhere,” Steve comments, more amused than he lets on. He can’t be that mad when they’re little reminders of his favorite person in the world.

“Are you dressing up?” You ask him.

He huffs, side-eyeing Penelope. “Yes.”

A glint forms in her eyes, a sly little smirk beneath. “Daddy is going to be the lion because he’s hairy.”

You laugh and Penelope joins you because Steve has a funny pouty face.

He rolls his eyes. “Tell ‘em who’s your Toto?”

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” You match her level of excitement. “Does she have a costume?”

“No, but I have a basket for her to sit in.”

You coo, “I bet Cinderella will love that.”

Steve snorts because he knows you know Cinderella will in fact not love that.

Cinderella is supposedly the grumpiest animal he’s ever met. She was a quick, unfortunately painful, lesson on boundaries for Penelope– not to pet certain areas or animals as a whole. Steve described her as an old, scraggly thing with a temper flaring unpredictably from one moment to the next. He wasn’t a cat person to begin with, growing up in a house with no animals probably started his revulsion to having fur on his clothes; but at two and a half, Penelope begged to feed the stray on their porch and she just kept coming back.

Steve wanted a dog when he moved out, if anything at all; but in four years he’s learned more about sacrifice than any speech his parents tried to drill into his head. And Cinderella is practically Penelope’s best friend now. She sets aside birthday money for new cat toys– the crinkly ones are her favorite– and sneaks the cat through her bedroom window from time to time. She even cradles her like a baby, not without protest and the occasional scratch, of course, but Penelope knows the risk.

“I told her Cinderella probably won’t want to come trick or treating but she can still take a picture with her at home.”

“I told you she will want to go because there’s candy.”

“Yes, but I told you cats can’t have candy,” Steve jabs her side lightly.

Penelope only pouts. “That’s sad. I think she would like candy.”

“It is,” he agrees, slotting a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “But it makes them sick, remember? So we can’t share with Cinderella.”

Her cheek melds with his sleeve, begrudgingly agreeing with a sigh. “Can I get my face painted?”

Steve traces her line of sight to the ring of kids swarming the face painter. It’s not far. He can see well enough to recognize most of the children. Many are younger than Penelope too.

But Steve hesitates, “Can you wait until I’m done eating? I’ll go with you.”

“Daddy,” she whines, pinching his arm hair. “You take forever.”

Penelope’s got magical little eyes. You don’t know how Steve ever says no.

“I can take her,” you offer, stacking trash on your plate. “I’m done anyway.”

“No, it’s okay.” He deflates with a sigh, curling into his ribs so he can see her face. “You can go by yourself–”

Her frown washes away just as fast as she peels herself off of his arm.

“But! You have to come straight back when you’re done and you have to stay where I can see you. ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay!” She beams, nearly tripping on her dress as she swings her legs over the bench and breaks into a run.

Steve can’t hide the wobble in his smile as hard as he tries to be strong. Most of the hardships he’s faced as a parent are foreign to you, but clearly, this isn’t easy for him.

“She’ll be fine,” you reassure with a ginger squeeze to his wrist. “We aren’t far if she needs something.”

He nods, still locked in on Penelope. “I know, I know. I’m trying really hard not to be a helicopter parent as she gets older. It sucks though, feeling like she doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Steve,” you deadpan, prying his attention back. “That’s… silly. You’re her dad, of course she still needs you. Maybe not all the time or as much but she’ll always need you.”

“I dunno. I feel like she grows an inch every time I turn around. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss when she was in diapers. She’s cute now, but God was she cute then.” He chuckles to himself, eyes swinging from Penelope to you and then back.

“I believe it,” you grin, admiring his girl. Her cheeks are red from the cold, like two tomatoes framing her lips. She might like to wear your jacket, you consider, but she’s so small, perhaps she’ll overheat from too many layers.

Penelope scrambles into the chair when it’s her turn, talking a mile a minute to the face painter. A funny wave of emotion roves over you. There’s affection and joy and and then something heavier and harder to describe.

“I’ll have to show you her baby pictures sometime.” You hear the parting of a true smile. “There’s this one– it was her first birthday– I gave her a whole cake and she just demolished it. Had it in her hair and her eyelashes and in between her toes. She was so damn happy.”

You exhale a happy hum, turning back to Steve. He’s propped on his elbows now, close enough to discern each eyelash from the next. It doesn’t startle you as much as it just scrapes the words right off your tongue.

He’s reading you, churning, and chasing the right words all in between the blink of an eye. “We should hang out, you know? Like actually– We always talk about it but…” He shakes his head, trailing off.

He’d let the words be carried with the wind if you wanted. It’s hard to imagine you’d say no, but people have surprised him in worse ways. Just when he thinks he knows someone, truly knows them, they cut him off like he’s no more than a dying branch. The ghosts of past someones and somethings still haunt him. It makes being so forward with you all the more difficult.

You wear a whimsical sort of grin that you hide behind the brush of your hand, fighting your own flood of emotions. “Yeah– I mean, yeah. When?”

Excitement flares across his features. “What are you doing on Halloween? You could come trick-or-treating with us?”

“Probably just home handing out candy– but Steve, I don’t want to intrude on Halloween. It sounds really special to Penelope.”

“You wouldn’t! No way, Penelope would be thrilled if you came. She talks about you a lot, you know?”

“No she doesn’t,” you grin madly into your palm, peering over to her. Her face is dressed in a bright shade of orange now. With her pudgy cheeks, she reminds you of a little pumpkin.

“She does! Swear it– on my life.” He’s not lying. He can’t hold your eyes when he lies, even about silly things.

You huff, feeling foolishly giddy. “I don’t have time to get a costume, Steve.”

“Nonsense. We can find you one. I’ll make it if I have to. The Tin Man and The Scarecrow are still up for grabs.”

You swallow, washing the sudden dryness from your throat. Why does Steve have to be so damn cute and sweet all at once? “I dunno. Would it be fine if I didn’t dress up?”

He chuckles dryly. “Penelope won’t have that, I can tell you that much. Plus if I’m going to be tortured into some itchy lion onesie I expect you’ll do the same.” He’s teasing, which is typical for you both, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how.

“Steve.”

“Come on. If not for me, for Penelope. She’ll love it.”

“Okay,” you settle. But you aren’t really settling. He could ask you to dress up on any other day of the year and you’d do it.

Penelope races over– a tabby cat with long whiskers and a pastel pink nose– yelling, “Daddy, look!”

Steve beams at her like he stuck a lightbulb in his mouth, somehow brighter than before. “I see! You look so pretty, princess.”

“I’m like Cinderella.”

“You are!” He pats her former seat beside him until she sits.

Her long lashes flutter questioningly.

“Nell, don’t you think we need, I dunno, like a Tinman or a Scarecrow to go with our costumes on Halloween?”

She tracks his gaze over to you, adopting your smirk. “Are you coming trick-or-treating with us?” Her voice is uneven and bubbly with anticipation.

“Do you want me to?” You ask genuinely.

Penelope’s tongue wriggles in her mouth like she can’t find the proper words to express what she feels. But she nods in this bashful way against Steve’s shoulder that surprises you.

“Are we being shy now?” Steve remarks, pulling her into his arms effortlessly to peck her hairline.

“No,” she whines against his sweater, overjoyed to be smothered in love. Dry paint creases with her scrunched face. It’s an adorable sight. You keep wishing you had a camera on you because this is the kind of thing Steve probably puts in his photo albums.

The moon climbs the sky quickly, draping the party in a silver veil. Many stay for the campfire and the promise of smores. But the later it gets, the crankier kids become for their parents. Penelope’s no exception, whining and clinging to Steve until he agrees to hold her. And he tries to work still, but his arms are starting to burn and stamping hayride tickets isn’t easy one-handed so he makes the hard choice to leave before cleanup.

He feels awful, apologizing to several of his coworkers on the way out but most are too drunk on cider or too high on festive cheer to care. Besides, he’s paid a salary, doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He has no obligation to be here– you’d reminded him of that multiple times. But the festival does feel empty when they leave, even with half the town still around.

ᯓ★

Steve lives in a quiet pocket outside of town on a curvy, secluded stretch of road. The directions he’d scrawled out on a receipt weren’t as useful as you’d hoped as one of the street names you were intended to turn on was smudged beyond legibility. But you made it, parked in front of a white house with a similarly white picket fence. Steve’s beamer is idled to your right. It’s strange seeing it somewhere that’s not the rec center. But it’s a familiar comfort between so much new.

There’s a tire swing knotted to the oak tree in the yard, a collection of painted rocks in the pebble-lined path up to the house, and two carved pumpkins set outside the door, caving in on themselves but not yet rotting. A lot of love is shared here.

Penelope answers the door when you knock. She’s half dressed– stockings hugging a pair of fleece leggings and a flowy pajama tank top. Her eyes outline your costume and light up with approval.

You sport a flannel and denim overalls stuffed with prickly straw straight from the local farm, courtesy of Steve. But Penelope ogles your face paint more than anything– a stitched grin and two circles for blush. You hope it’s not scary looking.

She doesn’t know how to let you inside– she’s not supposed to answer the door after all– so she hangs clumsily off the door handle until you ask, “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” she teeters out of the way, closing the door behind you with a sweeping grin— the mischievous kind that makes you wonder what she’s up to.

The foyer is situated between the living room and kitchen, both of which are missing Steve.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Umm. Cleaning?”

“Oh. Are you getting ready to go?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my shoes,” she makes a strangled face and shrugs with her entire wingspan.

“Do you want me to help you look?”

She nods, “I think they’re in my closet.”

Penelope sprints up the stairs easily, leaning over the railing at the top until you hesitantly follow. You hope he won’t mind. You were technically let in.

It reeks of chemicals upstairs. You stifle a cough and hope it’s Steve, not some science experiment in Penelope’s room. But you don’t worry long. The culprit swings around the corner, juggling several bottles of solutions and sprays. Steve would’ve barreled straight into you had you not thrust your arms out in defense, but still, all his things scatter across the floor.

“Christ, you scared me.” He kneels, tucking a roll of paper towels against his chest. “Nell, you can’t answer the door without me.”

“I looked in the window.”

You hand him a sanitizer and shimmy your hat back into place. It’s too big and far too floppy, sagging over your brows no matter how you situate it. Amusement draws his cheeks up as he realizes. You look ready to plop yourself in the middle of someone’s crops and he’s in a tee and jeans you might find him in any other day. His smiley-staring only makes you feel sillier.

“The straw’s really a nice touch, huh?” Steve teases, picking a sandy stem from your collar with his free hand. He’s got that smirk you so often find on Penelope’s lips.

You yank the strand from his grasp and poke the column of his throat with it. “I’m definitely more itchy than you’ll be.”

His fingers encase the entirety of your fist like a shell. They’re knobby and mannish, stout against your own. But there’s a tenderness to his hold as he eases your fist away. You don’t push back, though you contemplate it. He’s never touched you for so long; he’s basically holding your hand.

“Could’ve been the Tinman,” he says, releasing your fingers at your thigh.

You suck in, like fuel for a reply, and exhale a breathy, nervous laugh. “And paint my entire body gray? No thanks.”

He chuckles, eyes darting behind you. “Well, you look great. You like it, Nell?”

You’d almost forgotten she was there. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be.

Penelope bobs her head behind you, patiently watching from the doorway to her room. “I have oh-ralls like that.”

“You do,” Steve confirms, fidgeting with the nozzle on the disinfectant bottle. It reminds you of the smell.

“You kill someone?”

He stiffens. “What?”

You flick the bottle of Windex, serious facade fading. “Smells like you’re trying to cover it up.”

“Oh! No,” his shoulders soften, “Just a little spring cleaning… in fall.”

You hum gaily. “I like your house.”

“You do?” His voice is light, buoyant with relief. “I can give you a tour. A proper one.”

“I would but I’ve promised a patient little lady I’d help her find her shoes first.”

Penelope beams when you glimpse at her. “I think they’re in my closet,” she shares with Steve.

“I think so too,” he says, eyeing past her. “What happened to cleaning?”

“I was but I had to find my costume first.”

“It’ll be easier to find when your room’s clean.” He sends you a look, “Don’t let her trick you into cleaning for her. She’s sneaky.” Steve whispers the last part, loud and teasing.

“I’m not sneaky!”

“Mhmm. I’ll go get ready and then come help you, Nell.”

“Then trick-or-treat?”

“Yes,” he starts down the stairs, “Yell if you need me.”

Penelope tows you into her room by the arm, unphased by the clinking of toys crammed behind the door. Anything in her way gets kicked or shoved aside without a second thought. It’s like her toy chest exploded, a kaleidoscope of pink and purple across the carpet. And no wonder it’s a mess; she starts chucking things out of her closet, adding to the pile spilling out like an avalanche—books, stuffed animals, barbie dolls, baby dolls, and so so many clothes.

You squeeze by a play tent, scanning the floor.

“They’re red and sparkly, ‘member?” Penelope calls from behind her closet doors.

You tip a beanbag over with your foot, “I remember.”

She babbles to herself as she looks, just like Steve does– little hums and scraps of thought that are hard to catch. It’s a funny thing, to see it translated from one human to another.

It doesn’t take long to find the shoes, wedged underneath her bed with numerous other things. You go prone against the floor to dig them out and hold them up by the straps. “These it, Pen?”

She gasps vibrantly. You wish you got up in time to see her face.

“How did you know they were under there!” She shrieks, snatching them from you.

“Just had a feeling,” you sit up properly, happily watching her slip the flats on.

She practically twinkles, clicking her heels together like Dorothy.

“They look stunning! You painted these?”

“Yes,” she skips over to her dresser, shuffling through drawer after drawer. Anything folded surely isn’t anymore.

“You’re a talented artist.”

“I know. Daddy says.” Penelope yanks out a blue line of fabric. “My dress is so pretty. I’m going to be the prettiest Dorothy for Halloween.”

“I know you will! You should give your dad a big hug for making such a pretty dress.”

She buckles into the costume as fast as she can, patting the skirt down with a satisfied grin when it’s on.

After several compliments and much debate, you’re able to convince her Dorothy would have a clean room. Penelope puts a few things away, but she’s easily distracted. And it’s hard to blame her with so many toys about. So you do most of the cleaning, but you’re happy to. It’ll make Steve happy– lest he finds out it was you– which makes you happy.

The floor’s mostly cleared when Penelope decides Steve’s taking too long; it’s time for your house tour, with or without him. And when he doesn’t answer her shout it’s decidedly without him. She shows you downstairs first– the living room, the kitchen, the half bath, her favorite hiding spot underneath the stairs. All the while she explains her very detailed and strategic trick-or-treating plan. Staying out until midnight is the priority, she doesn’t seem to care if it’s past her bedtime, and filling several bags with candy is also high on the list.

“And this is Daddy’s room.” She jerks the door knob several times before yelling, “Daddy!”

“What?” Steve calls, muffled.

“Let us in!”

“I can’t hear you– hold on!”

Steve unlocks the door donning the promised lion onesie and a pair of sneakers. It’s ridiculous how handsome he looks even with a stupid fur collar and tail.

“Cute,” is all you manage to say. He takes it as teasing, rolling his eyes, though you really mean it.

“Can you help me? I can’t get my whiskers right.” He taps the cap of an eyeliner pen against his cheek where he’s drawn two lines.

“Sure.” You take the stick and follow him through his room to the master ensuite.

“Wait!” Penelope shouts and waves vaguely at the room. “This is Daddy’s room.”

You pause to look it over, jovially commenting, “Wow! Very nice.”

And it is nice. There’s a rustic set of furniture striped in blue and green accents; paired well with the framed floral prints above his dresser. And the bed’s made, only slightly surprising, topped with a Care Bear’s quilt you assume is Penelope’s.

In the bathroom, Steve leans against the counter, arms braced behind him on the sink rim. You shuffle in front of his legs, skimming knees accidentally. He has no abhorrence for physical touch, you know that for certain. He’s touchy with not just you, but everyone in the office. An arm around the shoulder, a pat on the back, a gentle squeeze to the arm– he gives these out like candy on Halloween. But even so, touching him isn’t always easy. It’s vulnerable, runs the risk of rejection.

Steve smiles at you, ever-patient and encouraging when you stall awkwardly.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Talking any louder feels illegal when he’s so close. You cup his jaw and steady your opposite hand against his cheek, picturing the line how you want it.

But just when you press into his skin and flick the pen, Penelope slams a drawer shut, startling you enough to flinch. The ink slants all the way behind his ear like a jagged nail.

You gasp and recoil, “Shit.”

Penelope gasps twice as loud and Steve crumples into laughter, even more so when he turns to view the damage in the mirror.

“Oops,” you chuckle nervously, thumbing at the black streak. “This washes off right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ve redone it like four times.”

You douse your finger in water and work the pad across his happy cheek gently.

He’s watching you. You don’t see, just feel it in the fringe of your peripherals. It’s not like he has many places to look when you’re a hair’s breadth from his nose. But he might as well press a magnifying glass against your face, point out every pore and blemish and hair you're insecure about.

Your cheeks burn and the beginning prickles of sweat coat your upper lip. You brushed your teeth before you arrived, but how could you forget a mint? And what about an extra layer of deodorant? That wouldn’t have hurt. You glance at Steve anxiously and his eyes jump to Penelope. For once you’re grateful not to keep his attention.

Penelope digs through his cabinet on a quest to find nothing in particular.

You pull away to judge your first line as Steve opens his mouth. “Nell, go get your brush and hair ties.”

The top half of her face pops up over the cupboard door like a puppet. “But I want my hair down.”

“I still have to brush it. And I thought you wanted the bows?”

She considers his words– her prior words– brows pinching before she shrugs, “Okay.” The cabinet door thuds against its hinges as it claps shut, and not a second later, Steve’s bedroom door slams as Penelope charges out.

“You would not believe how often I tell this kid not to slam the doors,” he scoffs, though it’s devoid of any real anger.

You take his chin again, packing away a grin. You have to focus. “Don’t move,” you prompt.

He’s relaxed in your hold. Still as a stone, maybe apart from the slight tug of his lips when you resume drawing.

“Tickles,” he murmurs when you lift the nib.

You print another three to match the trio on his right. It’s not bad, but you wouldn’t say it’s good. The angles are skewed weird and one’s shorter than the rest. But if he wants them any better, you might not be the best person to ask.

“How’s that?” You draw back, searching for any smudges.

He spins, briefly inspecting his reflection before facing you again. “Perfect! Thank you!”

Perfect is definitely a stretch.

Steve’s a perfectionist. You’ve seen it innumerably in the office. How he’ll spend hours revising something only to ruminate on an insignificant detail after. And with Penelope, every parenting decision is subject to endless second-guessing, as if her health and happiness hinges on the smallest nuances.

But as much as he’s a perfectionist, Steve would never judge you in the same way he might himself. Your whiskers truly are perfect in his eyes, not for the shape or size, but because you drew them– wonky and all.

The ink warps around his smile. You study his face under the guise of checking your work. Steve’s a handsome guy. An inviting kind of handsome, with shallow laugh lines and the start of stubble stippled across his jaw.

“Wait,” you square his shoulders, brushing the nape of his neck to reach for his hood. The lion’s mane is laid gently over the top of his hair.

“Now it’s perfect.”

He smirks. “Sexy, huh?”

“Should leave this unzipped a little. The cougars will love that.”

Steve laughs, harder than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s so contagious even Penelope joins your hysterics when she returns, though she hasn’t a clue what you’re laughing about.

“What’s so funny?” Penelope lurches into his legs with a handful of hair things.

“We just think my costume’s kinda silly. Here, baby.” Steve heaves her onto the counter and props her right in between the sinks.

Her dress pours over her crossed legs like a layered cake, baby blue and white gingham. Steve really did a great job with the stitching; you can’t even tell it was done by hand. And Penelope hasn’t complained about the fit once so it must be comfortable too.

“Face forward please,” Steve reminds gently for a third time when Penelope twists her neck to speak.

Penelope frowns at his reflection. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“Sorry. You have to stop moving though.”

There’s a mild curve to his lips. He’s not aggravated with her fidgeting, in fact, quite the opposite. Maybe because you’re around, he’s in too good of a mood to spoil with something as trivial as his daughter's hair. But regardless, it’s endearing as it is entertaining to care for Penelope. He loves being a dad, even when it’s frustrating. And you can see the love as he braids her hair– how he cards through knots from the ends up and slowly sections off pieces to tackle one at a time.

“I’m not moving.” Her chin droops as she scratches the polish from her nails.

Steve cups her jaw, steering it back up. “You are, monkey.”

“Monkey?” She chortles, seeking your gaze in the mirror to see if you also find the nickname funny.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, seizing the rubber band from between his teeth. “Monkeys move a lot.”

“Do they have tails?”

“Mhmm.”

“You have a tail 'cause you’re a lion.”

Steve hums and bends back, evaluating his performance. “There. You look so gorgeous, Penelope.”

And he really has done a great job, especially with all her wiggles. Steve takes a lot of pride in styling his hair– much of his confidence derives from it. And he tries to extend that care to Penelope; to teach her how gorgeous she is and that she deserves to be nurtured.

Penelope shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’m Dorothy now, Dad.”

“Oh, sorry.” Steve turns toward you instinctually, happy to catch your smile.

“You look very very pretty, Miss Dorothy,” you correct.

She slides off the counter, aided by Steve’s hand. “Can we go now?”

Penelope waits patiently in the foyer for Steve to gather everything needed to leave. This lasts for all of about ten minutes before Penelope is halfway out the front door, too excited to wait any longer.

“Wait, Nell!” Steve shouts from beside you in the kitchen.

You’re choosing snacks and filling water bottles. Steve doesn’t really need to pack a bag for Penelope anymore, she’s a year and a half past diapers, but he likes to feel prepared.

When Penelope doesn’t answer, he meets her on the porch to explain, “I’m almost done. And we still have to take pictures.”

“I don’t wanna. I’m ready to leave.”

“Well, we aren’t leaving until I get a picture of Dorothy.”

She sighs, lugging herself back inside like she’s got bricks for shoes. “What about Cinderella?”

“Go and look– get the treats.”

She scrambles into the kitchen, snagging a jar of cat treats from the counter quickly. You shoulder the backpack and follow her out. Steve joins you not long after, two flashlights and several glowsticks in hand.

“No Cinderella?” Steve asks, unzipping the bag pressed to your back to stock with more things.

“No,” Penelope pouts, vigorously shaking the jar in the air. “How can I be Dorothy without Toto.”

He yanks the zipper back up, then pats her head, “Keep calling. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will. It’s gonna get cold later. When it’s dark.”

“It’ll mess up my costume. Dorothy doesn’t wear one.”

“Let's bring it, just in case. I’ll carry it.”

Steve jogs back inside, coming out this time with a camera around his neck, a jacket over his shoulder, and a plushie in hand.

“Here,” he sets a blue stuffed dog on Penelope’s lap. “Backup Toto.”

Penelope glares up at him, insulted. “This isn’t Toto.”

“I know. But if we wait for Cinderella we might not have time for trick-or-treating. Why don’t we bring the treats? See if she’s started without us?”

