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cherriegyuu · 2 days ago

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whispers of desire | c.sc | part one

pairing: incubus seungcheol x f!reader genre: smut, angst, fluff - minors do not interact word count: 7.3k summary: when you cut a deal with the demon king, the man who shows up to help is nothing like you imagined warnings: mentions of god, demons and religion, infertility, infidelity, knives, breeding kink, masturbation, creampie, dirty talking ish, begging, multiple orgarms, unprotected sex, piv, forced orgasm. jeonghan (idk, he deserves a warning too)

a/n: and finally after i don't even know how many months, i finished part one. i really want to thank @ssinboo who not only helped me brainstorm this, but who motivated me into picking it up again. @joonsytip and @nothoughtsjustfic who read it over and promised me that it was good. thank you so much to all three of you, this one would have never left my wips if not for you. i truly hope you enjoy this and if you do please leave comment, i would love to know you thoughts about it! it's 17 minutes past midnight, but i'm going to count this as a valentine's day special

You looked once again at the waiting room—the light gray walls, the black furniture, the small splashes of color here and there. It was mostly modern and imponent but dark. You felt out of place in your bright yellow sweater and almost white pants. You looked like an egg, but when you realized what you had done, it was too late. You were already in the Uber, getting the most incredulous look from the driver.

The watch on your wrist seemed to mock you. You arrived too early for your appointment, too nervous to stay any longer in your apartment, too queasy to go to the nearby cafe and waste some time.

You had been sitting on that extremely comfortable couch for 10 minutes, the pretty receptionist giving you suspicious looks followed by insincere smiles. You were so close to just getting up and walking out the door.

It had been a stupid idea. A desperate attempt at one last resort to reaching your dream. The one thing you wanted in life since you were sixteen. But it was, indeed, stupid. How was it possible that a man without a last name, who obviously wasn’t a doctor, could help you get pregnant? Even if he happened to have a magic dick, which you doubted, there was still no chance of you getting pregnant. The problem wasn’t on the sperm donor, it was in you.

For years, you tried getting pregnant. During the first year you and your husband, now ex-husband, tried in the most natural way: fucked every chance you got, at the most random places, tracking your cycles every month. You knew that for some people getting pregnant took a little more time, so at first, you didn’t think much of it. You managed to convince yourself that the reason why you weren’t getting pregnant was because you had just gotten off birth control and sometimes — most times — the hormones messed up a little too much with the body.

After a year, something felt strange, and little red signs started to go off in your head. It wasn’t natural to take that long, at least according to everyone you knew, so you set a meeting with the doctor and did all the tests in the book. When the results came back and showed that you were infertile it was like the world came crashing down.

In life, many of your plans failed and many of your dreams were taken from you, however being a mother was one that you always carried with you. It was a dream that was yours, truly yours and you didn’t need anyone to make it happen for you. Of course, you couldn’t make a baby on your own, but in the end, it was always your choice. If you didn’t have a husband, you could go to a sperm bank and just choose someone.

Along with your dream, your marriage was also one that didn’t last long. After the initial shock of not being able to have a baby slowly started to pass and the fog that clouded your mind started to lift, you started to think of other ways you could become a mother. Adoption seemed like a natural path. Your husband, however, didn’t agree with the idea, which led to many fights and eventually a divorce.

The idea of adoption didn't leave you, so you sought out ways to adopt on your own. While the adoption process in itself was excruciatingly difficult as a married person, by yourself was nearly impossible. You went to many people and asked for advice on how to proceed, how to present yourself, what to say and do in front of the social workers. All of them said the same thing “the chances of you getting approved for adoption are very low”.

Every day that went by, with each breath you took, you felt as if the dream of being a mother escaped you, like sand slipping through your fingers.

One day, like many others, you were searching for ways to adopt as a single parent when you came across a forum post talking about an unnamed man who could get anyone to do anything, even things that seemed impossible. You had snorted at the post and almost closed the tap when the word pregnancy seemed to flash in front of your eyes, like a moth drawn to a flame. After you saw it, there was no way you could have closed the tab and moved on to something different.