Penelope deflates, stuffing the dog in her wicker basket.

“Can I take your picture now?”

“Why, Daddy?”

“So I can remember how beautiful you look tonight.”

A petulant bow creases her lips as she peers up. Round, sullen eyes connect with his.

Steve squats in front of her, taking her much smaller free hand in his. “I know you’re sad about Cinderella but she’d still want you to have fun, right? And she might show up later. I just want to get a picture now so I don’t forget.”

Penelope nods and Steve kisses her forehead, standing and backing up a few paces.

“Smile, baby. Please?” He blinks at her through the viewfinder.

She offers a strangled face– more of a toothy open mouth than a smile; not even close to wide enough to round her cheeks or crescent her eyes like the real deal. But it’s funny and just as cute. Steve snaps a photo and the expression drains from her face as fast as the camera’s flash.

You wander behind Steve and her eyes flick to you. You try funny faces first, frowning so deep your jaw aches, pulling the tip of your nose up like a pigs, winking terribly, but none of it works. Your fingers arch into bunny ears behind Steve’s hair and you stick your tongue out at the back of his head, but still, no dice.

You have a really awful idea. You’re pretty sure you might die of embarrassment. But it’s worth it to get Penelope to smile.

“Hey, Penelope? Remember when you told me dinosaurs are silly?”

She nods.

“Well, I have a really good dinosaur impression. Can I show you?”

She nods again, equally jaded.

You take a deep breath and shake your head, mentally preparing yourself and simultaneously erasing Steve from existence for the moment. A feral screech erupts from the back of your throat, the kind of sound you didn’t know for sure you could make.

Steve buckles in his crouch, barely catching himself on the pavement with his free hand. A chorus of emotions ripple his features. He’s shocked and then amused and finally focused on capturing the picture, but what resonates the most is a fondness for you.

You cup a hand over your mouth, rendering a string of different noises, inspired by several animals because what the hell does a dinosaur sound like anyway? You haven’t the faintest clue at the moment.

Penelope fuses her lips together, unbreaking.

“Come on Nell, I see that smile,” Steve rallies.

But she doesn’t give up easy. She’s like Steve in that way.

As a last resort, you press your lips to your mouth, blowing a raspberry and screwing your face in disgust. “Oh my God, Steve! Did you just fart?”

He gapes at you, then Penelope, tickled and tongue-tied for comebacks. He can’t think straight, not when you’re making a delightful fool out of yourself, on his behalf, especially. As far as he’s concerned, Penelope’s smiling now or at least failing awfully at hiding it. So he takes several photos of her as she unravels into a giggly heap on the driveway.

Certainly one of them is photo-album-worthy, but you continue your stunts anyway. “Goodness, what did you eat today?” You backpedal a few steps, fanning the surrounding air, partially to hide your own laugh. “Penelope do you smell that?”

“Ew! Daddy!”

You aren’t sure if Penelope actually believes you or if she just wants to join the fun but either way, she’s convincing.

“I didn’t do it!” Steve defends, dropping the camera on its sling and raising his hands in surrender. “I think it was Penelope this whole time.”

You gasp. “Penelope!”

“I didn’t!” She cries, shaking her head aggressively. “I promise, I didn’t!”

“I dunno. The closer I get the more stinky it smells.” Steve slinks up to her with outstretched hands that threaten tickles.

She screams when he snatches her up, swearing up and down, “I didn’t, Daddy!”

He’s well-practiced at being the tickle monster; knows every sensitive strip of skin to target. She was doomed from the start. Giggles spill out in jagged layers punctuated with gasps of air. Steve tickles her all the way down the driveway to the car, out of breath himself by the time he sets her on the trunk.

Penelope deliriously eyes his hands where they rest on the beamer.

“You ready to go trick-or-treating, Little Miss Dorothy?” You ask.

She nods, dimples deepening with mirth.

“Here. Will you start it?” Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to you. “Come on, pretty girl.”

She slides into her car seat happily, bouncing with excitement as he buckles her in. Steve’s told you before it’s not always so easy.

“I really didn’t fart,” Penelope says.

He chuckles, sewing a kiss to her cheek, “I know, baby. We’re just kidding.”

Steve settles into the driver’s seat, depositing the stack of developed polaroids in your lap. You shuffle through as he backs out, flashing him your favorites; the best is one where she’s planted a hand on her hip and is rolling her eyes. You adore this little drama queen more and more every day.

The drive’s only a few minutes, just to a denser part of the neighborhood to avoid long stretches with no houses. Steve parks against an empty grass lot behind another car. This area’s already bustling with kids which adds to Penelope’s anticipation.

“Daddy, look– it’s Minnie Mouse!”

Steve inspects the crowd through the window. “Yeah, you remember when you were Minnie Mouse?”

“I was?”

“Mhmm. You had ears and I painted your face. You were little.” He unbuckles, grabbing the backpack stashed at your feet.

“Oh. Am I still little?”

He pauses to melt, just to himself and only a bit. It’s too early to be sentimental– a long night of fun awaits. Steve cranes over his seat to see her face. “Yes, you’re still little. But you’re growing a lot. I think you might be as tall as me, one day.”

“Nooo,” she giggles, waving her foot at him.

“I dunno,” he sing-songs back, squeezing her shoe before turning back around.

Steve distributes a handful of glowsticks, shoving a few extra in Penelope’s basket. You guys start down the block as the sun sinks below the treeline, more than enough time to complete Penelope’s plan which she reminds you of. She takes Steve’s hand, then yours, and it strikes you suddenly how much you appear as a family to outsiders. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, just a strange one.

At the first house, Penelope knocks hard and declares to the elderly woman who answers, “Trick or treat!” She repeats it, insisting with wide eyes that she deserves two pieces of candy for her double effort. And the woman can’t resist her charm, obliging with a handful of pieces. Steve jokes it off, calls her a bargainer, but you gawk at the interaction.

At the second house, she points to you and Steve, arguing you deserve candy too since you’re both in costume. And it works, scoring you each a piece that ends up in her tote anyway. By the third, you can’t keep a straight face, her antics are hilariously cute and you compliment Steve for raising such a little mastermind.

You fall into a routine steadily, loafing along the road with Steve while Penelope trots up to each house.

“Last year she was Snow White and the year before a cat,” Steve explains when you ask.

“She likes princesses’.”

“Less so now but yeah. She used to say she wanted to be a princess when she grew up.”

“Can’t blame her.” You watch her fondly from afar. She picks a piece of candy off the ground and debates before tossing it in with the others. “What does she wanna be now?”

“Changes all the time. Last it was a detective.” He beckons Penelope over. “Nell, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

She fiddles with her basket handle. You’ve done two streets and it’s almost full. You're starting to think you’ll have to buy a pillowcase off of someone.

“Umm… Can I be a trick-or-treater?”

“What!” Steve flips her braid over her shoulder, “That’s just for one day, goofball.”

“Well… then,” she hums, squinting at the surrounding swarm of characters and creatures. “Maybe a pirate?”

You and Steve share a look of amusement. You do that a lot now. It’s instinctual. Finding each other's eyes, even in a room full of people it’s easy. Sometimes there’s just too much joy not to share.

“Daddy, how many houses are left?”

“There’s quite a few on this street. You tired?”

“No. Can I see? I want to count.”

She doesn’t seem tired to you but Steve’s able to read her with the tiniest details. It’s like he’s got superpowers sometimes– dad superpowers. But maybe he’s just guessing, it’s getting closer to bedtime.

Steve boosts her onto his shoulders with a hefty groan about “getting old” which you bicker over because he’s only twenty-six.

Penelope counts eleven houses, eight with lights on, but buzzes about a particular home illuminated with rainbow LEDs and a giant spider. And it’s even cooler than she described up close, mansion-like, decked out with spotlights and decorations taller than you and Steve combined.

A motionless clown holds a bloody bucket of candy outside. Their decorations are so extravagant, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake. But you’re pretty sure the clown just blinked and you make sure Steve’s aware of that, not that he was letting Penelope go alone anyway.

Steve scoops Penelope up before she gets very far up the driveway despite her complaints.

“I’m not scared, Daddy,” she assures. And there’s nothing that tells you she is– she’s just as cheery and bright-eyed as before.

“I know, princess.” He rubs her arm, scanning for other statues with the potential to come alive. “I’m kinda scared, though.”

She tips her head at him, puzzled because it’s always the other way around. But her arms coil around his neck, a loving press of affection that she learned from him.

And whether he’s actually afraid to be jumpscared or just subconsciously ingraining in her that it’s okay if she is, you aren’t really sure. Probably both, and either way, it warms your insides.

The clown cocks its head slowly when Penelope reaches in the bowl.

She cocks her head back, innocently amused. “Trick-or-treat?”

The clown nods, pushing the bowl toward her.

Steve sags just a hair but remains very much on high alert.

You mouth your appreciation— “Thanks.” Thanks for not scaring my coworker-friends-child who I’ve grown really fond of and would hate to see cry.

“Daddy, can we go in there?” Penelope points to a tunnel opening, fringed with black streamers and flashing lights– some sort of haunted house walk-through that wraps around the home.

“No, baby. That’s for big kids.”

She spots a group of teenagers exit the other side, screaming, laughing, and doubling over each other into the grass.

“I really wanna go– please, I’ll be so brave. I’m not even scared,” she pleads, flashing him a wobbly frown.

But there’s no expression she could pull right now that would change his mind, not when he hears a chainsaw buzzing inside. She could throw herself on the ground and kick and cry and he’d still refuse. He knows enough kids that have been traumatized by horror-movie-type creatures and characters; he’ll be damned if his daughter becomes one of them.

Penelope sulks for a few houses but she has loads more candy to collect and decides not to waste her time for too long.

“Can you hold this?” She thrusts her basket toward Steve. It’s overflowing at this point; you’ve all started cramming candy in your pockets, hoping it’s cold enough outside that nothing melts. Steve’s been beating himself up for three blocks for forgetting the backpack in the car.

“Sure,” he says, retracting his hand from his pocket.

But before he takes it, you joke, “Better keep an eye on him. He might eat some when you’re not lookin’.”

Penelope studies him for a long moment before shifting the bag toward you.

“Penelope! You don’t really believe that do you?” He scoffs, breathily laughing.

You cackle as she shrugs and sprints to the next house.

Steve bumps your shoulder, snaking a hand in the basket to steal a pack of M&Ms off the top. “Blowin’ my whole operation.”

“Steve,” you scold and bump him back. “Don’t get me in trouble.”

“She won’t notice.” He waves you off, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. “But if she does I’m saying it was you.”

You whack his arm, glowing bright as the moon, “Asshole.”

Penelope doesn’t complain about her feet aching once the whole night and you know they probably do because yours started hurting forever ago. Surely she gets some kid-sized Oscar for that. And Steve being the great dad he is offers to carry her on the way back to the car anyway.

“Daddy?”

Steve hums, hoisting her up where she slips.

“Can we go trick or treating tomorrow?”

He glances at you, confirming you also hear this cuteness. “No, baby. Tomorrow’s not Halloween.”

“I know, but we should still go. I bet lots of people still have candy. Like, leftovers.” She yawns into his shoulder where his fur hood has been tugged down to warm his neck and double as a makeshift pillow.

“Don’t you have enough candy?”

“No. I need more Reese’s for you.”

“You’re gonna give them to me?”

“Only some. I like them too.”

“That’s kind of you.”

Her eyes are half-lidded and struggling, but she’s still awake as Steve stows her into her car seat. She chatters sluggishly to keep herself up and you and Steve entertain it; it’ll make bedtime easier if she doesn’t fall asleep in the car. Perhaps handing her a pack of Smarties was overkill because apparently, it has enough sugar to wire her longer than the five-minute drive home.

No slower than Steve can lock the front door, Penelope dumps the contents of her bag on the floor. A bouquet of candy wrappers, big and small, enough to last her months if she’s patient.

“You can have five more pieces tonight.”

Penelope smirks at Steve before he’s even finished. “Ten?”

“Six. But you have to brush your teeth for twice as long.” Before she can rebuttal he shakes his head. “Final offer.”

“Fine,” she huffs, combing through her pile. She sorts them into categories while Steve prepares her bath. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is already on– Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to turn the TV off when he leaves– but you find the remote when Penelope asks you to turn the volume up.

“You can have these,” she announces, pushing a chunk of her goodies toward you. It’s mostly things she doesn’t like: twizzlers and dark chocolate and anything with peanuts. But she did sneak in one of your favorites you’d mentioned earlier that night. She really is a sweetheart.

“Thank you, Penelope. That’s very nice of you.”

“These are for Daddy,” she points to a second pile, smacking loudly on the gummy bear she just decapitated. “He loves chocolate but he got a cavity once because he ate too much.”

“Are you talking about me?” Steve hollers, clambering down the stairs two at a time.

“No?” Penelope giggles.

His hands snap to his hips once he treks into the living room. “Alright, it’s bath time then bedtime Miss Dorothy.”

Penelope looks utterly betrayed. She’s only eaten three things and– “It’s not even late yet,” she whines.

He pretends to check his watch, “It is.”

It’s not but she can’t tell time yet.

“Can we watch Oz, Daddy, please? There’s no school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“We watched it last night, peanut. Why don’t we watch a Halloween movie?”

Peanut, pumpkin, princess, he calls her all sorts of cute things. Is it wrong to wish he called you cute things too?

“I wanna watch Oz. I’m Dorothy so we have to.” She drags out the last syllable until she runs out of breath.

Penelope’s over-tired. Delirious and whiny and easily hysterical when she doesn’t get her way. And it’s not that Steve thinks he should give in when she’s like this, he’s just tired too. And you’re here and it’s the weekend so what will one movie really do? He can guarantee she’ll fall asleep during it anyway.

“Okay. Only if you’re super-duper fast in the bath.”

She shouts and whizzes upstairs.

Steve diverts his attention to you, “You wanna stay? I can make popcorn.”

Of course, you’d love to stay, and not just for the promise of popcorn, but you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never want to leave.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He makes a face– a ridiculously lovely one. “Go sit. We’ll be quick.”

They aren’t quick but there are photo albums on the coffee table that you’re happy to look through in the meantime. You flick through beats of their life like stills of a movie. There are baby photos, school pictures, movie stubs, plane tickets, and several people you don’t know the names of. It’s weird– getting snippets of things about them you had no idea of. You’re filling the gaps as you go.

Penelope returns first, frolicking her way to the entertainment center in fresh pajamas. She’s on a mission by the looks of it, making a mess of the VHS collection in the cabinet. By the time Steve arrives, most of the films are splayed across the carpet.

“Oz is already in, silly goose. We watched it yesterday remember?”

Penelope drops the tape in her hands, “Oh.”

Steve hunches over her, slotting the films away one by one. She doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Penelope clambers onto the couch beside you and Steve beside her. It’s a long sectional, enough room for several others. But Penelope scoots in right beside you so you're hip to hip. And Steve makes himself comfortable more in the middle cushion than the farthest.

His onesie has been traded for sweats and his whiskers scrubbed away– though a faded, gray smear crosses his jawline. You consider telling him, or licking your thumb and scratching it away yourself, but it makes you feel less weird to be the only one still in costume so you let it stay.

“I like these,” you tug the cotton pant leg of Penelope’s outfit. It’s a matching set, frilly and plaid with a black cat stamped to the torso.

She tucks her lower lip away sheepishly and pushes her crown into your shoulder. Her hair's damp, soaking your sleeve cold, but you fawn at the affection more than anything.

“Did you find that picture? From her first birthday? I think it’s in there.” Steve gestures toward the closed album in your lap with the remote but remains glued to the TV.

“No, I didn’t finish looking.”

“I wanna see,” Penelope arches over your legs, prying the book open.

Steve rewinds the film to the start and pauses it so he can look too.

You thumb the plastic sheet over a recent image of Penelope scrunching her nose at the camera, a riot of stickers across her face.

“RoRo!” She taps the photo beside it. It’s a haphazard blur, most likely captured by Penelope; you make out the shape of Steve first, then the less angular, slightly shorter person– a woman, RoRo. You think Penelope’s mentioned her before but nothing about the picture rings any bells.

“Mhmm. That’s Robin. Remember this was at the airport?”

“Is that when we got pizza?”

“Yeah!” Steve rubs her arm. “You have a good memory.”

You turn the page, revealing a set of grainy, blue-tinted photos from the same roll of film. Steve looks young for his age now, but he looked like a baby then. Strangely though when there’s an actual infant in his arms. He was thinner then but even softer in the face. Not unhappy, per se, but maybe missing a lightness he has now.

“This was on my twenty-third birthday,” he explains. “Look how little you were!”

“Did I eat cake?”

“No, you were too young, baby.” He chuckles, pointing to another photo. “You tried a banana for the first time in this one.”

“I like bananas.”

“You didn’t used to.”

Steve and Penelope share slices of their pasts fondly. You study the photos, compare these reflections to the people you find yourself next to. There’s an unexpected pinch in your chest– not getting the chance to know these versions of them, it makes you sad. But it’s a happy sort of sad. You’re grateful to know them now.

Penelope begs to flip through another album but Steve decides it’ll be too late to finish The Wizard of Oz if they do. His true reluctance stems from how emotional the first one made him– though you’ll pretend not to notice for his sake.

Steve bets Penelope an extra Reeses that she’ll fall asleep by the time Dorothy meets the scarecrow. It’s unfair, really. You tell Penelope not to pinky promise it but she does. And she loses awfully, yawning within five minutes and startling herself awake within ten. You scoff when Steve starts carding through her hair– her guaranteed snooze switch. It’s evil and you tell him so. So of course, that finishes her off long before Scarecrow makes an appearance; she curls into Steve’s side and digs a heel into yours. Poor girl never stood a chance.

“She had a lot of fun tonight,” Steve utters. It’s alarming at first, how his voice eclipses the TV like there isn’t a child snoring against his stomach. But she doesn’t stir. He knows she won’t.

“Did you?” You ask, skating between a whisper and not.

“Very much. You?”

“Mhmm. Loads,” you answer without hesitation. It’s possibly the easiest question anyone’s ever asked you. “I think Penelope’s right.”

He quirks an eyebrow against the front of the couch. His cheek is sinking further into the cotton like he might fall asleep.

“We should go trick-or-treating tomorrow too.”

His lips wane into a soft smile. If he wasn’t so drained he might laugh too. “What should we be? Penelope has a strict no-repeat costume rule.”

You hum, scraping your memory for the best costumes you’d seen. There were Power Rangers and Ghostbusters and several Batmen with their Catwomen. But the image of one young family sticks out the most in your mind. A young pair of parents with their son and daughter decked in moody black and white.

“Addams family?”

“Who’s who?”

“She’s Wednesday. Obviously.”

Steve chuckles, accidentally too loud and Penelope twitches against his thigh. He draws her against his chest readily and strokes her spine with the back of his hand. “Obviously,” he whispers.

“You’re Morticia and I’m Gomez, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s tall and pretty. Strong jawline, kinda sassy. I think you’ll make it work.”

You’re flirting. You know you are as soon as you say it. And you don’t mean to, it just happens; the words come intuitively as blinking. Your brain does all sorts of crazy things around Steve.

“You think I’m pretty?” He’s smiling hard. You can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“Pretty sassy, yeah,” you deflect. It’s a safer truth than admitting you do think he’s pretty.

He rolls his eyes. “My mom says Nell gets her attitude from me. Says it’s payback for how I was as a child.”

You gawk emphatically. “Were you a bad kid Steve Harrington?”

“I wasn’t bad– just needed attention I think.”

You hum. It’s a little surprising since you know Steve’s an only child to wealthier parents. You’d pegged him to be spoiled in both money and attention.

“Are you close with your parents?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Talk every now and then.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I came to terms with it a while ago. Even more after she was born.” He skims his lips against Penelope’s head. “I can’t imagine not being in her life. You know, not really knowing her? Not knowing her favorite things or when she’s hurting or what she’s up to every second of the day. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“She’ll be so grateful to have that kind of relationship when she’s older.”

“Yeah, maybe. Like way older.” His shoulders droop as he sighs, “She already thinks I’m smothering her. Wouldn’t hold my hand yesterday because she’s ‘too big’ she said.”

“Already?” You laugh.

“I know!” He groans. “I almost cried.”

“She loves you. Kids just show it in strange ways.”

“Yeah… She forced me to hold a slug last week.”

“You held it?”

“I had to! She was so excited to give it to me.”

“Aww. You’re a good dad.”

Steve's eyes caper down and his cheeks pinken. “I’m trying to be.”

Apart from the movie and an occasional sleep sigh from Penelope, silence swallows the room. It’s a comfortable silence; the kind you only get around people you’ve known forever; It feels like you’ve known Steve your entire life. You have to remind yourself it’s only been a few months. Remind yourself this is the first time you’ve ever even hung out.

You find yourself drifting to the future. A future, with Steve and Penelope. Vacations and school events and hiking trips and movie nights and so much more. It’s silly. It makes your heart want to rip itself from your chest.

Steve clears his throat. Your fantasy is only partially dissolved. “I’m gonna take her upstairs. Put her to bed.”

You lean forward and press into your knees, gearing to stand. “Okay. I should get going. It’s late.”

“Stay for a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

You have no reason to decline but even if you did, you aren’t sure you would be able to. Saying no to Steve is as hard as saying no to Penelope. They have the same puppy-dog eyes– brown and soft as sun-baked clay. That must be it.

Steve strains to stand with the added weight. He’s strong but Penelope’s four now and having growth spurts like there’s a race to be the tallest kid in school. She clings to him instinctually, slotting her face into his neck like it was sculpted specifically to be her pillow. Her gangly legs sway against his thighs as he slowly climbs the stairs and disappears onto the landing.

You don’t notice Steve’s return. He’s much quieter than before, taking softer steps and more calculated movements. He doesn’t have the buffer of his body heat to soothe Penelope back to sleep if she wakes. The palm on your shoulder startles you.

He whispers an apology from behind the couch, voice sweet and buttery as caramel. You let him guide you the short distance to the front door– expecting it to end there– but he presses into a pair of laced sneakers thrown beside the entry table.

The night’s chill is jolting, even in your coat. It’s easy to forget the months are slipping into winter when Steve’s around. He radiates warmth, not just in sun-kissed skin and honeyed eyes, but in his tone and his touches and every aspect of his spirit. And it bleeds like a fire. Brushes your cheeks like flames and stirs perpetually in your belly like magma.

He walks you the entire length of his driveway to your car. Probably would’ve opened the door for you if you didn’t beat him to it.

“Thank you for inviting me Steve,” you say, lingering in the threshold of your open door.

“Thank you for coming. I’m really happy you came. So is Penelope.”

“As much as I am looking forward to The Addams Family next year, we should plan something… maybe a little sooner?”

“Mmm. Let me check my schedule first,” he teases, rapping his fingers against the roof of your car.

“Whatever, boss-man.”

You still don’t get in. There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just a placeholder for when the right words come. And they don’t. Not tonight anyway. You could hug him? Peck his cheek? Pat his back as he might yours?

You settle for a safe and simple tight-lipped smile. He appreciates it just the same.

“See you Friday?” He asks.

“See you then.”

Steve guides the door closed after you settle in. He waits until your taillights have completely fizzled out in the shadows of his street to stroll back up to his house.

He thinks of you as he locks the front door and again as he finds your hat on the sectional and a third time as he slips under his sheets. Steve isn’t sure what to do. He feels sick. His heart is hammering and his gut twists itself in knots like it does when he’s afraid. He hasn’t quite figured out what about you is so scary but how can he possibly wait until Friday to find out?

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #dad steve harrington #steve harrington #coworker steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #the shape of family #skeltnwrites #my work

623 notes · View notes

xichilie · 2 months ago

Note

OMG! I absolutely love you for the way you did my request of Mydei trying to court reader ❤️😭🙏

It was so silly and perfect and i couldn't stop laughing!!!

And now theres part 2???

youre a blessing dear author 🫶

I'm glad you enjoy it, I had a lot of fun writing this ♡

Here's a part 3 ♡

Mydei x (fem)reader

Mydei courting reader (3)

Part 2

The streets of Okhema had grown quieter as the evening settled in, the sky painted in soft shades of purple and orange. The laughter of the children had faded, leaving only the distant murmur of the marketplace and the occasional chatter of passersby.

Y/N and Mydei walked side by side, their pace slow, unhurried. The excitement from earlier had died down, and now, a strange silence stretched between them.

For once, Mydei wasn’t speaking.

He wasn’t teasing her for losing, wasn’t boasting about his victory, wasn’t smirking at her like he usually did after getting the upper hand.

Instead, he was quiet.

It was… strange.

She kept sneaking glances at him, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. He was staring straight ahead, his usual sharp gaze slightly unfocused, as if deep in thought.

The memory of what happened just minutes ago replayed in her head—the chase, the cheers, the kids yelling about a reward, and then…

The kiss.

Her cheeks warmed just thinking about it.

She didn’t even know why she did it. It just felt like the right thing to do. Mydei had looked so composed, as if he hadn’t been flustered at all, and for some reason, that had annoyed her. So she acted on impulse, tugged him down, and kissed his cheek.

And then he turned bright red.

Just the thought of it made her lips twitch, but at the same time, guilt crept in.

She sighed quietly, lowering her gaze.

“…Sorry.”

The word slipped out so softly, she wasn’t sure he even heard it.

But then—

He stopped.

Y/N felt it immediately—the shift in the air, the sudden lack of movement beside her. She turned, only to see Mydei standing still, brows furrowed, watching her with open confusion.

“…What?” His voice was quieter than usual.

She hesitated before meeting his gaze. “I said… I’m sorry.”

His frown deepened. “For what?”

“For… earlier.” She shifted on her feet. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was probably weird, and I—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just—”

“Why are you apologizing?”

She blinked at the sharpness of his tone.

Mydei was still staring at her, golden eyes unreadable, but there was something frustrated in the way he looked at her. Like he didn’t understand why she would even say that.

Y/N bit her lip, suddenly feeling awkward. “…Because it was kind of unfair? You didn’t really get a say in it.”

At that, Mydei let out a breath—one of incredulity.

“You think I didn’t want that?”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The words were quiet. Almost grumbled. As if he hadn’t even meant to say them out loud.

But she heard them.

Clearly.

Her lips parted slightly, her brain short-circuiting for a second. “…What?”

Mydei’s expression stiffened, and he immediately looked away, crossing his arms. “Forget it.”

“No, hold on, what did you just say?”

“Forget it, Y/N.”

“I will not.”

“Tch.”

He turned on his heel and started walking again, this time at a slightly faster pace.

Y/N scrambled to keep up, her heart hammering, the heat rising to her cheeks again.

Did she just—

Did she mishear him?

Or did he really just say—

No. No way.

…Right?

Y/N hurried after Mydei, her heart pounding in her chest. He was not getting away that easily.

Before he could take another step, she quickly moved in front of him, blocking his path.

He stopped abruptly, barely avoiding bumping into her. “Move.”

“No.” She crossed her arms, standing her ground.

His golden eyes narrowed. “Y/N.”

“Mydei.” She mimicked his tone, unwavering. “We’re talking about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You just said something that completely contradicts the way you act, and you expect me to just ignore it?” She scoffed. “No way. You’re going to explain what you meant.”

“Tch.” Mydei’s jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered away for a moment. His entire posture screamed tense, his arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was physically keeping himself from reaching for something—maybe a sword, maybe just a distraction.

Y/N took a step closer, searching his face.

“…Mydei.”

His eyes snapped back to hers.

“I don’t get you,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “One second, you’re messing with me, the next, you’re ignoring me, and now you’re—” She exhaled in frustration. “Now you’re saying things like that, and you won’t even explain what you mean.”

Mydei stared at her, unmoving.

For a moment, Y/N thought he was just going to shut down entirely, to brush her off and push past her.

But then—

“…You really don’t get it, do you?”

His voice was quiet. Almost amused, but not in a mocking way. More like he was baffled.

Y/N frowned. “Get what?”

His golden eyes studied her face—searching, considering. Then, finally, he exhaled.

“I like you, Y/N.”

Silence.

Y/N blinked, not entirely sure she heard him right. “…What?”

His lips pressed together, then curved into a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not gonna make me say it twice.”

Her brain short-circuited.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

He—

He what?

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her thoughts felt scrambled, like someone had just thrown all the pieces of a puzzle onto the floor and expected her to figure it out in five seconds.

Mydei liked her?

Like—liked her?

She must’ve looked as dumbfounded as she felt because Mydei let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

Y/N snapped out of it. “Hold on.”

“What.”

“How—” She ran a hand through her hair, still trying to process. “Since when?”

His gaze flickered to the side, and for the first time, he was the one looking unsure. “…A while.”

Oh.

She swallowed. “And you—” Her voice faltered slightly. “You were trying to tell me?”

He scoffed. “Tch. I was showing you.”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it.

All the moments over the past few weeks flashed in her mind—his sparring matches with her, his gifts, the way he lingered around her, his small but rare smiles, everything.

Oh.

Her face burned. “I—I didn’t—”

“Yeah. I figured,” he muttered.

She groaned, covering her face for a second. “I thought you were just—y’know, being you!”

He gave her a look. “I don’t do this kind of shit for just anyone.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, and oh gods, he was serious.

Oh.

Y/N lowered her hands, her heart hammering in her chest. “And… you’re not joking?”

His expression darkened. “You think I’d joke about this?”

…No. No, he wouldn’t.

The realization hit her like a wave.

This whole time—this whole time—he had been trying to tell her. And she—she had been too oblivious to see it.

Y/N let out a breath, her pulse racing. She met his gaze, something twisting in her chest.

“…Oh.”

Mydei stared at her for a moment. Then he scoffed. “Yeah. Oh.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her mind spinning as she stared at Mydei.

The weight of everything that had just been said pressed down on her chest, making her feel both incredibly stupid and incredibly overwhelmed. She had been blind—completely and utterly blind.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “…I’m sorry.”

Mydei’s brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For not noticing.” She exhaled shakily, looking down at the ground. “For making you go through all that trouble just to get me to see something that should’ve been obvious.”

“Tch.” Mydei’s lips pressed together, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”

She scoffed. “You literally had to chase me through half of Okhema before I even started putting the pieces together—”

“That’s not your fault.”

She looked up at him. He was staring at her, expression firm—certain.

“…Then whose fault is it?” she asked quietly.

He sighed, crossing his arms. “Mine.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I should’ve just said something sooner.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Instead of relying on Kremnoan traditions that clearly mean nothing to you.”

Y/N frowned. “That’s not—”

“I kept thinking, ‘she’ll get it eventually.’” His voice was low, almost frustrated—but not at her. “That one of these days, you’d finally understand.”

She bit her lip, guilt settling in her stomach. “…I still feel bad.”

Mydei let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re impossible.”

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “And you’re stubborn.”

They locked eyes, and for a brief moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then—

“…I liked you.”

The words tumbled out before Y/N could stop them.

Mydei froze.

Her eyes widened slightly as she realized what she’d just said.

“I—I mean—” She sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly flustered. “I like you—I liked you—no, I mean—” She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “I never let myself think about it!”

Mydei remained still, watching her carefully. “…What do you mean?”

Y/N inhaled shakily, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I mean, I liked you—I like you—but I never let myself think about it.” Her voice grew softer. “Because you’re you.”

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his golden eyes. “…Me?”

“You’re a prince, Mydei,” she murmured. “You’re an Chrysos heir. You have responsibilities. A whole kingdom to think about. And I’m just—”

Her voice faltered, her chest tightening.

Just Y/N.

Mydei’s brows drew together.

“Y/N.”

Her breath hitched slightly when he suddenly stepped closer.

She swallowed, forcing herself to keep talking. “I just—I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t let myself think about it, because—”

“Enough.”

Her words died in her throat.

His voice was firm—certain.

She looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his golden gaze.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“You think I care about any of that?” Mydei scoffed, shaking his head. “You think it matters to me that I’m a prince and you’re not?”

Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

He exhaled sharply, then—without hesitation—reached out, cupping the side of her face with his hand.

She froze, her breath catching.

“You,” Mydei said quietly, “are the only thing I have ever wanted for myself.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

Her mind went completely blank.

Mydei held her gaze, his thumb gently brushing against her cheek. “…Do you understand now?”

She barely managed to nod, her face burning.

He let out a small, breathy chuckle—soft, fond.

“Good.”

The morning sun bathed Okhema in a soft golden light, the streets already alive with the usual sounds of merchants calling out their wares and warriors beginning their morning drills. Among them, Mydei walked with an unmistakable air of satisfaction. His usual composed and sharp demeanor was still intact, but there was something different—his shoulders weren’t as tense, his expression wasn’t as severe, and if one looked closely enough, they might even catch a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Phainon definitely noticed.

He had been casually leaning against a stone pillar near the training grounds, sipping his morning coffee, when Mydei passed by. At first, Phainon had assumed his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no. Mydei looked happy.

Suspiciously happy.

Phainon’s smirk was immediate. He pushed off the pillar and lazily strolled toward him.

“Well, well,” he drawled, falling into step beside Mydei. “Aren’t you in a fine mood today?”

Mydei didn’t react right away, but Phainon didn’t miss the way his lips twitched slightly before he responded.

“Hm.”

That was it. Just hm.

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “That’s all I get? No sharp retort? No glare?” He whistled, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

Mydei sighed, rolling his eyes. “What do you want, deliverer?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” Phainon took another sip of his coffee, watching Mydei closely. “Just curious as to why you look like someone who just won a war without lifting a sword.”

Mydei scoffed. “You’re exaggerating.”

Phainon clicked his tongue. “Am I?” He took a step ahead, then turned to walk backward, facing Mydei as he grinned. “You’re radiating smugness, Mydei. It’s practically dripping off of you. It’s disgusting.”

The golden-eyed prince sighed, clearly debating whether or not to entertain this conversation.

Phainon’s grin widened. “Does this have anything to do with a certain someone?”

For the first time since their conversation started, Mydei hesitated.

It was subtle—the briefest pause in his step, the slightest shift in his expression—but Phainon caught it immediately.

“Oh, this is rich.” Phainon let out a delighted laugh. “You’re really not gonna say anything?”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Right. And I suppose that faint blush on your ears is also nothing?”

Mydei turned his head slightly, subtly adjusting his collar, but it was too late.

Phainon saw everything.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” Phainon continued, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “Should I go find Y/N? Ask her what happened?”

That finally got a reaction.

Mydei stopped walking.

Phainon barely had a second to register it before Mydei turned his head just enough to level him with a look.

“…You won’t.”

Phainon blinked. Then, slowly, a grin stretched across his face.

“Oh, but now I have to.”

Mydei exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Phainon.”

Phainon only laughed, stepping closer. “Come on. Give me something. Did she finally get it?”

Mydei crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “…More or less.”

Phainon gasped dramatically. “You mean all of your awkward attempts actually paid off?”

Mydei gave him a flat look. “They weren’t awkward.”

“They absolutely were,” Phainon said smugly. “But that’s beside the point.” He tilted his head. “So? What now?”

Mydei was quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly, a small, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

“Now,” he said, “I make sure she never forgets.”

Phainon blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

Then he let out a low whistle. “Oh. Oh, this is going to be fun to watch.”

Phainon still wasn’t done.

If anything, Mydei’s flustered reaction only fueled his mischief further.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Phainon reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His smirk was downright wicked as he tapped a few times on the screen before turning it toward Mydei.

“Seems like you had a good time yesterday,” he mused, his voice laced with amusement.

Mydei’s golden eyes landed on the screen.

It was the picture.

The one Phainon had secretly taken while lurking in the distance—Y/N on her toes, a hand gripping Mydei’s collar, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The normally stoic prince was caught mid-reaction, his ears red, his expression stunned.

A moment of silence.

Then—

“Mydei?” Phainon said, grinning. “You okay there, buddy?”

Mydei exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Phainon.”

Phainon’s smirk widened. “Yes?”

Mydei’s eye twitched.

“Delete it.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Phainon pocketed his phone, taking a casual step back. “This is gold. Fantastic, even.”

Mydei ran a hand down his face. He inhaled deeply, as if to compose himself. Then, he took a step forward.

Phainon immediately took another step back.

“Mydei,” he said, amusement clear in his voice.

The prince said nothing. He merely rolled his shoulders back, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to something much more dangerous.

Phainon recognized that look instantly.

“Oh, shit.”

Mydei lunged.

Phainon barely had time to react before he bolted, laughter spilling from his lips as he dodged between passing warriors and startled civilians.

Mydei was right behind him.

“You’re dead, Phainon.”

“So worth it!” Phainon cackled, vaulting over a wooden crate as he ran through the streets of Okhema.

“Get back here!”

“Never!”

Civilians watched in stunned silence as the two Chrysos heirs chased eachother through the marketplace, dodging carts, weaving through narrow streets, their thundering footsteps echoing through the city.

It was definitely not the last time Phainon was going to bring it up.

384 notes · View notes

jmstoesblog · 5 months ago

Text

— Date night gone wrong

Pairing: Yan!bf!JK x fem!reader

Summary: breaking up with your scary and crazy boyfriend goes the wrong way.

Word count: 1,2k+ (1,262)

Warnings: manhandling, toxic jk, he’s a HUGE red flag 🚩, spanking, he’s controlling and possessive,

Release: 12.12.24

Note: excuse the spelling and grammar mistakes 🫶🏽

———————-

You loved your boyfriend— no doubt, but sometimes….. he scares you.

Like right now, he’s glaring at the poor waiter. The waiter accidentally touched your hand while placing down your dish.

“This fucker.” Jungkook mutters, so you don’t hear him. His expression quickly changes when you look at him, “did you say something?” You ask, you heard some mumbling.

Jungkook sweetly smiles, “I said, you look beautiful.”

You smile back, “thank you. You look handsome as well.” You complement him back.

You’re not lying though. He is wearing a black suit, his hair is parted in the middle and is giving a ‘wet look’

(190811 Jungkook 🙏🏽)

You on the other hand are wearing a dark red dress that reaches just below your knees. You are wearing the necklace Jungkook gifted you last year on your anniversary and the promise ring (which you actually always wear) and the diamond earrings which Jungkook also gifted you. In the same shade as your dress, you’re wearing matching heels.

Jungkook is also wearing jewelry gifted by you. The bracelet you handmade for him, since the day you gifted it to him, he hasn’t taken it off. Except when he is showering or bathing, “I don’t want to get it wet. The pearls could loose their color.”

Then he is wearing a ring which has your name engraved on it. And a Rolex which he bought himself.

But no matter how handsome he is, you can’t look past his possessive nature. He gets jealous really easily, you always thought it’s cute, but now after sometime, it’s getting annoying. He’s too much. He would always make you forget by fucking you.

So you want to end your suffering.

You’re going to break up with him.

You figured it would be better to do it in a public place rather than home.

“Jungkook…..” you begin, immediately he puts his attention on you, “yes?” His eyes are shimmering, you gulp, “there’s something I want to tell you….”

Jungkook furrows his brows. Why are you so nervous?

“Sure, you can tell me anything, baby. You know that.”

You take a deep breath, reconsidering your decision.

“Iwanttobreakupwithyou.”

Jungkook raises his brows, maybe he heard you wrong? There’s no way you want to break up with him. Why would you? You love him.

“What did you say? Mind repeating that again.”

You hate it whenever he talks like that. Voice stern like he is about to punish you.

“I want to break up wi—“

“What!?” He snaps harshly, you gulp, sweat building up on your forehead. There’s pin drop silence, the voices of the people talking fading out.

“Why?” He lowly asks you with a deadly glare. Before you can answer he starts asking more questions, “Are you not happy with me? Do you not love me? Baby you promised to never leave me. You’re not going to break your promise, are you?”

Silence falls upon the both of you as you refuse to answer any of his questions. You indeed are happy with him, sometimes. You love him but you are doing no good to him. You’re not good for him. He is destroying himself.

“Alright,” he begins, “we are going to go home now, you are going to think about that again and when you thoroughly thought about this then we’re going to talk again.”

He gets up and leaves without waiting for you. Jungkook knows you won’t escape, he knows. Taking deep slow breaths you get up, walking towards the parking lot. After spotting Jungkook’s Mercedes, you walk towards it with wobbly legs. You feel like passing out, you want to let out all the screams and sob your heart out but you refrain yourself from doing that. You don’t want to make a scene and make him even more mad.

He is already in the car, waiting for you. He is not holding the passenger door open for you like usually. That’s when you know he’s really angry. Opening the door you slide in, once you wear the seatbelt he drives off.

The whole fifteen minute ride home is filled with silence and his heavy breathing. Not once does he look at you but you do steal some glaces at him. Hand gripping the steering wheel tightly, jaw clenched, tongue poking his inner cheek…….. you’re done.

It’s not like you’re not happy with him. He does make you happy but sometimes he’s too much. Too possessive. Too controlling.

You once suggested a little break and he completely freaked out. He punished you, hard.

You flinch when you hear the door slam shut, you sigh looking outside the window. You close your eyes and take a deep breath before getting out of the car and walking towards the front door.

The door is already open, a small gap. You take off your shoes, wearing your slippers and walk to the bedroom.

You don’t see or hear Jungkook anywhere which puts you on the edge and makes you sweat nervously.

How are on going to face him now? You’re too scared to look him in the eyes. What should you do? Knowing him he’ll probably lash out on you.

“Have you thought about your decision?” His voice breaks the silence.

You slowly look up at him, he is still wearing the suit and his hair is still wavy. His eyes are piercing through your skull, you feel like crying.

“I asked you something, didn’t I?” He harshly speaks.

You sigh, nodding, “yes, Jungkook.”

“Panties off.” He commands you. You instantly remove them and sit properly on the bed.

Jungkook scoffs and sits on the bed, picking you up and placing you harshly on his lap. He rolls up your dress and delivers a hard slap on your ass.

You wince and bite your lip in pain, “what did you say at the restaurant earlier?” He asks, when you don’t answer he slap your ass cheek again, “you answer when I ask you something!” He yells at you, “mhm, what did you say at our date?”

The way he said those last two words have you breathing heavily. You flinch when he starts rubbing your bare folds, “not answering?” He says with a tint of anger.

He hates being ignored. You of all people should know. You should also know to not leave him. You disappointed him, deeply. He excepted better from you. Looks like he needs to tech you a lesson. A punishment.

“I… I wanted to br- break up with yo-u.” Your voice cracks.

Tears start forming but don’t fall.

“Mhm,” he hums, holding your throat in a deadly grip, “you did say that. Why? Are you not happy with me? You don’t love me as much as I do?”

Again you refuse to answer any of his questions causing him to take a deep breath and slap your bare folds.

Tears spring free at the burning sensation, ruining your make up.

He rolls the dress down and makes you sit on his thigh, your back is pressed against his front. You hear his breathing very clear, his mouth is next to your left ear. His arm wrapped around your waist.

You wince when you come in contact with your dress, the texture making you arch your back for a second.

“I will fuck the thought of you leaving me out of you until you understand that you’re never going to leave me, breaking up with me isn’t an option. Once you start behaving like the good girl you are, I won’t be mad anymore. Understood?”

You hesitantly nod, “understood.”

—————

Do NOT copy or translate

Thank you for reading 🤍

Masterlist

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #y/n #bts #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bf jungkook #boyfriend #boyfriend jungkook #yandere jungkook #yandere #bts army #army #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jk smut #jk #toxic jungkook #bts fic

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justrustandstardust · 1 year ago

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it's established that gojo's blindfold is a hallmark of his character. it's understood that the blindfold keeps things out; however, i also think there's something to be said about how it also keeps things in. despite the fact that there's already a lot of discourse regarding his blindfold, i think there's more to it than meets the eye (or doesn't, in the case of gojo).

this is going to be somewhat of a long post, but i promise that if you stick around, the end will make the journey worth it.