You read post after post, comment, after comment, about all of these women who had gotten pregnant after losing all hope. All of them mentioned the same name, Jeonghan. There was no last name. On the very last post was a phone number.

There wasn't enough time to question yourself or your actions, the next thing you knew you had the phone pressed to your ear, setting up a meeting for later that day.

The fact that you were able to set an appointment on such short notice should have made alarms ring in your head. But the alarms only went off while you sat in the waiting room.

You suddenly stood up and walked to the pretty secretary who was hiding behind the computer.

“Sorry, hi” you waited until she looked at you, and the same polite smile greeted you “Something came up, I need to leave… I'm really sorry”

As the words left your lips the door on the other side of the waiting room opened. A man with a kind smile and hair long enough to cover his forehead greeted you. Despite his smile being inviting, his eyes told an entirely different story.

“Please, come in”

The little alarms inside your mind suddenly turned silent and the need to flee turned into the desire to follow him inside that office.

You turned to look at the receptionist, who in return offered you an encouraging nod and smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, I had some files that needed attention”

The man, who you could assume was Jeonghan, pulled a chair for you to sit on. He only let go of the chair once you were seated.

“It's okay”

His office was very similar in style to the waiting room, except for the leather chair and the industrial-looking desk. There was no computer, no bookshelf, no degree attached to the wall, just some creepy paintings that looked maybe a little too dark and tenebrous to an office. His desk was also empty of any files, phones, and pens. It was hard to believe that he was going over some files when there was nothing to look at.

“How can I help you today?”

For a second his eyes turned dark, entirely black, before going back to the dark brown color. Eyes of a snake, the words flashed in front of you. Your hold on the straps of your purse tightened until your knuckles turned to white.

It was a mistake going there.

It took an enormous amount of strength to push your body into a standing position.

“I'm sorry, I can't stay” you managed to force the words out, doing your best to smile and sound apologetic “Something came up”

Jeonghan leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand.

“Now, we know that's a lie” there was humor in his voice “You came here for a baby, so do us both a favor and sit down”

It was like your will to leave the room was suppressed by a hand pushing you down back on the chair. That same hand seemed to be holding you in place.

“See? That wasn't so hard”

The back of your neck started to grow cold, your hands sweaty. Your heartbeat with the force of a horse. His eyes turned into snake eyes once again. You felt your entire body grow cold. This time he flashed his eyes for a little more than a second.

“If you promise to be good, I'll stop holding you down” he raised his eyebrows at you, his tone almost bored now “Okay?”

It was a strange sight, a man who was around your age — or at least you thought so –, with soft features to have such eyes. Strange didn't even start to describe it, terrifying was a more precise word, and yet, you weren't scared.

Perhaps you were at first, after all your initial reaction had been to escape, but while sitting there looking at him you were just curious.

“If you can stop with the eyes,” you used your index and middle finger to point at your own eyes “sure, we'll talk”

Jeonghan pouted but complied. In a millisecond the snake eyes were gone at the same time the pressure on your shoulders subsided.

“You don't know how to have fun, do you?”

You didn’t bother to answer, you knew that no matter what you said those words wouldn’t make any difference to him and you were sure that your definition of fun was entirely different from his.

“So, a child. That's what you want, your deepest desire?” Jeonghan raised a hand to stop you from talking as if he changed his mind “Of course it is, you don’t have to say it”

It was the way he said it that made a shiver run through your spine. You shouldn’t have gone there. You should have asked someone else to go with you, though who could have been that person was unknown to you.

“Did you bait me into coming here?”

“Well, yeah” he laughed “I'm sure you saved that forum but if you go back there won't be much to see. Let's be realistic here and say that what you want, can be done”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. It wasn't a reaction to what he had said, it was to what you had believed.