(this analysis is the lovechild of mine and @chiarrara, whose sexy big brain sponsored this whole thing).

as a character, gojo is unknowable without his eyes. it's very much proposed that gojo is his eyes; he's even repeatedly referred to as "the six-eyes brat". he's the strongest, and his eyes embody that status/symbol/role in the narrative. his eyes and his character are so intertwined that they almost become the same thing.

we are repeatedly reminded of his eyes throughout the story; they are perhaps his most distinct and identifiable feature. when we're shown the progression of gojo's life from birth to adolescence, we only see his eyes.

during this scene when toji is remebering him, he repeatedly refers to him as the "six-eyes brat". he is his eyes, and nothing else. that's the only thing that toji knows about him because to the jujutsu world, that's all he is.

however, when he's a teenager, although his eyes are more present than we've ever seen them throughout the series, they're noticeably un-glorified. they're undeniably present but they're unremarkable.

they're less symbols of his power and more what they are, which are just eyes. we see glimpses of his eyes so often that we almost forget that they're special, until he steps into his role as the strongest and reminds us of them.

it's important to note that what sets the depiction of his eyes apart here (versus when he's an adult) is the presence of geto. if you comb through every single scene with geto in hidden inventory, you will find that gojo's eyes are not the focal point of his character. they're backgrounded features; his eyes are either half-hidden or entirely obscured by his shades, and they rarely glow.

his eyes make themselves known when geto is absent, like during gojo's fight with toji. in these moments, he is the strongest, invariably leaving room for nothing else. the only exception to this rule is when he's carrying riko's body, in which his eyes glow when he toes the line between human nature and godlike power. if we understand his eyes to be conduits of his power, then their noticeable downplaying can be understood as gojo leaving behind his title as the strongest and stepping into his humanity.

when geto breaks up with gojo, his eyes are not only uncovered, they're un-emphasized. they're perhaps the dullest we've ever seen them, and their distinct, eye-catching blue is swallowed by the whites surrounding his irises. his strength and power don't matter in this moment, and his eyes reflect that. when he's losing geto, he is not the strongest; he is purely gojo satoru.

the emphasis on his eyes in his youth makes their absence in his adulthood even more stark. we rarely see his eyes now, and it's only in the direst of circumstances.

everyone is familiar with the dictum '"the eyes are the window to the soul", which is true: eyes let people see into us. however, they function both ways; like a two-way mirror, they also let us see the world. eyes let people look in, but they also let their beholder look out.

there's a reason gojo only put on the blindfold after geto left. why didn't he wear it from the start? why did he start wearing it at all? all the credit to @hijinks-n-lowjinks for their masterful analysis that inspired this idea, which is as follows:

"....Gojo wants nothing more than to leave the memory of Geto unscathed....There's still a part of Geto's memory that's untarnished if he keeps it private instead of exposing the depth of Geto's crimes to the students, and I think that's what he's clinging onto."

gojo wears the blindfold for two reasons: one, to keep people out, and two, to keep geto in.

in donning the blindfold, gojo seals geto in his mind and simultaneously seals himself off from the world. he holds geto inside of himself, rendering him (or gojo's construction of him) untouchable by anyone else. in order to achieve this, however, the practice necessitates that gojo keeps everyone else out, because they belong to a world without geto that gojo literally and figuratively refuses to see. the wall functions like eyes: twofold, both keeping in and keeping out.

geto can be understood as gojo's blindfold: he is the reason it exists and why gojo put it on the first place. the blindfold is an intractable element in how he (doesn't) navigate the world without geto, because geto's departure from his life catalyzed his withdrawal from the world, which is symbolized through the blindfold.

when geto was in his life, gojo let the world in because it had geto in it. after geto left, he wasn't there for gojo's eyes to find. the permanent blindfold operates like schrödinger's cat— instead of seeing a world without geto, gojo simply chooses to stop seeing.

it's worth noting that the literal barrier pairs with the figurative barrier gojo puts up, which is in his disposition.

there's a reason that gojo's cocky, lighthearted persona comes out when he's wearing the blindfold. it's a figurative barrier that matches the literal one. like i said before, we only see his eyes in the direst of circumstances, and his goofy, cocksure demeanour is notably absent from these instances. i'm not saying it's fake, but the persona is a front, designed to keep people at a distance. he plays it up, and it feels even more distant because we can't see his eyes.

however, gojo isn't the only person with a barrier.

after the breakup, we never see geto wear casual clothes. we always see him in his cult leader outfit, which is distinct and elaborate. geto knows it's a costume, evidenced by the way he even says it himself when someone asks why he's wearing the cult getup:

we also see a notable shift in his persona, to a crazed and almost manic disposition that contrasts starkly with the gentle, kind nature he had in his youth. geto's literal barrier is found in his cult outfit, whereas his figurative one is in his disposition. although they present differently, gojo and geto's literal and figurative barriers mechanize the same modes of expression that seem to be at odds with one another.

gojo’s disposition is designed to counteract the loneliness that shapes his character (a loneliness that geto abetted in being his companion) and geto’s disposition is designed to push people away, because he decided no one could understand him (a role which was previously fulfilled by gojo).

gojo can read geto in a way that no one else can, and geto is gojo's counterpart in a way that no one else can be— they’re missing something only the other can provide and compensating with two dispositions at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.

when geto is dying, gojo drops the literal and figurative mask. he's almost unrecognizable; he's not laughing, he's not smiling, and he's not wearing the blindfold, because he doesn't need it anymore. the only person he wants to see, the only person he's ever wanted to see, is in front of him now.

however, once again, he's not only one whose walls have come down.

geto drops the manic persona (although he retains the ideals) and he gently smiles in a way that's reminiscent of his youth. his cult leader outfit is also falling off, exposing him in more ways than one. he admits that he never had any hate for anyone at jujutsu tech, and in doing so, materializes the version of himself that lived in gojo's mind for a decade. that's why gojo doesn't bother with the blindfold; the geto in his mind and the geto in front of him are congruous and he's looking at the person he's been seeing inside his head all along.

it's been established that we don't know what gojo says to geto. however, it is also absolutely key that we don't see gojo's eyes in this deeply intimate moment. his eyes, which are inextricably linked to his strength and his role. his eyes, which are the medium through which he limits his engagement with the world. his eyes, which he sealed after geto left and only brings out when he's tasked with fulfilling his role.

in this moment, he considers the question geto asked him during the breakup. "are you gojo satoru because you're the strongest? or are you the strongest because you're gojo satoru?"

and in shielding his eyes from us, gojo answers him.

"i'm gojo satoru because of you, suguru."

his eyes, as the windows to the soul and witnesses to the world, are looking at geto suguru not as the strongest but as gojo satoru, and they are meant for geto alone. yes, the eyes are the windows to the soul but they're also two-way mirror— gojo opens his eyes for geto to look into his soul because the material manifestation of his soul is dying in front of him right now. in baring his eyes, he bares his soul.

before geto dies, we see him the same way gojo does. he seems bashful, almost shy, even mirthful; all traits that are antithetical to the crazed front he put up earlier. conversely, gojo is the most solemn we've ever seen him. in this moment, we see them both for who they really are, because they literally and figuratively only reveal themselves to each other.

after they part ways in shinjuku, geto and gojo embody the same barriers through identical mechanisms: fabric and persona. these barriers function to do the same thing, which is to keep people at a distance in order to leave space for the one person noticeably absent from their lives. it's very fitting that their walls come down as they meet for the last time, because the only people who could've torn them down are the same people for whom they put them up in the first place— nobody else but each other.

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better-setterv2 · 12 days ago

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𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒮𝒶𝓌 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hi Guys! Here’s another quick story I created. Hope you enjoy. Don’t forget to leave any comments or suggestions for any improvement. I will write a part 2 when possible for this. Lots of love xx

Summary: At the Melbourne Grand Prix, a law student sees colour for the first time when she locks eyes with Lewis Hamilton. Her unexpected soulmate.

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

P1, P2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

I used to think people were exaggerating when they described life without colour. They’d speak of greyscale like it was some poetic ache. For me, it was normal. Mundane, sure, but comfortable. The sky was always the same shade as the pavement, and the leaves on trees held no real difference from the pages in my textbooks. That was just the way it was in my life - until one day everything changed in one small moment.

I never liked loud places. Amilia, on the other hand, thrived in them. She was the kind of person who wore her emotions in neon, who pulled you into her chaos and made it feel like home. We’d been best friends since we were twelve, inseparable even through the noise of my parents’s divorce, through exam stress and the mess of university.

That’s how I ended up at the Melbourne Grand Prix. She practically dragged me here as if I owed her a lifetime of favours. “Come on,” she’d said, bouncing on her heels. “It’s just one race. You need to live a little.” I groaned, wanting to write my criminology paper at home, but she wasn’t having it. So I went, expecting nothing more than engine noise and overpriced drinks.

The paddock was buzzing with life. Team radios crackling, camera shutters clicking, and the commotion fans echoed excitedly as engineers wheeled tires and tools across the asphalt. The air smelled faintly of petrol and sunscreen, warm from the sun bearing down despite a breeze that rustled through flags and banners.

You felt a bit like you were intruding.

Your best friend, Amilia, on the other hand, looked like she belonged here. Her eyes were wide with wonder, practically sparkling behind her sunglasses as she tugged you by the wrist. You both weaved between clusters of fans and staff like she’d done it a hundred times before.

You weren’t sure how she managed it, getting these paddock passes through some university connection or something else but you didn’t ask. You were just the guest, the sidekick. You’d promised her you'd come. Then again, a day in the sun was better than a weekend buried in case briefs.

“This is insane,” Amilia said, practically vibrating. “That’s Charles Leclerc. Oh my God. And that - oh my gosh wait, that’s Lando Norris!”

You smiled at her excitement, even if you still didn’t quite know who anyone was. “Are those real names? They sound made up.”

She snorted and waved you forward. “Don’t embarrass me. Just - ugh come on, if we’re quick we might catch Hamilton before he disappears into the Mercedes garage.”

You rolled your eyes but followed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Is that the one you had a poster of in high school?”

“One of many,” she said proudly, already pushing toward a barrier where a handful of fans were holding out items for autographs. “He's still the GOAT, you know.”

You nodded absentmindedly, eyes scanning the crowd, vaguely detached. Everything was grey. The world had always been like this for you. Just shadows and light, never colour. Unfortunately majority of people unlike you had already found their soulmate. Even Amilia. You’d learned long ago not to think too much about it. Soulmates were a lottery. Most people never met theirs.

And if you did, well that kind of connection wasn’t promised forever.

You tuned back in just as the crowd murmured in excitement, a shift in energy that rippled outward. Someone was approaching.

You turned toward the commotion, toward the silver and black uniforms making way for a driver stepping out of a shaded corridor. He moved with quiet assurance, every inch of him commanding attention without asking for it. His race suit was peeled down to his waist, revealing a black team shirt clinging to his frame, dreadlocks tucked into a black cap. His tattoos peeked from beneath his sleeves.

And then he looked up.

It wasn’t instant recognition. It wasn’t like the movies.

It was a shift.

Suddenly, the sun wasn’t white. It glowed gold. The flags waving above weren’t pale anymore but they were red, blue, green. The fan’s signs turned vivid, loud, real. The paddock snapped into colour like the lens of your world had finally come into focus.

You gasped eyes widening, hand flying to your mouth.

And across the crowd, Lewis Hamilton had stilled completely.

His face was unreadable for a moment, eyes locked on yours, lips parted just slightly in what might’ve been shock. And then, a slow shuddered breath. The kind you take when something enormous is happening and you’re trying to stay grounded through it.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The crowd blurred around him. Even Amilia’s excited tug on your arm felt distant, like it was underwater. All that mattered was this thread now tethering you to him. It felt real, palpable, and terrifying.

His gaze held yours, intense but not overwhelming. Soft around the edges. Curious. As if he was seeing you for the first time and like he already knew you.

And you realized your heart was hammering in your chest.

You didn’t know what came next. What you were supposed to say, or if he’d even approach. You didn’t know if it was fate or luck or just some cosmic accident that was by mistake.

But colour bloomed behind your eyes now.

And it had everything to do with him.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was like the world inhaled with you, holding its chest tight as a thousand muted greys bled into dazzling hues. The air shifted - warmer, deeper and for a dizzying moment, everything was too much. The bright banners, the gleam of cars, the sun glistening in your direction. Colour bloomed around you in a rush. You blinked hard, your eyes watering, and that’s when you realized it wasn’t the world that had changed.

It was him.

He was across the paddock, possibly twenty feet away, walking alongside his team, sunglasses pushed up on his head, dreadlocks tied back loosely. His expression had changed mid-step as his casual confidence replaced by stunned stillness. His deep brown eyes were locked on yours, wide with recognition. You could tell that he was able to see it too.

Amilia hadn’t noticed. She was too busy fawning over Charles Leclerc a few feet away, scribbling something frantically on the back of her media pass.

You didn’t know what to do. Say something? Move? Laugh? Cry? Or just stand there in shock?

You were brought back into reality, when you noticed Lewis Hamilton started walking toward you.

You thought maybe you should turn around and run, or at least pretend this wasn’t happening. However your feet stayed rooted. As he neared, the noise of the paddock dulled into background static. For a second, you weren’t a uni student awkwardly tagging along to a race you didn’t understand. You were someone, someone meant to be here. Though that was not entirely true as Amilia dragged you along. But still. Maybe fate caused this.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little rough. Not because he was impolite, he just sounded overwhelmed same as you.

You managed to nod. “Hi,” you replied in a weak voice.

His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorise it. “It’s you,” he murmured.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “You see it too?”

Lewis smiled softly, almost in disbelief. “Yeah. Everything’s different now.”

You wanted to say something clever, something memorable. But instead in return you laughed quiet and shaky. “I was just dragged here by my best friend. I didn’t even want to come.”

Lewis’s smile widened a bit, more relaxed now. “Guess it was meant to happen.”

From behind you, Amilia’s voice cut in while holding your shoulders roughly - “Wait, is that Lewis Hamilton? Are you talking to Lewis Hamilton?!”

You turned, your head spinning. “I - um - yeah. I think I am.”

Lewis looked between the two of you. “Hey. You must be the reason she’s here,” he said to Amilia with a knowing smile.

She looked like she might faint. “You’re Lewis Hamilton.”

“And you’re responsible for this,” he said, motioning between you and him. “So…thank you.”

Amilia gawked, but Lewis returned his attention to you.

Amilia’s mouth dropped to the ground, glancing between the two of you. “Don’t tell me - he’s - he’s your soulmate!” However, neither of them pay attention to her. Both in their own world gazing into one another’s eyes.

“I know this is probably a lot,” he said gently, “but would you want to maybe get coffee or meet up later? Somewhere quieter?”

Your heart felt full, like it might spill over.

You nodded, smiling back. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 #f1 x reader #x reader #lewis hamilton #f1 smau #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine

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hoseoksluna · 11 months ago

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CHERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: soon-to-be-boyfriend!hobi x oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk)

genre: heavy, heavy, obnoxious smut

word count: 12.7k

summary: you don't know how he does it, but hobi makes you forget about the life you led before him, using his tongue.

playlist: hobi's playlist ; hobi's the weeknd playlist

pinterest board: cherries / taglist: join

warnings: oh my god—dd/lg but differently, businessman!hobi, dominant and emotional and fucking possessive hobi, oc is horny... a lot, praise kink, breeding kink sdflhldghfdklaxjkfghskfg, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, female and male masturbation, use of a sex toy, cum eating, ass eating, religious personification, mentions of anal sex, thigh and ass slapping fuck

note: my babies, i'm so happy to be posting PART TWO OF BERRIES for you, oh my god. i had the time of my LIFE writing this, had to take breaks every 20 mins, was horny beyond my fucking mind BECAUSE THE SMUT IN THIS? FUCK. THIS IS PURE FILTH. 12K WORDS OF FILTHY HOBI SMUT. IM DEAD. HAVE BEEN DEAD. i missed writing so much that i spewed this out in 3 days... literally how? but i'm so happy to be back. i hope you enjoy this part. make sure to let me know what you think! i'm in a severe (hehe) need of your feedback. I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

side note: this part has the entirety of my being in it. from the first word to the last. it means a lot to me. very special chapter! <3

By the time you come out of the art museum, it’s storming. A sound so cacophonous that it spreads dots of gooseflesh along the perimeter of your skin underneath your silk dress and the layer of your heavy trench coat. Loud and violent like your heart’s deep drum that stills once you see Hoseok leaning against his glossy car. Arms and legs crossed in the same fashion, clothed in the coupled shade of blackness, a mop of tousled hair swept back and rippling in the unforgiving wind that flushes his cheeks with its rosy coldness and then clouds pull in, darkening his stare fixed on you.

A shower of sudden rain finishes its touch on his countenance.

Eye contact broken, Hobi’s shoulders raise as he feels the iciness of the slender raindrops falling upon him, eyes flicked up to the shadowed heavens. A heartstring of yours snaps and you don’t really know who gave the command to your aching legs to run towards him with your coat suspended over your head—whether it was that weakened heart of yours or basic human decency. Emotion versus logic.

You find soon enough the verdict of the winner.

Because when you have to stand on your tippy toes to cover him from the rain, despite the fact you’re wearing your high-heeled boots, and Hobi takes the makeshift shield from your hands and shrouds you both from the wetness, an identical flush crawls from your left cheek, upon the column of your nose right next to your other cheek, warming you up from within.

Emotion. The string that ruptured grows again to its full length during that fleeting moment and you’re aching to take him home.

No rain in sight—just him in this close proximity, in this gray cocoon, smiling down at you lopsidedly, a dimmed light flickering in his inky pools, faintly, barely, only there for you to see. To catch and cling to like his patchouli scent does to you, a whiff of dainty wildflowers leaning in and enclosing around you, forcing away the thoughts that are erect in the corners of your mind, waiting for the adequate moment to strike. Thoughts of how you sense Jungkook’s life entwining around your world again; his companion perfuming the air with petrichor, the inner turmoil she must be facing the very strength that pulled those clouds in, causing a storm to stretch across the skies. You figure each beat of her confused heart must be the grumble of the thunder, but then Hobi’s outer film of softness amidst the darkness is a force way greater, because firmness broods right underneath it, and it is an energy that keeps those thoughts pressed against the walls of your mind.

He did turn you into a locked orchard—and the threat of another declared war isn’t even a wind that brushes past your fruit trees and berry bushes.

In fact, the more you deepen your exchange of gazes and Hobi cages you in between his shirt-clothed elbows, the more you want to show him the stain of your juices upon your panties.

You’re aroused—blooming, in need to be picked. It outweighs the past and you’re glad for it, deem your newly born sexuality more important than the doomed normalcy of your life.

You sink your manicured nails into that newness, adamant on not letting it go, regretting that you agreed to see your ex-boyfriend later tonight, regretting that you grew soft at the hint of his own normalcy, even though you said to yourself that you wouldn’t. It’s one of the reasons why you dig your nails deeper, maximizing your closeness to Hobi—it’s done in an effort to erase your foolish moment of weakness, to better yourself like you encouraged yourself to do earlier when you had perceived that you misinterpreted him. You curl your lips under your teeth to stifle back a sigh, wishing you were as firm as him, as stable in your decisions and your way of living as him. Wishing your weakness wasn’t a putty you play with, leave your fingerprints of your bad decisions on that blemish until you hate yourself, until the paste hardens and there’s nothing left for you to do but to watch it. Watch the evidence of your failure, your brokenness and your imbecility like still life—the curse, the doom of your life, haunting you.

It almost slinks in, threatening yet again to desiccate your orchard, the movement akin to a wave rolling in, but then Hobi speaks. And his voice sears those thoughts to nothing. Not even their shadows are left behind.

“Did you say hi to your friend?” he murmurs, reaching behind him to open the door of the passenger side for you, the coat that’s propped on his forearm lowering until it rests back around your shoulders.

You can merely nod, your empty mind focused on the absence of your selfishness—for once again, you want to be close to him for his sake, even more so when Hobi places his palm on the top edge of his car so you don’t hurt your head.

A prince, an orchardist, and a gentleman.

You’re feeding him and sucking his dick before he goes to work—you don’t care. Hope to God he fucks your brain out of your head and plants a new one; one that isn’t so stupid.

Seated inside his car, you glimpse profoundly at the way the rain kisses the crown of his head as he rounds his vehicle, sitting right beside you and carrying inside his heavenly skin fragrance, now accentuated by the residue of petrichor that all of a sudden doesn’t have anything to do with what you just bore. No hints, no thoughts, no wars. How he does it is something you’ll never have the capability of understanding—a fracture of attention of the intimate kind and he binds you to him, erasing your still fresh past as if it never happened.

You flex and relax your hand on your lap, a gesture that depicts that you cherish it to the point that you yearn to submit to it and remain submitted. And you will. You’ll figure out a way to stay stable, even if events appear to try and revolutionize you. A way to keep your fist clenched in his presence.

Hobi lets the car warm up a little bit before he turns on the heating, angling his rear view mirror just right, from which two purple, plush dice swing back and forth, colliding once and never meeting again.

How inspiring.

And then you watch his hands. Watch them dominate the car, spur it to life as he drives through the drenched street, parting the rain like a curtain, stepping in, taking you home.

As if he sensed your thoughts, he glances at you. “My place or yours?”

A red light halts his control and Hobi uses it to tap on the screen of his dashboard, dousing the space in a sultry, wet ambiance as slow, calm music breaks the silence. While it was comfortable for you, now you feel even more at ease and you wiggle in your seat, sinking deeper into the leather.

Quite useful material for the lecherous saturation of your mind; for the lustful layer of sweat lining your skin. You feel so hot. Feel the need to be ridded of your clothes right now. Feel a certain kind of vivacity that drives you to do things you wouldn’t normally do.

You take his hand from the shift stick, cradling it with both of your own hands, a finger tracing the veins that paint a slender but a strong temple—a temple for his beauty and character, you suspect.

“My place,” you say, yearning to make him feel at home in your space; cook for him, make him come, stuff like that.

Green light blinks and Hobi doesn’t withdraw from your hold. No, he tells you what to do, quickly.

“Keep your hand on mine,” he instructs and you listen, sinking your fingers between his and gripping him like in an effort to grip onto stable submission. “Just like that.”

Your stomach flips at his choice of praise and you lick your lips, tightening your hold hard enough that he peeks at you with a smirk while he shifts the gear stick with you and speeds down the road. The heat worsens and you don’t think you can take it anymore.

That alone is the most attractive thing you ever experienced with a man.

And when he plays with your thumb, you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs together. Watch him intently sneak a glance as you do so, knowing your dress has ridden up a little, exposing your tanned thighs, swathed with the brown leather of your boots. Your position also provides him the intriguing reveal of a secret—you’re wearing knee socks underneath. They were invisible to his sight this whole time and now that he sees them, his eyes linger there for a few seconds longer before he drags his teeth along his bottom lip, flicking his gaze back to the road.

“You’re wearing knee socks under those?” he asks, his voice low and tortured. Doesn’t look at you as he does. Only shifts the gear stick again, stiffly. You imagine something else is stiff, too, and you smile, a tendril of confidence clothing you in allure and sinful, dark joy. It beckons your vivacity to drive forward.

You move his hand to let the pads of his fingers feel the smooth fabric. His body twitches, his lungs inhaling a short, soft air, mouth parted, eyes unblinking, gloomy just like the heavens above. A thunder sounds and you feel like roaring just the same.

“It matches my underwear,” you murmur and the thunder prolongs, echoing feebly. You drag his hand down your thigh with the intention to also make him feel the nylon material of your panties, but he halts your movement halfway, hand gripping your flesh, trembling ever so slightly, stirring your confidence. You almost moan at his brusqueness.

“Don’t,” he scolds, brows furrowing, chest heaving in that slow manner. His lips dry and he wets them. Doesn’t spare you a glance. Turns the wheel with that one hand as he takes a left turn, his posture slouched, thighs spread, a small tent evident in between. His arousal for you grows and it only propels you to finish the job, knowing his scolding was merely a warning, not a portrayal of his discomfort. And he proves you right with his next words. “If you do that, I’ll crash this fucking car.”

You laugh through your nose, your confidence and your own arousal fluttering in you, begging to be let out. Your favorite artist starts playing and you’re not surprised by the way your body reacts. Your thighs naturally spread and you move your pelvis forward. Feel your slick dampening your panties even more, trickling down your needy seashell just as The Weeknd begins to sing about your desire.

“I wanna fuck you slow with the lights on…”

You lick your lips, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a soft moan. Hobi digs his fingernails into your skin, coaxing another one out of you and he calls you by your name in a sterner warning. You caress the edge of his hand with the thought in mind that you’ve always loved the crescent moon, so it would only be illogical for you to not want more of it imprinted on your skin.

“You shouldn’t praise me then,” you croak out, doused in adrenaline-tinged lust, your sweat heavy upon you. You clutch your cherub necklace, needing to be touched, a habit of yours that you’ve had ever since you were a teenage girl. Your fingers graze your collarbones, lingering in the dip between them. “Besides, you’re such a good driver that I think you can handle it.”

Hobi hums out an endearing laugh, that smirk of his reappearing on his mouth. He rubs the moons he impressed into your thigh from side to side and your hips buck, asking for that movement down low where you need him the most.

“You have a praise kink?” he questions and you catch him bite his lip, catch him enjoying that information, sinking it into his flesh. You want to kiss it, bruise it, make it permanent for a little while. You revel in such a dirty, yet gentle conversation and you stop yourself from bucking your hips again.

“A severe praise kink,” you correct him, emphasizing the adjective with a bit of a bratty tone to divulge to him what he does to you and how much he needs to pay for it. And before you can go on, he catches you off guard.

“If you want me to keep praising you then rub your clit,” he negotiates with you, taking your hand and moving the gear stick, leaving it there. “And you’re wrong. I can’t handle you like this. I can’t touch you when I’m responsible for your life.”

Daddy. The title would’ve slipped out of the tip of your tongue had a moan not been first, coating the ambience with a sultriness that makes you tug at his hand in order to do as he says, in order to be praised, to be gratified. But Hobi doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip around the shift stick, clicking his tongue.

“No, baby. With your other hand,” he orders, his breath shaking and amidst the enveloping of his fatherliness around you, strengthening you and binding you with ropes of safety, girlishness and seductiveness, you scrunch up your brows, wanting his hand to be there when you make yourself feel good.

And you tell him.

“I want you to help me.”

The rain thickens, creating a sensual background noise to the next slow song playing and Hobi sighs, disliking your attitude. Your arousal grows to highs you’ve never seen before, a sweet, pleasing darkness consuming you, sprinkling you with glitters of appetite and craze.

All because your sexual chemistry is so good, so strong—so natural, despite the fact you just met and don’t know each other enough for it to be possible. It exceeds the laws of human connection and the feeling of it is heady, intoxicating you with wine of the ripest cherries. You even feel as though this is your first alcoholic drink. Feel as though you’re an unspoiled virgin on the cusp of her very first sin—the Virgin Mary with long hair, cherub necklace, tanned skin, knee socks and high-heeled boots.

Hobi erases your past life. Paints a new one with watercolors; paints you anew. You know the dulcet taste of fatherliness and manliness from Jungkook and while it was what you needed at the time, sexually that is—as it wasn’t often that he used this kind of energy day-to-day, and if he did, it was to tease you—what Hobi does runs deeper. It surpasses your need; it’s not a filling that will decompose soon enough and ask for it again. It’s something else entirely.

It’s something that falls upon you and stays. Clicks and connects with no way out. It’s another layer of skin, strands of hair growing out of your scalp, the drum of the vein upon your neck.

It began in the museum and uncoils here. It’s not worth it to juxtapose it with what you had before—it’s laughable to do so. Hobi has established his fatherliness the moment he held your coat as a heathen in a church, not taking his gaze off of your intimate prayers for even a split second. Unkinked it with his honesty and by expressing his responsibility over you, listening to the murmur of the sea of your sexual need but not diving head-first into it, knowing better. And now it is ready to bloom with flowerets, with fruits, with leaves to accompany you.

“It’s this or nothing,” Hobi decides, squeezing his fingers against yours to also emphasize the gravity of his words and you purse your lips in response, finding the ultimatum so attractive. “You live thirty minutes away, so you either rub your clit on your own or you wait. It’s up to you.”

It’s mind blowing to you how he went from being timid to now ordering you to pleasure yourself. You’re sweltering beneath your clothes and Hobi notices, looking at your body through his rear view mirror. He turns the heating up and you laugh, blush deepening, eyes crinkling at the corners. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest.

“Why didn’t you put your seatbelt on?” he mutters, letting go of your hand and giving you a mean look that makes your walls clench and your throat let out a low, almost soundless moan.

You never put a seatbelt on. As dangerous as it, you hate the way it chokes you due to your small stature and you tell him. “It chokes me, Hobi, I don’t really like it.”

Hobi doesn’t respond. He reaches over and drags down the seatbelt adjuster without taking his eyes off of the road, driving steadily. His patchouli scent hits your nostrils and you nuzzle your nose into his bicep, fingers curling around his arm, smelling him in a simple, comfortable manner. Hobi gives you a quick smile and you hear the sound of him pulling on the seatbelt, but then a pedestrian runs across the previously empty crosswalk, forcing him to stomp on the brake abruptly and your heart nearly skips out of your chest. Almost flying forward, Hobi holds you in place with his strong arm, which you cradle against your quickening chest.

Exchanging a look, you both pant in tandem and Hobi shakes his head at you. Panic lines his dark eyelashes and he immediately grabs the seatbelt and, tugging harshly, he sinks it into the buckle, placing the belt behind your back. He doesn’t acknowledge the pedestrian lifting his palm in apology and neither do you, too preoccupied with the fact he just saved your life.

“You wear a seatbelt in my car. No buts. Understand?”

Too shocked by the twist of events and too touched by the gesture and the sternness of his words, you nod. He pats your thigh, the one he marked, fondling the skin with his thumb, and it drives you to say something. “I’m sorry, Hobi. I’ll wear the seatbelt from now on.”

You mean it. This has never happened to you before as you usually take the public transport, but you do understand now how dangerous it is to not wear one. Your heartbeat calms and the aftershocks of the adrenaline come to the surface, scattering along your figure. Numbness melts and your arousal returns at full speed.

Hobi nods, smiling gently, pleased with your apology, and you feel so peculiarly gratified that you managed to do something like that to him. He sinks his fingers under your thigh and you marvel at the size of his hand because his thumb still remains there on the top of the flesh, even as he wraps his digits around you like that. Kneading just once before he lifts them and begins to tap on his screen again, shifting the energy with the voice of your favorite artist. He moves the gear, accelerating.

“Why you rushing me, baby? It’s only us, alone,” The Weeknd sings and you sigh, your body loosening up. You hike the seatbelt around your hips higher, curling lower on the leather, thighs parting until your knee taps his hand. You miss his touch and you long for it again, finding its warm ghost on your skin not enough.

“You like The Weeknd, don’t you?” Hobi says, his pinky finger brushing along your sock-clad knee, causing you to almost twitch.

You smile, relishing in the love you have for the singer. “I’ve spent ten years of my life loving him.”

Liking your answer, Hobi skims his fingers along the side of your inner thigh until he finds yours, intertwining them—this time his palm closed over the back of your hand, placing it to its former position on the stick. It’s warmed by him and you love it so much that you search for his thumb, playing with it.

“I could tell,” he breathes, his tone deepened by a heartfelt emotion that moves through you. You raise your brows in curiosity and question, wondering how that has come to be. Glancing at you to see your reaction, Hobi laughs softly, his heart evident in the sound, coated with it entirely, and you catch his thumb, holding it, on the verge of bursting. “I saw what you did when I put him on.”

You round the tip of your tongue along your top lip, recollecting well what you did when you heard him. “What did I do?”

A beat of silence between you and him, he lets the singer sing his elegy. Then, his index finger traces your manicured nail on the same digit. “You spread your legs. Made such a pretty sound that I almost stopped this fucking car and fucked you until the whole city could heard it.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and you’re too late to halt the moan from slipping out, a fire coursing down from the top of your head to your toes. You want a taste of his desire so bad that you’ll do anything for it. Even let the seatbelt choke you to death.

Hobi gives you a look, one that chills your blood this time. But it feels absolutely exhilarating.

He calls your name. “Don’t do that to me. Not here.”

Your breath trembles as you scurry to regain your composure, sliding up in your seat. Hobi, too, stops that movement by cradling your thigh, putting it back to the stick once you get the message.

Why does this feel better than if he gave in?

“What if I want to?” you challenge and Hobi rubs his eyes, slapping his hand back onto the steering wheel. Frustration, it looks so good on him. “What if I want you to fuck me here?”

He shakes his head, just once, biting his lip, reddening the pillow. “No, I don’t share.”

Fuck.

This is a point of no return. You will never be the same after what he said and you feel your attachment melting into his chest, dissolving there into leaves from your fruit trees. Your imaginary wings flit, aroused from his possessiveness.

“You know what to do,” he adds without looking at you, turning up the volume as if to subdue your incoming moans.

A cherry on the top of the fucking cake.

You don’t waste a precious second. Lifting the hem of your dress, you expose your drenched panties, a large wet spot in the center darkening the black fabric. Hobi doesn’t spare you a glance. No, he takes your intertwined hands and fixes his rear view mirror, tipping it down. Dangerous, but smart. Responsible.

It’s those glimmering flecks of his character that drive your fingers to pull your panties to the side, but Hobi, once again, stops you.

With words, this time.

“Do you want me to die?” he rasps, tortured—horribly tortured and you cup your femininity, coaxing a groan out of him. “Do it over your panties, baby. Please.”

He begged. You don’t think you ever heard that word come out of a man’s mouth in your life and you break, whimpering, pulling your panties back in their place over your pussy, dragging the tip of your middle finger up and down your dripping slit, sighing. Adding your index, you put pressure to the sides of your clit as you slide your digits in the same direction, over and over, teasing yourself, breathing out little moans that make him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

Hobi glances once at what you’re doing and swears. “Fuck, rub your clit. Don’t tease yourself, baby. Make yourself feel good.”

With a mewl, you stick your fingers together and begin a series of circles, doing as he says. Your eyes roll back, head knocking back into the leather, satisfaction seizing your body and sweetening it. The material of your panties is so flimsy that it feels as though your fingers are stroking your bare flesh and when you tug the fabric to your hole to wet it and rub your clit harder, your moans gain volume, mingling with The Weeknd’s poetry seamlessly and magnificently, dethroning the rain.

And then Hobi shifts the gear stick with your hand and drives so fast that your pleasure deepens, thrill rushing in your veins. You match your circles to that speed, your sounds becoming obnoxious, whiny squeaks when you look at him to see his jaw clenched, chest heaving and the tent in his pants larger than you last checked it.

Hobi skims his fingers along your forearm, back and forth, cradling it. Senses your stare and reciprocates it, catching you at your best when you find your spot and buck your hips, furrowing your brows. He moans, clutching your thigh.

“So good. Such a good girl, rubbing her clit for me to get praised. Fuck, baby. You’re doing so good.”

You lift your fingers in order not to come, the aftershocks of your ripped away orgasm quivering throughout your whole body and you squeeze his hand, letting go—wrapping it around his tent, instead. You figure he deserves it for praising you like that.

He finds your lidded, mischievous eyes in the rear view mirror and he flattens his lips, a brutal expression on his face that should make you scared, but it doesn’t. It only spurs you on. You graze your palm on him, causing his breath to quicken, and you whimper when you search and search for the tip of his cock. He’s slender, but big and your mouth dries.

“You almost made me come with what you said,” you say, truthfully, retracing your path down his length, his breath, now hardened, wafting over you. You love the way he focuses on the road with every fiber of his being as you’re toying with him. Love watching him grit his teeth, narrow his eyes; love watching sweat adorn his flushed chest and neck. You ache to bite him there.

And you would—had he not buckled you in place.

You don’t notice you’ve arrived at your apartment until he stops the car and turns to face you, leaning his elbow on the center console. Nobody could gaslight you into believing that ride took thirty minutes. Nobody.

Hobi made that fifteen. Ferally. For you.

You can see it in his shining face—his need for you, his desire, the fact he sped down the road because you’re so horny. And you ache to kiss him.

“You really do have a praise kink,” he says, mutedly. Must be thinking the same because his gaze flicks to your lips. You lick them for him, encouraging him to do it. “Almost coming from me praising you. Such a good girl.”

You hiss, the drum in your clit returning, stealing your attention. Hoseok grins, pleased to be proven right, pleased that you make it so easy for him. You squeeze his length and he makes the same sound, gritting his teeth briefly before he pouts.

“What’s this?” he asks, speaking of your hand placement. “When did I allow you to do this?”

You breathe heavily, descending your fingers to his full balls, feeling them perfectly due to the silky fabric of his dress pants. You knead them and he moans, the sound traveling right to your yet again needy bundle of nerves. Your hand automatically flies to it, rubbing it, and Hobi curses, eyes narrowing, fixed on the movement of your fingers.

“It’s asking for me, isn’t it?” you murmur, sliding your hand back to his manhood and his pools almost go cross, head tilting back. Your pleasure from your motions expands, your nerve endings burning.

“I’m so hard for you,” he agrees, his hand clasping over yours, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows with great difficulty, the column of his throat such a thing of beauty for you that it forces you to unclip your seatbelt. You’re about to crawl onto his lap, but one darkened look from him makes you decide against it. “Show me that pussy, baby.”

Your moan has a certain elation to it, giddy at the fact you get to expose such an intimate part of you to him, giddy that he’s taking this to another level.

You slide your drenched panties to the side and at the sight of your glistening pussy Hobi groans deeply.

“Lean against the door,” he commands, wiping at his mouth and you tremble all over, more than delighted that he’s reacting to you this way.

You swivel, propping your back against the leather of his door and Hobi lifts your legs, spreading them. You hook one of them around the back of his headrest while the other dangles in his hold. His gaze zeroes in on your pussy and as he bites his lip, he acknowledges himself with her by tracing the flesh with his thumb. Your clit, your lips before he circles your gushing hole, groaning, bettering the song you barely can hear. Your confidence and your allure skyrockets and you follow his digit, riding it, begging for more of his touch. He plays chase with you until both of you and him can’t take it anymore and when his thumb is completely soaked, he lifts it to your mouth—only to fuck with you, though, because he plunges it inside his, leaving your own parted for nothing.

You’re embarrassed, but he likes it. Whimpers around his finger. Pushes your knee to your shoulders and dives right in.

You yelp, grabbing a hold of his hair as he licks over your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking until your eyes roll back, until all your still parted mouth knows is his name and your thick heel digs into his shoulder.

But you moan the wrong variation and he’s quick to correct you with a dripping chin, his hands on either side of you, face merely inches away from yours. “That’s Hoseok for you, not Hobi.”

Red all over, you can only moan in response, gripping his hair until he hisses in pain. He strums your clit without breaking eye contact, so slippery and swollen from his attack. The orchard in you grows, brims with fruit that is on the cusp of bursting, the berries in you big and full. His eyes narrow furthermore, pupils dilated, causing his gaze to darken in ways you’ve never thought could be possible.

“Moan my name, baby. Show me how good I’m making you feel.”

The wrong variation slips again, all due to the mind numbing pleasure he’s giving you. He adds more pressure to his fingers for a second before he withdraws and slaps your thigh. And slaps it again.

“I can’t praise you if you don’t learn well, can I?” he mutters and you whine so loudly that his eyes round, body growing boneless. “Fuck, baby, if you keep making sounds like that I’m gonna come in my pants.”

You scramble your words, find it the most difficult thing in the world. And he doesn’t help you. Not when he sinks a long finger inside your heat, fucking you slowly until you can take him. You lose your mind altogether.

“You’re making me feel too-too good,” you breathe out, hiccuping as he adds a second finger in, silencing you when he gives you long strokes. You follow his gaze down and perceive that he’s watching you soak his digits. He twists them, moaning, a litany of mad, mad curses falling out of his mouth in a hushed tone.

“So wet just from me praising you, oh my God,” Hobi comments and you squeeze your eyes shut, taking it as he begins to pound you to the hilt, his arm bulging, his whole body moving. “Eyes on me. What do you call me when I make you feel this good, hm? I already told you. Just remember.”

You know which variation he means and wants to hear, but your tongue curls, aching to utter a different name that he deserves to be called by.

And you say it, opening your eyes and boring them into his. “Daddy.”

And you don’t stop saying it. Not when he closes his eyes for a split second, agonized by such saccharinity. Not when he undoes the button of his pants and pulls himself out while thumbing your clit. You gasp, legs quivering, what you touched brought to reality and your orgasm nears, especially when he fist-fucks his length.

Hoseok draws back down to your clit, licking it over, nuzzling his face in it as he drinks your nectar right from the source, his wet fingers from you making squeaky sounds around his girth, causing you to scream, the intensity of the moment running so deep and you’re too weak to take it, overwhelmed by his arousal.

He lifts his head for a moment. “I want you to call me Daddy when you come on my tongue,” he rasps amidst his growls, never stopping the movement around his cock, and you nod your head, vehemently, willing to do anything for him.

“I’m so close.”

Hoseok pouts. “That’s so good, baby. You know what to do?”

You swallow. “I’m gonna call you Daddy when I come.”

He grins at you and the expression breaks when he fucks his tip, his brows casting a shadow on his face. You break along with it, shuddering—pleasured from watching him pleasure himself. And you break again when he praises you for your good answer. “Such a good girl. You’re gonna come hard for me?”

You don’t get to say your yes because when he sucks your clit into his mouth and groans against it as he flicks it with his tongue, he’s a witness to it himself. The fruits in your orchard explode and he drinks their juices, running the muscle all over your pussy, his mouth smacking, enjoying every drop. You squeal the title, forcing pleased growls out of him that deepen when you swear, repeating the name over and over again until your orgasm smooths down the perimeters of your body, slowly dwindling away.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t see. White dots flood your vision and the only thing that grounds you is Hobi taking your hand in his. The dots swim away, revealing him on the verge of his own orgasm as he tugs on his length, rapidly now.

“That was so good, baby. You came so well for me. Called me Daddy like I wanted. Good girl,” he praises and your moans are an endless stream, enveloping around his cock, which he guides your hand towards. The weight of it, his warmth, the protruding veins, you could come again just from the feel of him. “Jerk off your Daddy. He’s close, too, from the way you came for him.”

The third person, fuck. You bite your lip, focusing on his tip as you grip him, twisting your wrist. His skin is sticky from your nectar and you spit onto your hand, earning a praise from him that makes your mind spin, even though you heard those two words plenty of times throughout your sinful date.

It will never get old—it will only make your femininity wetter for him.

And his growls, the same could be applied to them. They propel you to fuck him faster while your fingers sneak over to your sensitive clit that he provokes, rubbing circles that cloud your vision with a mist, painting him to be an angel—like the one you saw in the museum.

And when he comes, he grows a pair of glorious wings. Black, with hints of rose gold and pinks. His body doubles over, hands propped on the dashboard and the passenger seat as he spills for you, ropes of cum painting your stomach in that eternal ivory color that serves as skin for those sculptures. In a way you become them once he praises you for making him come, his breaths a legato rivulet that gives you life, his hips snapping, fucking your hand.

He smears his cum on your tanned stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your panties to discover a lighter shade of skin, marveling at the difference. Light passes through his eyes before he covers your pussy with the fabric, opening the glove department to fetch some tissues, cleaning you up, dragging down your dress and helping you sit up.

It’s at this moment, as he’s kneeling—towering over you and you’re sitting on your bum with your hands folded on your lap like the good girl he made you into, that he clutches the back of your neck and smashes his mouth into yours, moving it against you with such strength and vigor that you struggle to devour him in the same manner. It causes you to claw at his sides, to long to see his body in its full, bare beauty. His imaginary wings wrap around you, sealing the resplendence of your orgasm profoundly inside your skin and when he tastes you, his growls traveling down your throat are the raindrops that the orchard inside you needs in order to grow. You help him by moaning back, the aftertaste of you the sunlight.

Piercing his gaze into yours, he caresses your hair, messes up your diligently fixed updo. Catches your ribbon as it falls, wrapping it around his hand, the wisps dangling from his fingers like your leg was just a few moments ago.

You’re so satisfied that you could cry.

You don’t even understand what just happened and how it came to be. Don’t remember what occurred before you sat down in his car—Hobi has completely and wholly erased it.

And it’s him who notices that your hand still carries the remnants of him. You don’t care to look—you can’t rip your gaze away from the shine on his face, from the gratification smoothing out his features, from the pink flush decorating the perfect redness of his swollen lips. But Hobi forces you to, in the tenderest of ways. Looks lovingly at your palm, cooing, shooting that look into your eyes, where it unfolds, creates something new that you never experienced before. And when he grins, your stomach flips, winged creatures intoxicated with madness inside.

“You see what you did?” he whispers, the love in his eyes expanding, growing warmer, burning you faintly. “I want you to lick it up. You deserve every drop.” The breath you let out causes him to tremble and you cradle the fabric of his shirt in your fist. Hobi kisses your fingers, looking at you through them, his smile quivering. “Stick out your tongue for me, baby.”

You do and he slides your palm over it, his salty nectar the sea that swam against your body a week ago in your healing time and you moan, devouring his taste like he devoured your mouth, licking it up, collecting it until there’s nothing left. You show him your tongue, then, and Hobi plays with it, using his thumb, your ribbon wrapped around his hand tickling your chin. He rubs it on the muscle, playing chase with you again until he tells you to suck it. And the sound that descends from his lips once you do makes you squeeze your thighs together, your own wetness dripping out of you.

To end it, Hobi kisses your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds longer. Caresses your mouth, tracing each line, tracing your cupid’s bow, making you glisten with your own saliva. A shining, lively angel—just like him. You whimper.

“Swallow it, baby.”

You do, showing him the evidence that you obeyed after.

“Good girl.”

You take the underside of him, semi hard, into your hand, giggling, heart thumping. “You just made me horny all over again.”

Hobi hums, brushing his ribbon-clad fingers through your hair from the crown of your head. You want him to do that once you suck him off. “And you’re gonna make me hard all over again if you touch me like that.”

You mimic the noise he made, squeezing him. Hobi curses, delighting you. “Let’s go inside. I owe you that breakfast, don’t I?”

He kisses you, softly, with a hint of harshness that causes your nipples to harden painfully against your bra. You almost rub your clit again, so fucking out of it, crazed.

“You do, baby.”

You got everything you wanted in such a small amount of time that your vision twirls. Hobi is holding your hand as you’re leading him to your apartment, your ribbon still hanging from yours and his intertwinement, and your heart hasn’t stopped beating feverishly in your chest. Not even once.

You’re facing the inevitable as you watch Hobi unlace his dress shoes on his knee, his cock stiff and uncomfortable in his pants. You’re brazenly falling for him. You know your hormones swirling your system from the lustfulness you indulged in aren’t to blame—if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s Hobi himself. You consider him to be such a beautiful person that you would be absolutely stupid, blind and deaf not to fall for him. And what’s more, you sense your decline to be safe. Stable. A leverage that won’t ever break. A ribbon that won’t fray.

It’s as strange as it is inviting and your submission comes naturally to you. And this time, you don’t fear it won’t last. Don’t fear you’ll let up. There’s a sense vibrating in you that assures you that Hobi will take care of it. Put it back where it belongs if it ever strays. You don’t have to monitor it. You don’t have to do shit.

You were wrong about one more thing. Hobi isn’t Daddy.

He’s Father.

It’s this thought that drives you to take off your dress and leave it in the middle of the floor that leads to your kitchen. You’re barren down to your soaked underwear, bra and knee socks, your feet basking in the way they don’t have to ache in your boots anymore. Pulling a plate of eggs out of the refrigerator, you set it on the counter, preparing a pan by oiling it on the stove. You hear Hobi’s feet pad on the floor as you pop some bread in the toaster and you turn your head, seeing only his dark silhouette standing behind you, your dress and your ribbon in his hands.

Your heart quickens, abnormally.

“How do you like your eggs?” you ask, resuming your cooking as you break the shell of an egg on the lip of the pan, spilling the delight into the bubbling oil.

Hobi crosses the distance and you can only feel the softness of your ribbon when he places his hands on your hips, letting them travel until they stumble across the pooch of your lower belly. He groans, holding you there, pressing his hard, silk-clad cock against your nearly bare bum.

Self-consciousness creeps in as he kneads one of your insecurities and you quiver, clasping your hand over his, your confidence wavering.

“However you like them is how I like them,” Hobi flirts and you laugh through your nose, shaking your head, waiting for the egg white to fade into that milky color he painted your stomach with.

Sunny side up it is.

“Hobi, your game is out of this world,” you flirt back, sliding your spatula under the egg to check if it’s done before you can flip it.

Hobi lowers himself onto his knees and you gasp, soundlessly. He begins to scatter violent kisses along the dots upon the flesh of your bum, sucking it into his mouth as if it were an orange he was sinking his teeth into. You have to grip the counter in order not to fall over, willing strength into your weakened legs.

He bites the supple roundness of your ass cheek, smoothing out the pain with a flick of his tongue and kisses, gentle ones this time around. Hums. “Is it?”

He glides his nose along the inner of your thigh, rooting right in the center of your pussy, burying his face there. You turn around halfway, arching your back, latching onto his hair that you’ve ruined, egg long forgotten.

“Your thighs are wet again, fuck,” he whispers, mouthing your clit before he descends once again to them, licking them over, drinking your nectar that he’s created. Trails his tongue back up and, sliding your panties to the side, he takes you into his mouth, growling as he sucks onto your lips, playing with them using his tongue, hands spreading your ass cheeks, so he can have more space to make you absolutely lose yourself in him.

And it’s working. Even more so when he begins to swirl his tongue around that other, tiny hole, causing your eyes to go cross before they roll back. Your head dips into a dreamy daze, where time doesn’t exist as he switches between flicking your clit and eating your ass and it isn’t until a certain burning smell suffuses your nostrils that you snap out of it.

You’ve burned his egg, its edges black like the feathers of his imaginary wings, and you yelp, turning off the stove, pushing the pan away.

“Hobi, I burned your egg,” you exclaim and he bends you over the counter while still remaining on his knees for you, sucking your clit with all the strength he possesses. Your climax pinches you in warning, lovingly, promising to melt over you like rain soon, so very soon.

Hobi doesn’t give a fuck about his egg, it seems.

“Just a little more, please,” he begs, moving his flat tongue from side to side on your bud, hands descending down your wet thighs until he reaches your knee socks, stopping there. Whimpers.

That would’ve thrown you over the edge had he not pulled away, fingers wrapping around your knees.

You turn around and the sight of him on his knees with his glazed nose, mouth and chin, with his cock pitifully erect in his pants, creating a print that makes you salivate, absolutely and irrevocably breaks you. You can still hear his plea ring in your mind, begging you to give him a few more seconds of your pussy, and your brain malfunctions. Numbness tightens around your fingers when you cradle his face and it feels so real when you do so—the fact that you’re wanted, desired; the fact that Hobi is the one in submission to you, dominant yet attentive to you to the point that he would never want do anything you wouldn’t. He listens to you, carves his life around you… and he hasn’t even known you for a month.

You messed up his hair—and when you run your fingers through his strands, you feel your powerful ruination sifting through them, feel your seduction and your confidence, alive and breathing in that thick, dark brown mop of his. And now you crave to mess up his skin. Bruise it. Stain it with the pinks you can see in his imaginary wings. Watch them turn yellow like the rose gold in their flecks over the following days.

You’re not letting go of him.

Not when he looks at you like you’re Virgin Mary and he’s a sinner.

You pull him up by the collars of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, adding to the ruination, and it’s electrifying. He’s the cleanest sinner you’ve ever had the grace to see and you want to stain him. Beyond the stickiness of your juices. And when he towers over you and cages you in between his buff body and the counter, hands on either side of you upon the marble, his patchouli scent making you bloodthirsty, you don’t kiss him. No, you go straight for his neck.

He didn’t expect it, groaning when you lick a stripe over his vein, sucking the skin inside your mouth. Over and over again until the sucking noises make him twitch and fist the ends of your hair, pressing his cock against your stomach. You’re feral, you’re inhuman, scattering kisses along that column like you’ve never had a man in your hands before. And it’s true. You never have. It was always you who had been in men’s hands. Never the other way around.

Your fingers gain feeling when you undo the buttons of his shirt, ripping some of them, secretly preventing him from going to work after you’re finished with him. Unless you plaster your correcting concealers on him, he really can’t step a foot outside. The bruise you left on his column is huge, purply red, and the only thing it’s missing is bite marks. A joy rotates in you, rooting from the fact that you’re changing his plans, that you have an effect on him, and you unfold that emotion when you tug that shirt down his broad shoulders and press a kiss in the middle of his chest.

But then Hobi grips your hair on the crown on your head, making you look at him.

And you can’t explain it to yourself, why you like being manhandled like that, despite the freedom you just experienced. Like a child, whose father let her run free before he scolded her and told her to stop, for she ran for too long and it’s getting cold.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lowly, and the tone etches itself onto your own throat because your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue, unabashed, dirty, throbbing.

“I need you to fuck me.”

Hobi blinks, his brows rising, a light like a comet shooting past his irises before an unbounded, starless night shrouds them.

You’ve done it. You’ve stained him. Now he needs to come all over you. Make a mess. Paint you again.

He slackens his hold on your hair. Runs his hand down the length. “If I fuck you, I’ll breed you.” Curls his hand around your throat, where those words form a new necklace, plated with that rose gold. Your mouth parts, a moan falling past, your nectar in tandem, mind dizzy from the idea of being stuffed full of his cum. He flattens his palm over your sternum, hooks his fingers over the band of your bra in the middle of your breasts. You hope he chisels the lines of his hand into your skin. You want to wear him. “Are you on birth control?”

You stopped taking it the moment you were broken up with. Didn’t think you’d need it so soon. Didn’t think you’d have a man in your life again, let alone sleep with him.

Your body desires to please Hoseok so resolutely that a wisp of your regret swathes around his wrist—regret that you threw away those pills that are the driving force in his sexuality. He might have been okay with not taking this any further, but you’re not. You’re far, far from okay.

You want to be bred. You want to be bred so much that you could cry.

Your mouth pouts, but your sadness doesn’t touch your seduction. It merely heightens it.

“You have a breeding kink?” you ask, mimicking his former words, causing him to drag his tongue over his lips slowly, divulging his arousal. It’s another tree that begins to grow in your orchard, planted by your bare hands. A cherry tree, its pink flowerets the flush that spreads across his prominent pecs. You want to make them shiny with your tongue.

And you do.

You place wet kisses over the underside of his left pec, nibbling on the skin, your small stature making it easy for you. Hobi inhales a sharp breath, sneaking his fingers under the cup of your bra, grasping your breast, squeezing until you whimper.

“A severe breeding kink,” Hoseok corrects you, just like you did in his car. He pulls down your bra straps, his hand quick to undo the clasp on your back, disposing you of the undergarment, dropping it onto the ground. Gooseflesh spreads across your skin and you let him feel it, let him feel the effect he has on you by pressing yourself against him, twisting your arms around his torso.

A tender hug, in the middle of a bonding moment. You’d be so happy, you’d laugh, you’d skip, if you had never thrown away those pills.

You wonder if he feels the drum of your heart, if he feels how it’s creating a brand new music that no human, no celestial being has ever heard before.

“I stopped taking birth control several weeks ago, Hobi,” you say, your regret and your sadness lowering your tone. Hobi coos and it makes you want to sob. “Did you bring a condom?”

He caresses your bare back, your hair a stream of a waterfall that he parts with his hand. “No, I didn’t expect this to happen.”

You do the same for him, burying your face deeper into his chest, perceiving that you’re embracing a pure angel. You engrave patterns into his skin, feathers of wings that are dripping with the fire of stars. Even though you’re dying to get fucked, this tenderness is, little by little, appeasing your darkness in a way you don’t really understand.

“We don’t have to do anything. I can make you come with my mouth again,” Hobi says, drifting his nails along the perimeter of your shoulder blade while his other hand grips your waist. The memory of the moons to the sky you paint on his back.

You lift your head. Meet the gray clouds in his eyes. “You want to breed me that bad?”

A smile curls one end of his mouth. “It’s what you deserve.”

The same smile finds a way to your mouth, then blossoms into a grin, your heart a heavy music, and you press it into the middle of his chest. Bite him there, his growls another instrument in the song. He clutches the hair at the nape of your neck, coaxing out a similar sound, your darkness a wave that ebbs to and fro.

“Put it in my ass, then.”

Hobi calls you by your name, sternly.

“What?”

He sighs. “You want to get fucked in your ass on the first date?”

You don’t know what part of his sentence makes you hiccup. Whether it’s his purity, the fact that such an angel voiced out that lewd desire of yours and didn’t jump head-first into its sea—or whether he acknowledged, once again, that this is a date. Hobi laughs, endearingly, and you blush. He kisses your cheek, lifting your chin, placing a chaste kiss onto your lips and you could die right now and know you’ll be entering the pearly gates. He’s saved a spot for you there, negotiated with God that you’ll spend your eternity there like the businessman he is.

It’s what propels you to get on your knees.

“Baby.”

And it’s him stopping you each time you want more that makes you fall for him harder.

“You’re so good to me, Hoseok, I can’t help it. I want to give back to you as much as I can.”

He utters a low, deep curse, tipping up his chin as he cradles your face in both hands. Helps you stand to your feet, kisses you with something that doesn’t resemble the chastity of before and you moan into his mouth, digging moons into his back. You press your pelvis against his thighs, frustrated that you can’t reach his manhood and Hobi hears you, lifts you up and you wrap your legs around him, grinding your femininity against his manliness, squeaking the same curses down his throat.

“Fuck, baby, grind that pussy on me like that. Just like that, yes. You learn well, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, you just need to get fucked, don’t you, baby?”

You agree with every word, your expression of pleasure saying the words for you, and Hobi moans, pushing your hips down on him while he meets you each time.

“Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“Down the hall. First door to the right.”

You suck on his neck as he takes you there, plopping you down onto the edge of your bed. You watch your hands undo the button of his pants, but then he accidentally kicks into something and you know exactly what it is.

An orange Nike box filled with the two toys you own.

And Hobi wouldn’t have crouched to get it had you not started giggling.

How thrilling it is—to see him holding something so private, something no one has ever seen before.

He palms his cock once he discovers what’s inside, rolling his eyes back. He throws the box next to you on the mattress, pushing you back and ripping your panties out of your body in a split second. Your giggles die, replaced by whimpers, replaced by the beat of your clit and his vulgarities as he pins your knees down, gazing, lovingly, at the way your nectar trickles down to your other hole. He bends to lick it up and you die, too.

“Naughty fucking girl. How can you be so naughty and so good at the same time? You’re making me lose my mind,” Hobi snarls, putting his entire weight into the back of your knees and you gush for him, gasping, not able to take his praise, your hips instinctually raising for more of his tongue, which he slaps your thigh for. Once, twice, three times, four times until you whimper so loudly that there’s nothing else left for him to do but let up, grab your pink hitachi and lay down on his back, guide you to sit on his face.

It’s now that he takes the time to ogle your body. His night-tinged eyes glide along your tan lines, his fingers tracing them, making you shudder and rotate your hips above his mouth that he wets and keeps wetting as if it’s not enough to quench his thirst.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, brushing the pads of his fingers along your stiffened nipples. Fireworks shoot out above your orchard, casting a rainbow of colors upon the trees and bushes. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you to have you like this. You belong to that museum, baby, but I’d die if someone were to look at you in my place.”

His possessiveness coated with so much affection and admiration for you elongate your imaginary wings. And you can’t halt the rounding of your mouth, the pool of tears that line your eyes, the cracking of your heart as you take in his precious words. You feel like flying; you feel like soaring free with the knowledge that with the two beats of his own wings he’ll catch up to you, fly with you like two doves.

You want to kiss him. Pay your gratitude that way and when you begin to crawl down his body, he stops you by grabbing your waist, immobilizing you above his face.

“Stay where you are. You’re not sitting on my cock until you come on my tongue. Is that what you want? Ride Daddy’s cock until he covers you with his cum?”

You can’t take it anymore. You simply can’t.

Hobi turns the vibrator to life and its buzzing sound makes you quiver. You lower yourself onto his mouth that he quickly opens for you, darting out his tongue. He lets you ride the muscle, guiding your hips to twirl in circles, and you hold onto your breasts for emotional support as you sense yourself slowly disappearing in him, in the pleasure he gives you, in his warm, dark aura.

Your mouth has no lock, no force to stop it from speaking.

“I was wrong, Hoseok,” you start, changing the direction—swinging your hips back and forth as you grab onto his hair with one hand while the other stimulates your nipple, making you pant, whine and so terribly out of it. “It’s not your game that’s out of this world. It’s your fucking dirty talk.”

Hobi hums, flicking your hand away and pinching your nipple, causing you to tip your head back and pour more vigor into your movement, his mouth too busy to respond.

“If you ever talk to anyone like this that’s not me, I’ll kill her, you hear me? She won’t live to see the next day.”

It’s Hobi now that can’t seem to take it anymore.

Holding you steady by the waist, he sits up, sucking on your clit with so much strength that you scream, your body shuttering so violently that you completely lose yourself. He throws you onto your pillows, raises your hips until they’re at level with his mouth and finishes his fucking job. Alternates between sucking and licking, stars flooding your vision, the ones you traced on his beautiful, broad back.

You come and you don’t stop.

Hobi spits on your clit and presses down the hitachi on it, moving it from side to side, your orgasm prolonging, reaching highs beyond the heavenly kind and all you can see is him, doused in colors that glimmer and his name, the right variation of it this time, falls from your lips like a prayer. Right variation, right prayer.

Virgin Mary that is looking at her God.

Setting the toy and your bum on the bed, he takes both of your hands into his fist as you’re still convulsing, in the middle of your undying orgasm. He lines his cock at your entrance, changes his mind last minute, and glides it along your sensitive pussy, holding himself at the base. Back and forth, the ebb and the flow of the sea. The sight does anything but calm you down. It supports the continuation of your orgasm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he whispers, lowering your hands to his manhood until they wrap around him. “This cock has been yours the moment you came out of this fucking building to meet me outside. Every ridge, every fucking vein is yours.” He squeezes your hold against him, moving it up and down in an agonizing way that makes him shudder just the same. God at a very breaking point. “And these—” He groans as he uses your hands to cup his balls. “These fucking kids are all yours. Yours to swallow. Yours to decorate this beautiful body with. Yours to stuff your little hole with.” Your chest doesn’t rise with any inhalation of breath. You’re motionless, bloodless, paralyzed through and through. Scorching to the touch. Horny beyond your senses. Hobi pins your hands above your head, lining himself up, at last, at your entrance. Sinks inside you in one swift, but vigorous motion until he’s buried in deep to the hilt and he consumes your scream, kissing you so hard that he sucks every last drop of life you had in you. Then, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing its tip as well. “So don’t think for a second that these eyes are for anyone else but you.” A brutal thrust. A yelp. A loss of time and surroundings. “I’m yours, pup. I’m fucking yours.” A mad, mad laughter. “I’ve known you for a week. Ate your pussy first before I kissed you. And you touched yourself in my fucking car because you got horny from the way I praised you in that museum. How could I not be yours?”

The pet name, the magnificence of his sonnet, the stillness of his cock as you clench around him—the very cozy feeling of him being at home, being at the mountain of Athos that you blessed. You feel so small beneath him, so taken care of—and you’re at loss for words, though only one remains in your otherwise erased vocabulary, and from the top of your lungs, you utter it.

“Daddy.”

His imaginary wings flutter, the pink swelling over the black, and he growls, letting go of your hands and folding you in half, leaning his weight on the back of your thighs. Props an overlapped pillow beneath your bum, so you’re at the perfect level for him to start fucking you properly.

And he does, coaxing out your screams, causing your legs to shake on either side of his shoulders.

“That’s right, pup. I’m your Daddy. You’re doing so good, screaming for me the way I like it.”

Hobi pounds into you, giving you a half of his length that’s more than enough. Bends at the waist to scatter wet kisses along the back of your thigh, filling you to the hilt as he does so, your juices squelching around him, making such a serene, glorious sound that forces him to bite down hard onto your flesh. No alleviation after, just long and ruthless strokes while he stares down at you, eating you with his eyes. The ghost of the pain lingers, adding to the experience, adding volume to your whiny noises.

“You’re taking it so well. You’re a good pup, aren’t you?”

You sob, the pressure gyrating deep in your lower tummy, the pet name the thing that will throw you over the edge if he calls you by it again. “Yes, Daddy. I love it when you call me that.”

A hum. “Oh, yeah?”

There he fucking goes again.

A dam rushes to break and you’re defenseless.

“Yeah, I love it so much that it’s gonna make me come.”

Hobi sucks in a breath. “Tell me you’re my good little pup and I’ll let you come.” The same breath he inhaled lodges in your throat and you watch him with a blurry vision reach over for your hitachi and turn up the intensity until the vibrations are so loud that you hear them echoing within your headspace.

He fucks you faster, ridding you of any chance to speak. Teases you with the toy by placing it, barely, on your stiffened nipple, leaning over to moisten it with his tongue before doing it again. And you can’t stop it and neither can he, the way your orgasm overtakes your whole being. It’s at this moment, when he thrusts become sloppy, that you manage to croak out the words he wanted you to say.

“I’m your good little pup, Hoseok, oh fuck, yes, yes,” you whisper, your sentence blending into an efflux of legato moans—and this, this is his very undoing.

And Hobi does something you didn’t expect him to do.

As colors burst in your perspective and your orgasm drags you under, he stimulates your clit with the toy, pulling out of you and pressing his tip against its vibrating side, growling so deeply that it forces your juices out of you, sprinkling him with its iridescent drops as he tugs at his length. He paints your stomach, paints the hitachi, his nectar so enormous that it lands upon your breasts, even as far as on your neck. His body glistens in sweat and now your essence—and looking at him with your hazy vision, another orgasm rolls in.

You thrash your body so hard he has to pin you down, ripping the pillow out from behind you, laying down his weight on you. He kisses you and the lip lock lasts, seemingly, for a century. He moves his mouth against yours, basking in the feel of your puffy mouth as he alters between kissing you harshly and kissing you gently, getting to know you this way.

And when he lets up to breathe, he brushes your hair away, flings the vibrator out until it falls off the bed.

“Say it again,” Hobi says, affection flashing in his now rounded eyes, its warmth thumping. “Louder, for me.”

Your throat is dry, but you manage to do it with a sleepy smile. Think you would do anything to please him. “I’m your good little pup.”

Cupping your face, he kisses you with such tenderness that you begin to cry. Your tears soak his cheeks and he whimpers into your mouth, moved just the same by the depth, the vibrancy of the energy thickening between you.

And when he looks at you, his own tears rush in his waterline.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, pausing for a second. “What have you done to me?”

When afternoon rolls in, Hobi is still tangled up in your sheets. You brought him breakfast to bed, one you didn’t burn this time, while he rested, naked and gratified, still flushed in pink, but clean from your shower. His patchouli scent intermingled with your body wash, cinnamon and lemon, concocting something intoxicating in you that made you see him with a halo above his head. He became a saint by giving in to his desires, by coming so hard that you still feel his hot ropes of cum singeing all those sensitive, intimate parts of your body. Hobi took his time tracing and smearing each and every drop, rubbing it deep in you as if he was digging a grave for your past. And you watched him do it, with tear-stained cheeks, acknowledging yourself, just as intimately, with the information that this is something Hobi likes to do.

You plan to put that into practice the next time you get to touch him.

He’s grazing his fingers along your arm as you’re laying halfway on your side, halfway on him, your leg in between his. Seems to be lost in thought, seems to be searching for his words when he widens his travel across your body, going as far as to the peaks of your shoulder blades before returning back. You feel an inkling to help him, feel like it’s the least you can do.

“What are you thinking about?” you try, dragging a finger across his collarbone. Hobi sighs, so terribly reactive to your touch, your head lifting in such a calming manner as he breathes in and out.

“Did I scare you with what I said?”

His heart under your ear begins to hammer and right away you understand the gravity of his question. He’s lost himself in a flashback of today’s sinful events, but stumbled across a high, overpowering mountain of his bared emotions—the blessed mountain of Athos. And it seems as though he’s forgotten the way back, the trees around him growing dense, the trees of panic that whisper to him that, maybe, he made a mistake.

You hope, with every fiber of your being, that he doesn’t regret those words of beauty that have come to live under your skin like planets in the universe that you and he have created.

That would ruin you. That would break you—and not in the pleasant kind that you like. That universe would drop upon you and you don’t think you’re strong enough to pick up your own half of your creation, shake it off and learn to live again.

You straddle him and he covers you with your duvet. Not your naked breasts, but your torso, inviting you into that island. You thought he did to prevent distraction from weakening his focus, but he doesn’t regard your body like that—doesn’t regard it as an instrument of lust. Something about that moves you, enough for you to take his hands, your thumbs in the middle of his palms, and spatter your soft kisses on them. On his fingers, his knuckles. And when you reach the back of his hand, you halt, boring your gaze into his, catching that comet flying past his eyes again and staying this time, staying in the glint that appears as his brown pools wet.

“Your words mean a lot to me. I carry them in my heart. You know that poem?”

Hobi shakes his head, flattening his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

You don’t mind. You’re delighted to enlighten him.

“I carry your heart with me,” you recite, keeping the heel of his palm against your lips. “I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling,” you finish the first stanza of the poem that has not left your bloodstream ever since you were a teenage girl. Sharing that with him brings out a sea of feelings you remember your past self invariably longed to swim in. Tenderness, closeness, passion. Having it now feels as though you’ve passed a milestone. Hobi’s halo flashes with a rosy pink hue and your softened heart constricts. “The things you said were my doing, Hobi.”

He caresses your side, starting from your armpit, going down the side of your breast, your waist until he arrives at the fleshy part of your hip, which he grasps. His chin quivers as he opens his mouth to speak and a lump forms in your throat.

“You’re a poem, pup,” he whispers, circling his thumb over your tummy. “You don’t mind that I said those things?”

You kiss his hands again, upon the same places to make your affection last longer on his skin. Your clit awakens at the pet name and naturally, you scooch over until you’re sat on his soft manhood over the duvet and you begin to move your hips back and forth. Hobi hisses, but doesn’t stop you this time. Lets you do what you want in the safety you conjured around him.

“Say them again.”

You speed up your movement.

Hobi moans. Pauses. Swallows. Thinks. “I’m yours.”

You grind harder in reward, moaning with him, feeling him stiffen under your clit, feeling him comprehend that you love those declarations.

“My cock is yours,” he breathes out, his other hand joining the other and gripping your hip, digging in his nails. Another half moons, another beauty, intensifying the pleasure. You lick your fingertips and pinch your nipples. Hobi shudders, visibly, underneath you. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna have to cancel my work meeting.”

You laugh, meekly but seductively, prolonging your thrusts, slowing them down, coaxing pained groans out of him. A delight. “Who said I wanted you to go?”

Hobi curses, switching places with you on a whim that surprises you, bends you over, arches your back by lifting your bum in the air. The duvet falls, sadly, off of the mattress—and your soul, for him, falls equivalently.

He slaps the side of your thigh. One, twice, thrice. “Who’s pussy is this?”

You long to see him, your soul begs for it. Whispers to you to grab your phone and you do, swiping your finger on the screen and angling it so your camera has a blissful view of him. Of him fixed, darkly, on your ass and your femininity in the middle.

Curious to know what’s taking you so long to answer, his brows rise as he discovers what you’re doing and he bites his lip, pulls on your legs to straighten them and you plop down on the mattress with a loosened breath. He gets in the same position. Licks over the swell of your ass cheek.

“Film it. Film yourself telling me who’s pussy this is,” Hoseok commands and in a millisecond, without a thought spared, you click on the red button, excitement tingling your nerves.

“My pussy is yours, Hoseok.”

His eyes flick to the camera, meeting your stare, and your breath hitches, the view so attractive as he mouths that skin, marking it. He sneaks a hand to your clit, lifting his body a little, and spanks the spot he bruised. You gasp, elated, humming in a high-pitched tone, causing him to smirk.

“Ride my hand. Whose pussy is this, baby, hm?”

You snap your hips, furrowing your brows at the faint pleasure, at the desperation that courses through your veins.

“Yours, Hoseok, ah, fuck. I want you inside me, please.”

And he takes you, right there on camera, from behind—immortalizing your inside joke as you and him mention it and laugh about it together, immortalizing the way he paints your wings that ivory color and the way he rubs it in, sinking it deep within its membrane.

And when you’re so spent that you can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi is drifting his mouth over your breasts, he tells you to send it to him. And with one cracked open, you do.

It’s later in the evening that you find out that it wasn’t Hobi you sent that video to and your blood freezes.

Your phone rings and Jungkook’s picture fills the screen.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah, @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth

BACK to masterlist | READ part one

#hobi smut #jhope smut #jhope x reader #jung hoseok #hoseok x oc #hoseok x yn #hoseok x y/n #hoseok smut #jungkook x oc #jungkook x yn #jungkook smut #hoseok fanfic #btscreatorscorner #btswritersclub #btswriterscollective

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luveline · 1 year ago

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hiii jadey <3 i’ve been having a bit of a rough time in college lately and i was wondering if you’d be willing to write some bombshell!reader where spencer talks about being bullied in high school and maybe bombshell can relate? even if not, just a lot of comfort please? i hope you’re doing well!! <333

ty for ur request!!! fem

It’s a blessing and a curse whenever you come around. Spencer’s thinking he hadn’t seen you in a while when your text lights up his screen, a summoning if there ever was one.

Hi Spencer, I need some help with my laptop. It turns out for about ten seconds and then turns off again. Do you think you can fix it?

He has no idea. Probably. Do you want me to come by SCU?

No need

“Spencer!” you say, practically glowing as you drop your messenger bag on his already crowded desk. “Sorry, that’s so heavy.”

“You’re here,” he says, surprised.

You lean down to hug him in his chair. Spencer can’t ignore that he likes every part of you, your arms as they wrap around his shoulders, the perfume on your neck as you touch your cheek to his, even the soft exhale of your breath by his ear. “Hi, Dr. Reid,” you say gently. “Missed you. So happy my laptop isn’t working ‘cos now I get to see you.”

You pull away with a grin. Your lips are a shade of pink that Spencer won’t soon forget.

“That was fast.”

“So fast,” you say. “You know I love an excuse to see you and to not be at work.”

You work very hard, but you’re like anyone. Stealing time is fun and free. “You’re not gonna get in trouble, right?”

“With who? Hotch doesn’t care if I’m here and Sandy,” —you full body shiver at the mention of your boss— “won’t notice I’m gone for another hour. Besides, I can’t have a broken laptop. They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Laptops?”

“Yeah, I like them. I just need the WiFi to work everywhere.” You squint at him. “Is that something you can do?”

Spencer cannot make the WiFi work everywhere you go, but he can soft reset your laptop after a short investigation of the problem. It takes about five minutes, in which you steal Morgan’s chair and get comfortable next to him, legs crossed, hand resting open on your thigh. “You’re so smart. I bet you were very popular in high school.”

He laughs, startled, a horrible sinking feeling moving through his chest. “What? Why would you think that?”

“‘Cos you’re a genius at everything, right? I bet you were always helping people with their homework.”

His lips last. He doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t think I talked to anyone in high school who didn’t want to hang me at the top of a flag pole,” he says honestly.

Your lovely smile falls flat. “What?”

“I skipped a couple of grades, so I was younger than everybody, and I wasn’t well liked. I was actually bullied pretty badly.” He laughs again with that same brittle panic. He’s talking without thinking, it just spilled out, it’s spilling still, “I used to get beat up for breathing wrong.”

You’re quiet. Spencer panics worse because why has he told you that? You’re so sweet to him but that doesn’t mean you wanted to know about his worst moments, he can practically feel the affection you had for him melting away as you realise he’s a loser, he’s pathetic–

“I was bullied too,” you say, giving him a tentative smile. “All the way through high school and a little bit after that, too. Maybe that’s why we get along so well, huh?”

He looks at his hands. “You were?”

“Yep.” He can hear the strain of wanting to sound normal. “I mean, I didn’t get beat up, Spencer, that’s awful and I’m– I’m so sorry.”

You’re the last person he’d ever want an apology from, because you’re one of the only people he’s ever met who likes him as he is. You could never make him hurt the way he did back then. High school was years ago and it lingers like it happened yesterday. “I can still remember the stuff they used to say to me,” he says.

“I got made fun of for so much stuff,” you agree. “Boys I didn’t even know would berate me in the halls for just being there. I got called ugly so much I genuinely believed I was for years.”

“You’re not ugly,” he says immediately.

“I know.”

He nods thoughtfully. “It’s hard trying to forget about it. I think if people knew how much I carry with me from then they’d tell me to let it go, but I can’t.”

“You don’t have to let it go, Spence, so long as you know it’s not your fault it happened.”

You offer your hand. Spencer stares at it. You wiggle your fingers and he thinks, Oh, grasping it quickly, before you change your mind. Your fingers slide between his and you rub the back of his hand with your thumb, smiling approvingly, eyes crinkled with pleasure.

“They don’t know what they missed,” you say, a hint of shyness in your voice that’s swiftly covered by your usual confident drawling, “they had unfiltered and unadulterated access to the Spencer Reid, n’ I have to pretend my laptops broken just to see you. So crazy.”

You give his hand a good squeeze.

“It was sort of broken,” he says as you take your hand back. He’s sure his brain is broken too.

“Nah, it always does that. I just give it a love tap and it fixes it again.”

“A what?” He laughs so loudly it turns heads. His crush on you turns to full blown infatuation.

#spencer and bombshell!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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omaano · 22 days ago

Text

SW Hades AU March-April Update

Some links and previous updates: May - June - July - August - September - October/November - December - January - February - everything else in this AU

I'm here with another two-month joint update because at the end of April I can hardly call it a March update, and truth be told I don't think I did much for this AU in the first month of spring anyway.

I started playing Hades 2 again, and made some progress with the Omega and Boba redraw of the Warsong update wallpaper :3 The more time that passes between posting and writing this the happier I am with this piece. Who could find all the gear that Omega wears from the Batch? 👀

Which cannot exactly be said about Sabine and Ezra as well, but I finally have something to show for them!!

Next up is Satine (now that I can show a small illustration in my skethcbook for her, it should go easy - I hope), and maybe Fennec or the Armorer. And lining Axe and laying down flat colors for him and Koska as well. I'm trying to get a drawing for all the missing characters and get them to the part where only detailed shading is missing. If my hand doesn't hurt too much at least ^^;

I'm also gearing up to drawing a new Ares!Boba too, but I'm still in denial about that ^^;

I did not have a particulrly good time with these drawings, I will be very honest upfront. I had to redraw Omega two times because I tried to line that piece in CSP and for some reason faces are just not happening for me there; It hadn't go well with Echo either months ago. I don't know what's up. The tilt of my tablet or that I don't have o zoom un until all I can see are pixels?? OTL

...and then the colours fought me something awful too. Between Boba and Omega they had red, yellow, green and blue covered, and all that with Boba's white flightsuit was not fun ^^; I don't know, I just cannot deal with that many colours - so figuring out what and how I should desaturate was quite an experiment in patience for me until they looked somewhat cohesive. Thankfully the added moonlight turned out to be distracting enough that I'm pretty much warming up to it all now.

I'm afraid I will have to use actual Multiply layers for the full shading.

And Sabine. Oh Sabine.

I've struggled here, big time, and I'm still deeply unhappy with her. I experimeted a lot in my sketchbook with her pose, but any time I thought I was finally on to something as soon as I went in to fix some minor anatomy issues digitally and add some details things just fell apart.

It was the tooka that messed everything up, I'm sure of it D: ^^; I wanted something to visually tie Sabine and Ezra together, and my decision fell on the little white tooka that was in Sabine's mural too at the end of Rebels. But now Sabine's shoulder had to stand in a way that the little critter can perch on and judge from...

Honest to god I almost cried with relief when I came across Eurydice in Asphodel when I switched back to playing Hades for a bit, and realized that she has the lean and attitude in her pose that I was looking for with Sabine. So it was either the coward's way out, or to throw the entire project out the window and become a hermit in the mountains or something.

You can see which option I picked XD

I am deeply, deeply fond of Ezra however Q^Q He was so cooperative after a few initial testing sketches, his hair is perfect, I didn't forget his scars, and I will find it in me to forgive his weird not-really-chainmail shirt, because that one I did to myself XD

I also finally got around to drawing a quick sketch for Fennec - for a hot minute I was very very tempted to pick for her a pose that's a lot closer to Widowmaker from Overwatch, but the vibes just didn't quite match. That was a very sad realization :'(

(Yes, I took the picture after Satine bled through the page in all her alcohol marker glory, yes, I regret it, and no, I cannot relably draw faces on paper. It is a real tragey. I'm in mourning.)

And just so that I cannot really sigh in relief, Leia is my next struggle. I still don't know how to make her work, and it's been months. Terrible. Horrible. Really really bad. Why am I even trying...TT^TT

So that's it for this month. It's both less and more than how it feels, and I'm also kinda losing a bit of steam - my mind is at re-drawing the entire background section for the House of Hades, so on the backburner i'm trying to cook up various background elements to fill the halls up with. Hades is such a beautifully designed game with such amazing shapes and colours, and Star Wars is such a different style especially when it comes to decorations... So there is a lot of cooking that will have to happen here. But I spent a not insignificant part of my last week (I'd been sick, I could get away with it) watching Drawfee speedpaints (they are so fun and so educational sometimes) and Jacob really popped off in one video creating a pixel art game of some sort? And ever since all I could think about is how and IF I could make my pocket Din move through my version of the Hades AU. Just a section of it. I'm itching to draw the backgrounds, but goddamn I am tired, so I just keep distracting myself from the important character art stuff with these daydreams X"D

I also very badly and incredibly distractingly want to re-draw Boba - I've drawn him so long ago, and it feels deeply unfair that I tried to puzzle out the style on him - and while Din got his upgrades bit by bit Boba just didn't. Also. Ares. Ares looks so good in his character art just sitting around like that - all casual-like - and Boba also has his trademark sprawl and... Look. I'm back to Boba being my most favourite clone, okay? I miss him. I miss drawing him. There.

Okay, rant over. Maybe this way I will be able to concentrate again XD Here's to hoping 🤞 I hope you guys are doing better with your creative projects! ❤️ See you all in May! Hopefully with something a bit more substantive and some proper links, not just wips like these ^^;

Taglist of anyone who wants to be pinged once a month for these updates <3 If you want to be added to the list send me a message, or just reply to this post (a 👀 would do, nothing fancy required ;))

@elwinged @yeehawgeek @velsayshi @lionsaint @hastalavistabyebye

If you want to be taken off the list just message me and I’ll take you off, no hard feelings :)

#hades au #hades au update #march update #april update #my art #my wips #ezra bridger #sabine wren #rebels fanart #satine kryze #star wars fanart #tbb omega #artists on tumblr

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sterredem · 1 year ago

Text

The eras tour

Charles leclerc x reader

[SMAU]

Face claim gracie abrams (again)

Summary going to Paris night 1 with Charles is a lot of fun, with a lot of surprises.

Word count -

Warning hate (just a few comments), spelling errors, not proofread

A/N saw a post saying someone should make this… so I did! I saw the tour on a crappie live stream so I know what was going on… I will also go to the tour!

It’s not the longest but also not the shortest. But I like it!

Also I had no motivation to make the things I am currently making so I decided to make a quick smau (that’s why it is only insta and no other apps)

Don’t forget to comment, repost and give feedback! It helps a lot!

Instagram

Liked by Charles_Leclerc and 225.839 others

Yourusername me rn cause I NEED Taylor Swift tickets but ticketmaster is the worst😭 also creds to my bf for these pics, he is laughing at me while I am STRESSING @Charles_Leclerc

View all 1.836 comments

Charles_Leclerc I said that I’m sorry! I even helped you!

Yourusername YOU DIDNT DO ENOUGH!! I STILL HAVE NO TICKETS!😢

Charles_Leclerc I promise I will make it up to you

Lilymhe For which show are you trying? I have tickets for New Jersey and there is still a spare one!

Yourusername I AM SO IN LOVE WITH YOU! I tried Paris but I was last in the waiting list so there where no more tickets🙁 and sadly I can’t go to the US one’s liked by lilymhe

User1 you’re so real for crying I’ve the tickets. I did too

Yourusername THATS WHAT I SAID! BUT CHARLES JUST LAUGHED AT ME!

User1 you deserve the tickets babe liked by author

User2 Love the memes

User3 is that Leo?!?! Hes so cute!

Yourusername That is! He was my emotional support!

User4 ticketmaster is the villain fr! I was at the beginning and I could almost buy tickets but then i was kicked out!

Yourusername My villain origin story fr! And that’s the wort!

User5 love the hat

User6 you are still so pretty when you cry! How?!?!

Yourusername THANKS! IDK HOW I JUST HIDE MY SADNESS

User 6 HAHAHA REAL

User7 it really is hell! But I got tickets!

Yourusername Congratulations my love!

User8 charles laughing at you is so funny😂

User9 Ew you’re so cringe

User10 I love you

User11 not the pic creds and shade HAHAHA

User12 not her public account being her posting memes😂

User13 don’t understand why Charles is with you

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by Charles_Leclerc and 392.728 others

Yourusername MY BF GOT ME ERAS TOUR TICKETS!!! I LOVE YOU CHARLIE! Eras tour Paris night 1 here I come!!

View all 3.738 comments

Charles_Leclerc Everything for you mon amour. Even if I need to spend hundreds of dollars for VIP tickets to the eras tour

Yourusername I am beginning to love you more and more

Lilymhe OMG I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU!

Yourusername I AM ALSO SO HAPPY!

User1 OMG AMAZING

User2 THE T-SHIRTS? IN LOVE! WHERE DIS YOU GET THEM?

Yourusername They are from the official merch drop from Taylor! I have been a mega fan from the beginning!

User3 OKAY CHARLES UPGRADED TO AN AMAZING BF

User4 even vip?!?! You are spoiled!

User5 I AM ALSO GOING TO PART NIGHT 1!

User6 Will you make friendship brackets? I am also going and want to trade some with you!

Yourusername I will! I would love to trade with y’all!

User7 SO EXITED FOR YOU!

User8 What did Charles say when you got it?

Yourusername he said ‘I have a surprise for you!’ And then he gave me a bag with the box! And then I started crying!

User9 you already have merch? How?!

Yourusername Lily went and got me the shirt!

Uset10 My favourite WAG going to a concert of my favourite artist? Amazing!

User11 with who are you going?

Yourusername Charles is going with me!

User12 so exited to see all the eras content!

User13 Such an attention seeker!

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by Charles_Leclerc and 527.725 others

Yourusername Congrats on P4 my love! AND TTPD IS SO GOOD! A DOUBLE ALBUM WTF?!?! And here are some of my paddock fits😁 ALSO WHAT ABOUT THE TOUR?!

View all 4.728 comments

Charle_Leclerc Mon chéri… how sweet(?)

Yourusername It is! I am just so exited about Taylor!

Lilymhe YOURE SO RIGHT! I am so jealous that you get to see the first show after the new album!

Yourusername There are always live streams! And she will go to the US again!

User1 HAHAHAH

User2 so real

User3 I love that she can’t post without mentioning Taylor Swift or her Boyfriend! It shows dedication!

User4 Not the Alchemy😂

User5 you’re so pretty!

User6 the two sides? So funny!🤣

User7 I AM FREEKING OUT!

Yourusername SAME

User8 love the fits!

Yourusername Thanks!

User9 the TTPD aesthetic! Loving it!

User10 awwww Leo is so cute!

User11 Could you tell us where you get your clothes from? I love your style!

Yourusername Of course! My most recent posts have the links with them! (Reels from insta and TikTok)

User12 Thank you! You are amazing!

User13 I love how obsessed she is with TS!

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by Charles_Leclerc and 628.283 others

Yourusername I had a lovely time at the eras tour! Thank you for the very kind people behind me that send me the pics of me and Charles! ALSO THE NEW SETLIST?!?! More pics coming soon!

View all 5.736 comments

Charles_Leclerc for the information; Y/n was crying… a lot

Yourusername YOU VANT BLAME ME! SHE CHANGED A LOT!

Lilymhe I AM SO JELOUS! Liked by author

User1 AHHH I AM SO GSBRNEBDU

User2 OMD THE COUPLE PICS?!?! SO CUTE!

User3 love the taytay pics!

User4 YOURE OUTFIT JS SO CUTE!

User5 Love the hat!

User6 MORE PICS?!

User7 THE NEW SETLIST IS SO COOL!

User8 I WAS THE ONE THAT TOOK THE PIC!

Yourusername THANK YOU SO MUCH!

User9 I tradet with her! She was so nice! And Charles study stood there looking a big lost!

User10 WHAT DID YOU GET?!

Yourusername A fan of Charlie gave me the gift!

User11 Se exited to go myself!

User12 you’re so cute!

User13 You’re not even pretty

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by Taylorswift and 1.737.837 others

Yourusername Everyone meet my new friend; Taylor Swift! It was absolutely lovely meeting you! And thank you for the invites😉

View all 172.638 comments

Taylorswift It really was amazing to meet you! I’m glad you enjoyed everything! Liked by author

Charles_Leclerc Finnaly I don’t have to keep this a secret anymore!

Yourusername yeah you’re not the best secret keeper

Charles_Leclerc EXUSE ME?!

Lilymhe WHAT? AND YIU DIDNT TELL ME?!

Yourusername IM SORRY I WANTED IT TO BE A SUPRISE!

User1 OMG SO HAPPPY FOR YOU

User2 THE MIST GORGOYS GIRLS TOGETHER!

User3 YOU MET HER?

User4 WHAT INVITES?!?!

Yourusername 🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫

User5 THIS IS SO ICONIC!

User6 LILY AND CHARLES HAHAHHA

User7 So this are the other pics?!?!!!

User8 What happens in the 5th pic??

Yourusername I had a mental breakdown…

User9 not the y/n mansplaining to Taylor’s how max for it with Charles🤣🤣

User10 You are living the dream!

User11 THE NEW SETLIST AND MEETING TATLOR?!?! IM JELOUS!

User12 NEW TAYTAY CONTENT YAY!

User13 You don’t deserve it!

|———————————<3—————————————|

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brookediamonds · 4 months ago

Text

don't forget to kiss me, or else you'll have to miss me | Axel Kovačević x Fem! Reader

based off this request

Summary: Your anxiety gets the best of you, and when you're overwhelmed you find the kata Sensei LaRusso has taught you, grounds you. When your in the middle of your routine, someone is caught admiring you.

Word Count: 968 Warnings: None, fluff!

gif is not mine

You knew the Sekai Taikai was going to be a challenge, but you didn't expect all of this.

You weren't prepared when you saw your friend Tory standing with the your biggest enemy, you hadn't anticipated Robby would be so distracted, you definitely weren't expecting one of your strongest teammates having to leave due to a family emergency.

It felt like a lot and when things felt heavy for you, anxiety crept up. Which leads to panic attacks. And you surely didn't want one right now.

Deciding against a night out, you changed into some comfier clothes, those being a pair of leggings and a crop top t-shirt, and head down to the beach to get away from those around you.

You found Miyagi-Do kata to be extremely soothing and relaxing for you, it brought a sense of peace to your mind and body that replaced the anger you held over at Cobra Kai.

When Sam and Sensei LaRusso learned about your daily struggles, not only did they help your problems, they helped you with your mental health.

So when you're feeling a staggering feeling of panic, that heart racing feeling that you lose control over, you count to ten and work your way through the Miyagi kata.

Which is what you were doing now. The sound of the waves crashing behind you sang calmly as you moved with ease, breathing in and out with each strike.

Unbeknownst to you, a stranger has come across you, recognizing the familiar dance of kata you were performing. Axel was entranced, completely in awe by the way your eyes held a look of focus and calm all at once.

When you twist in his direction, you jump in your spot making him freeze in his place.

"S-Sorry!" He apologizes quickly, his eyes diverting in the opposite direction like he had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar that was off limits.

You recognized him, he was the captain for that Iron Dragons team. He was an excellent fighter, and not at all bad looking.

"You can join me," you offer politely, gracefully continuing where you had paused. He stood still for a moment, contemplating your offer.

He too had wanted to get away from everyone and work on his training.

"Only if you show me that kata," Axel says lowly, taking a few steps closer to you. You nod in agreement, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

Your new friend is taken by this new form of work you're teaching him, following along with you as you move with ease.

"You are very good," he says after half an hour the two of you practicing. You both stood in front of each other, taking a breather.

"I could say the same about you," you grin, brushing away a strand of hair from your face. A silence falls between you, an uncertainty lingering.

You were afraid it was time to part ways for the night, but something about the way this handsome boy was gazing down at you kept your feet glued to the ground.

Just as you're about to suggest something, Axel looks like he’s about to say something too.

"Do you want to—"

"Maybe we could—"

You both stop mid-sentence, your words overlapping. A surprised laugh escapes you as Axel’s cheeks turn a faint shade of pink.

"Go ahead," he nods unable to hide his giant smile, glad you wanted to further explore his company.

"There's a churro stand on the way back to the hotel, maybe we can grab one and hang out for a little longer?" You propose the idea, yours words spilling out before your courage can falter.

"I would like that," he says warmly.

The two of you fall into step, walking along the edge of the water, enjoying the sound of the rolling waves in the background.

-----------------------------------------------------

"Okay, if you had to choose between finishing this churro with me," you held up your half-eaten sugary dessert, "or never get to eat churros again, what would you choose?"

There's a playful smile tugging at your lips, when Axel is mid-bite into his churro, freezing at your question.

"That is unfair," he frowns looking down at you as the two of you strolled down the streets of Barcelona. "Is this trick question? If I give up mine, do I get to finish yours?"

You gasp, clutching your churro dramatically. "Absolutely not! This one is mine. You’re on your own."

Axel laughs before letting out a dramatic sigh.

"I guess I would choose this churro with you," he answers your question. "A night with you is worth no churros for the rest of my life."

Your hearts soars in your chest, a bubbly feeling rising in your stomach.

"I better make it an unforgettable night then," you joke, trying to mask the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

He chuckles, watching as you take a seat at a nearby bench. Sliding in right next to you, you twist your body, pulling up your legs to fully face him.

"Tonight has been fun," he says matter factly. "And unforgettable."

You grin taking the last bite of your food, tossing the wrapper in the trashcan behind you.

"I know what can make it even more unforgettable," you spoke softly, your eyes flickering between Axel's and his lips.

He catches your gaze, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He knew what you were implying by the way you inched closer to him.

Closing the gap between you, he leans forward capturing his lips with yours, completely ravishing you.

The fireworks that have been flickering all night, finally erupt. His hand found its way to your cheek, cupping it gently as you snaked your arm around the back of his neck.

When you pull away, both your eyes reconnect holding the same love-struck glint.

It was an indeed, an unforgettable night.

#cobra kai #axel cobra kai #axel kovacevic imagines #axel kovacevic x reader #axel kovacevic #axel x reader

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typewritingyip · 4 months ago

Text

The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty Two - Outlier

Part Twenty One

———

Iron is the 26th element on the periodic table, symbol Fe for Ferrum in Latin. It is the fourth most abundant element on Earth and was primarily deposited by meteorites.

Humans have been using iron since before the Bronze Age, initial use linked all the way back to the second millennium BC.

It also is the mineral that the human body needs the most for growth and development, the human body uses iron to make hemoglobin which is a protein in red blood cells. Hemoglobin is why human blood is the shade of red that it is and why blood is a significantly different shade upon contact with oxygen.

Iron oxide is the reaction of iron to oxygen and water, which turns the iron to a dark red nearly blown tone, also known as rust.

Rust is incredibly dangerous to Cybertronians and humans alike.

—

Their walk through New Kaon was quiet and informative, Hound was trying to ignore the blood and discharge sliding under the collar of his assistance suit with each step. It was unlike Iacon and unlike Earth, it was something entirely unique to Decepticon culture and clearly Megatron was proud of it, smiling a bit, Hound kept walking and listening, “Just past those buildings is where we first landed on this planet, it’s where the space bridge usually stands though deactivated and dismantled due to the war.” His hands were folded behind his back, he walked with the same ease as any man who knew this was his city.

Nodding a bit, Hound continues to look around, “So, I understand why you have fighting pits, they’re probably a lot like our military bases back home, but why have them off cybertron?” Megatron hums, nodding some and glancing towards the sky, “Other than for the obvious reason, I take it?” It took a second for Hound to chuckle weakly, “Other than your million year civil war, yes, I mean why not have one there now?” Megatron nodded slowly, bowing his head slightly.

”Cultural differences and a desire to move on from unsavory pasts.” Hound came to a hard stop, staring at him and he cleared his throat a bit, “Wow.” Megatron chuckled deeply, “Jazz had a similar reaction, then attempted to explain some history of your planet while we walked. I think it just confused us both, he said he was not a history major.” Nodding a bit, Hound moves to catch back up.

Scratching his jaw again, Hound sighs, “Neither am I, so I don’t think I’ll even attempt that. I’d ask Breakdown on that, it’s much more up his alley.” They lapsed back into comfortable silence, walking the streets of New Kaon. Awkward companions that had similar goals.

—

“Sir, why did you want me for your unit specifically?” They were still walking towards these ever elusive fighting pits. Megatron hummed deeply, “I figured that would be obvious Hound.” Nodding slightly, Hound picks up his pace slightly, “I don’t exactly see it that way.” With a chuckle, Megatron shakes his head, “No, I guess you wouldn’t. You and Mirage work very well together.” Nodding, Hound sighed a bit, “Ah.” With another chuckle, Megatron rested a hand on his shoulder, “That is not a bad thing Hound. Not many can work so closely with outliers and come out unscathed.” Nodding again, Hound went from nodding to slowly shaking his head.

Glancing toward the sky, Megatron bit back a swear, “Sometimes I forget that it seems your people don’t communicate the same way we do.” There was something in that statement, bitter and sounding almost painful.

In a breath, Megatron shrugged lightly, “We try to spread those with outlier abilities through different units, but maintain the bonds they make with more typical mecha. It’s not… easy to get along with mecha who have outliers. They can be abrasive and crass. Overwhelming both in EM and in personality.” Hound nodded a bit, really wishing for a pen and paper in that moment as they kept walking though now shoulder to shoulder.

“Um, sir, forgive me but I still don’t quite understand and believe me it’s not making me feel like the brightest bulb in the box for having to ask this but what exactly are outlier abilities?” Megatron chuckled deeply but glanced towards Hound before frowning, “When i said that your kind don’t seem to communicate, I did not mean that literally. Has Jazz not told you?” Shaking his head a bit, Hound sighs, “It can be hard for him and I to have a moment to discuss things not related to the war or more everyday occurrences of, forgive me, your kind.” Nodding, Megatron fidgeted lightly with his digits, “I see.” Clearing his throat a bit.

Nodding some, Megatron started to walk at a significantly slower pace than their already reduced one, “Outlier abilities are generally unexplained, they aren’t particularly connected to a mech’s altmode or anything else it seems. Back before the last war, they had to remain hidden or hide their capabilities.” Taking a breath, Hound just above a whisper, “Because Functionalism.” Megatron bowed his head.

These were not topics that were usually brought up, it was suggested by Jazz to steer clear of them, but sometimes that just simply couldn’t be avoided.

“They were persecuted and often hunted back then, now they are seen as the treasures that they are. In all honesty, it is one of the many reasons why Starscream remains my second in command, because of his trine’s capabilities.” Hound chuckled a bit and Megatron shook his head, “I wish I were joking Hound, but they were valuable assets. Still are, hence why they are here and not on Cybertron starting their lives,” He stops and sighs, “Now that the civil war is over that was supposed to be what everyone got.” Nodding a bit, Hound steps forward and nods encouragingly.

Taking a breath. Megatron continues on, “Now, generally, those with outlier abilities are spread throughout units. Clumping them all together doesn’t do us much good. We work with surrounding them with the right soldiers, mechs who can stand to work together without killing each other preferably.” Shaking his head, he sighs, “Hence why when you brought up the fighting you were dealing with in your own unit Optimus was willing to compromise.” Hound stared and bit back a groan, “Got it.” Finally, Megatron showed the barest bit of a smile.

Tilting his head a bit, it was almost as if Megatron was mocking Hound, “What? You thought your speech was that rousing?” Biting back a worse retort, Hound lowers his head a bit, “No, sir.” Megatron chuckled, “Regardless, we try to keep those who can get along with the outliers around and Mirage has seemed to take a liking to you. You seem to be able to find him very easily even when he is hiding.” Shaking his head a bit, Megatron laughs more than chuckles, rubbing at his jaw.

Hound was staring and shaking his head clears his throat, “Sir, uh, I don’t entirely know what you are talking about. What do you mean, hiding?” Megatron waved a hand through the air, “Mirage is able to make himself imperceivable, generally.” He clears his throat slightly.

Hound wasn’t really sure what to say, “What do you mean, imperceivable? Like, invisible? Outliers can do that?” Nodding a bit, Megatron shrugs, “Only Mirage so far, everyone’s ability is different. As for the invisibility, to everyone except your kind it would seem. Jazz in his first few weeks with us grabbed his arm while he was invisible to our eyes, said he just felt like someone was standing near him. Then there’s you.” “Me?” Pointing lightly to his own chest, Hound shook his head a bit, “I don’t,” “You end up next to him half the time in these fire fights while we can’t see him, while the enemy can’t see him. Scared him half to death the second time it happened and you started talking.” They walked for a minute, Hound opening and closing his mouth before muttering, “I thought he wasn’t there.” Megatron laughed and bent at the waist slightly.

Glancing towards Megatron, Hound shakes his head a bit, “I didn’t realize, I swear it sir.” Megatron nodded, smiling and chuckling lightly as they slowed at the edge of something large and circular, “Yes, I believe that was what Jazz called a ghostly feeling.” Hound nodded before looking out at the circle in the ground and he stopped dead.

The space was huge and horrific, but it was understandable with how long Cybertron had been at war. Everyone had their dirty secrets, even if they were training pits that looked like illegal fighting rings. No wonder they didn’t want any on Cybertron.

Megatron leaned against the railing, staring out at a few mechs that were training, who were also wearing what was the purple sigil of the Decepticons, now the emblem of one of the many political parties that made up Cybertron’s government. Which probably meant they were either high in the military, never stepped foot on Cybertron, or were a part of the council Hound had been avoiding. Very few mechs still wore their badges, less they were in the military or involved in politics.

Back in the first few weeks they’d been out here, him and Jazz had talked about it. Back then when it was all so new it had seemed so interesting, how similar their planets were, then horrifying. Now, politics were the last thing he wanted to think about or focus on.

Taking a breath, Hound leans against the railing, “Sir?” Megatron nods a bit, “I hoped this would not seem familiar to you. Your kind has gone through so much already in life, this was an aspect of it that I hoped you’d avoid. No matter how similar our pasts may seem.” Bowing his head slightly, Hound brushes a hand along the railing, “It is familiar, isn’t it?” “Yes sir.” Megatron sighs slowly, fist hitting the railing hard before shaking his head.

”I apologize for my anger Hound, I swear it is not aimed towards you.” Laughing a bit, Hound glances towards him, “Just my government?” Megatron pauses, frowning slightly, “… Yes.” Hound couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, even as it made his head pound, leaning a hit against the wall, he looked up at the sky.

He hadn’t really noticed that the color of the sky here was orange, every planet that they had gone to had been different and none had yet reminded him of clear Earth blue skies.

“So, who is in there right now? I don’t recognize them.” Megatron hummed and looked down, “Ah, you wouldn’t. That is part of team Chaar, they live here in New Kaon and one of my old commanders is the head of their unit. They are highly skilled and even more unpredictable.” Nodding some, he sighs, “They have not made their way back to Cybertron since the end of the war and now are the primary unit for this sector.” Hound glances over at the two mecha circling each other, covered in weapons and both mechs huge.

Megatron stares and sighs, bracing slightly, “You might want to grip the railing,” “Why?” Though Hound’s hands quickly grasp it just as his vision fills with dust and sound cuts out to prevent hearing loss.

For a second, he wasn’t sure what the hell happened till Megatron came in over internal comms, “That would be Lugnut, he has a special weapon that causes overly dramatic explosions. It’s not very reliable, unfortunately. The mech he nearly just blew up would be Blitzwing, I’d suggest we move on before their argument starts.” Hound still couldn’t see anything, “Uh, sir, I can’t see where to go.” His cameras were trying to cycle the lenses to clear them.

A hand grabbed part of his plating and held on, pulling him away from the expanding cloud of dust.

—

Iacon was shining in the daylight, while Sideswipe was enjoying it the best he could, turning up the brightness on his visual feed. He’d slipped out of the apartment while everyone inside was still asleep, though technically breaking the rules he didn’t much care for any of them at the moment.

Copper and silicon tubing is what he was looking for, Breakdown had said he wanted to also start making vodka so that his concussion would be manageable. It was smart of him to only mention that once Hound left.

Sighing deeply, he tilted his head back slightly for the light to hit more of his cameras, brighting the visual feed further, “God, I miss Earth.” His implants were draining unpleasantly down his neck and arms, his shoulders painful. All of them besides Jazz were experiencing overuse and it was becoming more unpleasant by the day.

Rolling his shoulder, Sideswipe swore and grabbed it, falling into the nearby wall, “Fuck!” His mech collapsed as he sank into his seat, holding his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time he’d dislocated it and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time since he became a pilot let alone while piloting.

He was stuck, well and truly stuck, he couldn’t get up without the use of at least one arm and the weight of his assistance suit was tugging on his dislocated shoulder. Making all this worse with every second, it was as if the weight of the whole suit was on just his arm. A shadow fell over him and he looked up, visor dimmed from the pain.

Prowl was staring down at him, frowning lightly, “Sideswipe, why are you on the floor?” Lowering his head, Sideswipe swore again, grasping his shoulder painfully, “I dislocated my shoulder and can’t get up, and please don’t say I told you so. I know we are not supposed to leave by ourselves.” Nodding slowly, Prowl reached down and pulled Sideswipe up carefully, “That’s right, you're not, and now you see why.” Sideswipe swore again as they started to walk back towards the apartment.

He’d hardly been out for twenty minutes, just had enough energy to enjoy the sun projected through screens onto his face before his body started to reject it’s purpose.

A hand came down on his good shoulder and he swore, looking over his shoulder at Sunstreaker, “You’re lucky it was the two of us to find you Sides, not Jazz or Hound. Come on, we can get the tubing later, we need to spend time not in the suits while we still can.” Nodding, Sideswipe hung his head, swearing every handful of steps from the pain.

“You make it sound like I don’t have the intention of telling Jazz,” Prowl frowned at Sunstreaker, “Or assume that he doesn’t already know.” Sideswipe looked to Prowl, stared at him and sighed deeply, “Fuck…” Sunstreaker laughed and started to cough, Sideswipe closed his eyes.

Even without their cameras on, he knew Sunstreaker was coughing up blood, just as Sunny knew he was bleeding and his shoulder was dislocated.

—

New Kaon really was like Fort Irwin, the buildings were squat and there was dust everywhere. None had gotten into his ventilation system yet but it was only a matter of time.

It was a military city and made during the war, in a way for the war, but people actually lived in the cities they made for target practice. Adapting for their new society and life as it is. Megatron had gotten him out of the dust cloud and started back towards the edge of the city.

All the soldiers were loitering around some unpacked heaters, Mirage was helping a few seekers. He looked over and froze for a moment, biting back a grin, “Uh, get caught up in a dust storm?” Megatron shook his head, “Very funny Mirage,” he sighs, “There was an incident at the pits, do you mind assisting Hound with hosing off? The mechs perception has been limited by the dust.” Mirage nodded, “Of course.” He walks over and takes Hound’s arm.

To be fair, Hound still couldn’t see that well, one of his cameras had cleared up but the rest were still blurry and had turned off after the first ten minutes. Mirage helped Hound over towards the set up wash racks, “Come on, let's get this dust off. Jazz has the same problem, saying that the visors weren’t great with the visual input.” Mirage kept a hand on his shoulder, helping him along.

What he didn’t see was other mecha making lewd gestures towards Mirage, same as they had done on the shuttle, everyone knew what the outlier felt for Hound other than Hound.

“There’s a step up here, just to maintain drainage.” Hound cringes slightly, stepping up and nearly slipping on the tile, “Damn, I hate not being able to see.” “We’re fixing it, don’t worry.” Mirage shuffled him around and rested his hands on his shoulders, “Alright, don’t move.” With a few creaks, the solvent turned on.

It was already bringing the internal temperature of his suit up, which Hound didn’t realize had started to drop already. He sighed slowly and shuffled his suit to open the worst of the seams, brown and red dust started to hit the floor.

Mirage stood back for a second before moving over, “Do you need help?” His face was burning, “No, thank you.” Hound sighed again and started to work on his helm, trying to subtly clear off the camera, “I heard from Prowl that communal wash racks were a thing for your enforcers and military?” Biting back a smile, Mirage nodded slightly and cleared his throat, “Uh, yes. Of course a Prowl would tell you that, he’s been both. But, yes, usually though you can feel the other person's EM field.” And Mirage just about choked on his words.

Embarrassment was clearly running hot through the poor mech, though Hound still couldn’t see, let alone feel it, “Yeah, I’ve been told our EM fields are faint to non-existent.” Mirage hummed and shuffled his feet a bit.

“So, I’ve been told you wash primarily with water.” Hound had the helm of his suit shoved under the spray of solvent now, rubbing at his visor and activating the cycling for the cameras, keeping his visual feed to a minimum, “Uh, yes. Solvent in too high of an amount can leave burns.” Now that he was here, he honestly wanted an actual shower not just the car wash.

Clearing his throat again, Mirage shifted, “You going to be okay then?” Hound smiled a bit and glanced over, visor finally lightening with recognition, “Oh yeah, once in a blue moon isn’t going to kill me.” Mirage winced slightly, “Can you see?” Hound brushed some of the solvent off and started to check through his visual feed, “Uh, yeah, I think so.” With a sudden jerk, Mirage had his arm and was pulling, “Come on, you need to sit near one of the heaters to dry off then.” And he was fast when he wanted them out of there, leaving the solvent running.

Hound was almost embarrassed as his suit was dripping with solvent, dragged over to where Megatron had set up a heater, Mirage frowning deeply at him before looking at Megatron, “Sir, keep an eye on him and I’ll retrieve your ration.” Before even Megatron could say anything the man was gone.

Mirage was burning up with embarrassment and everyone but Hound could see or feel it.

Sitting down near the heater, Hound leaned back and sighed, whiplash is what he’d call that. His mech was still dripping lightly with solvent. At this moment he was thankful for the tight seals that had been installed for this hapless mission. Megatron leans forward slightly, “Are you alright Hound? Losing a sense like that is never easy.” Nodding slightly, Hound shrugs, “I could see a little bit, but the dust just was sticking to my visor, it’s not a perfect sheet of glass unfortunately.” He lightly touches the visor, taking a second to wipe some of the blood on his face.

Megatron cleared his throat, “And you are sure that you’d be incompatible with some of our replacements?” Houch chuckled slightly, “That is very kind, but unfortunately no. Most of your upgrades won’t work for us. Other than the external weapons you’ve given us, though energon is still toxic.” Megatron hummed, bowing his head slightly.

One hand rubbed over Megatron’s face briefly, staring at the glowing heater as the sun was starting to set, “Your kind are both strong and weak, I apologize if this offends, but your incompatibility with us could get you killed.” Hound smiled sadly and nodded, “I know.” They both stared at the heater.

Hound shifted a bit before sighing slowly, “Sir, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Megatron looked over and nodded slightly, “Go ahead.” Sighing slowly, Hound rubbed at the bandage on his jaw, “Why do you have Mirage on your team? The way Jazz talked about it was that he usually works with Prowl.” He hummed and nodded, “Optimus suggested it, said he would work well with the team I was assembling, which included you of course.” Hound nodded a bit, rubbing his jaw.

”Yes, about that, why exactly did you choose me? There are five of us, you could have had any one of us.” Megatron hummed and shifted on his seat, “Yet, you’re the one who is here.” Hound tilted his head to the side slightly and Megatron held back a groan, “I don’t need your spilt sparks running rampant on my battlefield, they're terribly young. Jazz has worked with Prowl for five and a half stellar cycles, plus they are seeing each other. And I will have Breakdown on this battlefield once he is healed.” Biting his lip, Hound clasped his hands briefly.

Shaking his head again, clearing his throat was a bit uncomfortable, “Yes sir, but why specifically me. You could have sent me across this insane universe and we’d probably get the same levels of coordination and ground.” Groaning, Megatron shook his head, “That is not the point. This is not about you being a soldier, let alone one because it’s what your creator did. Because that is your function, it is not for that.” Sitting forward again, he leveled his gaze at Hound.

“I enjoy getting to speak with you Hound, that’s honestly why I requested you for my unit, aside from Mirage. I am a speaker, I was the voice of a revolution and now my voice only carries when speaking to or with the mech I love. Being able to speak to you and be uninterrupted while having simple conversation, reminds me of a simpler time. You hold no expectations, what is that phrase you use? A breath of fresh air. Intelligent conversation with no expectations, no strings, is a very rare and valuable commodity.” It took Hound’s breath away, sitting back a bit he stared at Megatron.

In the months that they had been planet side, he hadn’t felt like he was getting close with any of them, felt rather alien among the mecha. Glancing around at the small group, away from the other pilots for the first time in months, Hound took a breath and nodded a bit, “Thank you sir, I am glad I can be that breath of fresh air.” Mirage smiled over at him as he walked back over with two cubes, handing one to Megatron, though a light blush still covered his face.

Smiling a bit, Megatron nodded his head, and Hound sat back to look up at the sky which had gone dark a little while ago, turning the orange to red then dark to nearly black other than for the scattering of stars.

Knockout comes over with his own cube, sighing deeply, “Do we know when they will be entering the system?” Mirage shook his head a bit, sighing deeply as he sipped the warmed energon, “We’re tracking them the best we can, but that still isn’t great.” With a huff, Knockout sat down, frowning.

With a glance up, Megatron smirked, “Are you pouting because Breakdown is still on medical rest?” Knockout scoffed, “I don’t pout.” Mirage snorted, “That’s scrap and you know it. Hound, what was wrong with Breakdown anyways?” He glances over and Hound turns his mobility assistance back on, setting down his own food and turns on his microphone.

Clearing his throat a bit of the makeshift alien noodle, he tries not to choke on the overly sticky stuff, “He has what we call a concussion, that’s uh, a head injury that can hurt some of our hardware.” He had been waiting for this question, “He’ll be tired, have a hard time with external lighting, be dizzy and have headaches for the first week or two. We all know what to check for so we’ll know when he can go back to duty.” Knockout leans forward, “How do you treat it?” Sighing, Hound rubbed at his neck, dislodging the soaking bandage and tried not to wince as it made a splat sound hitting the floor.

Nodding a bit to cover up the movement, Hound sighs, “With rest and some medications we had stored on the Odyssey. There’s no external work we can do to help this and no software that can be downloaded to repair it. It just takes time.” Humming, Knockout sat back, frowning. Mirage nodded, “Have you had a concussion before?” Chuckling, Hound nods, “Around six of them, I’m lucky to still be a pilot.” Megatron scowled.

“Is it easy for you to experience this injury?” Shrugging slightly, Hound shook his head, “As a pilot, sure, but we’ve done all we can to prevent them. It’s just something that happens.” Megatron nodded and bruded into his energon, Mirage smiled a bit sadly and rested a hand on Hound’s knee.

Mirage cleared his throat a bit, “How’s it been? Separated from your team?” Nodding a bit, Hound glanced around their small group at the edge of the city, enjoying the night and outdoors instead of being up in some tower or building before looking to Megatron briefly and back to Mirage, “It’s a breath of fresh air.” Megatron smiled a bit, shaking his head some.

Knockout was looking around, frowning, while the Hound, Megatron, and Mirage spoke. Relaxing and being able to simply talk.

“Does anyone smell that?” Knockout was frowning intensely, looking around the assembled group, “What?” Mirage glances up, still sipping his cube, “Rust.” Everyone who was eating nearby briefly choked on their food and it went eerily silent as the few people still moving started to glance over their plating. Hound gulped slightly, his neck burning with itchiness.

———

A/N

I AM ALIVE! But in all seriousness, I have taken the LSAT and now have time to write for a little bit.

I wanted this chapter to be a bit longer since it has been like, two weeks since part 21, so enjoy over 4k words everyone.

Also sorry if the writing is a bit all over the place, it’s my first time writing in just about two weeks.