“You were so pathetically desperate that it was so easy getting to you” Jeonghan taunted you “Just one word, one post on a random website was enough to get you here and so fast too! Was it a couple of hours ago?”

Biting your bottom lip was the only possible way to keep your mouth shut, to keep the very much not polite fuck you in the silence of your mind. You tried to get up again, not really willing to sit there and be mocked, but as soon as you made the slightest movement you felt that hand again on your shoulder holding you down, this time much more forceful than the previous one.

“You said that we were going to talk, so, let’s talk”

“I want to go,” you said between your teeth “now”

Jeonghan tilted his head to the side, his snake eyes making an appearance again.

“Silly girl, you should have listed to your grandma when she warned you about what your wishes could bring” a sickening smile made its way to his face, paired with his eyes made your stomach drop all the way down to your toes “Now you can only leave when I saw so”

A sudden memory crossed your mind, one from your childhood. Of you sitting in your grandma’s lap when you couldn’t be older than seven. She said don’t wish for impossible things, you never know who or what could be listening. Your grandma was catholic, always with her rosary in her hand, or wrapper around her wrist or on her neck.

It became painfully obvious who Jeonghan was. From the snake eyes, the smile, how graceful he looked.

“Shit” the curse was almost silent.

He smiled once again, his eyes back to normal. It was all the confirmation you needed from him.

Nights had become a lonely part of the day, not that they were eventful before the divorce but at least you weren't always by yourself.

Somehow you had allowed yourself to become one of those people who are only friends with their husband's friends so when the divorce happened it was obvious that most Of them — in this case, all of them — stayed with your ex-husband. You also hadn't really helped the situation when you closed yourself off. It had become too much, finding out that you were infertile, a possible affair from your husband, and the inevitable divorce. It was only natural for you to isolate yourself.

It seemed though that not many people seemed to understand it. Your so-called friends, who you cried with when the results came back, seemed to think that crying over was ridiculous, that one week was more than enough to move on from the entire thing, it's not like you don't have a life outside of this dream.

And while all of that was true, it was much easier saying it than doing it. You felt as if you were spiraling down with nothing to hold onto, without anyone by your side.

So, nights by yourself, with a bottle of wine and some takeout had become your new normal.

You were in the kitchen when you heard a faint knock on the door. Since visitors were few and you weren't expecting anyone, you assumed that it was on your neighbor. Someone probably knocking with a little more strength than necessary. It wasn't unusual. Your neighbor had loud and often drunk friends you had gotten used to their shenanigans during the three years you lived there.

All you did was keep doing the dishes, swaying your body from side to side with the music you had been playing in the background as you tried your best to forget that entire week and how you had willingly walked into a pile of shit but had no idea of how to get out of it.

The sound of the door opening made you close the faucet. A look at the clock above the door told you that there was no way for your neighbors to be back yet, not when you had heard them leave less than an hour before. You didn’t know why you thought that it could have been them. There was no doubt that the opened door was in your apartment.

You took a knife from the holder, wrapping your hand tightly around the handle. Your hand was still wet from doing the dishes so you held onto the knife as strongly as you could, until your knuckles turned white.

The one good thing about old apartments is that there were certain places that cracked and you knew exactly where those were, so you also knew how to avoid them. Whoever was in your apartment didn’t.

A small part of your brain hoped that it was your ex-husband. If it was, the worst thing that would happen was for you to look like an idiot in front of him, for the millionth time since you met him. Looking stupid was much much better than having to deal with an intruder or a murderer.

You took one last breath before pushing your bedroom door fully open.

“Don’t you dare throw that knife at me”

A man in a purple suit stood in the center of your room. His hair was bright red, pushed back. He looked like he had come out of one of those comic books your brother read as a child. He had your wedding album in his hand. He went through the pages, a pout in his lips and he scanned all the pictures, assessing what he was seeing.

“It’s not polite to hold a knife at your guest,” he said matter of factly.

“Who the fuck are you?” your grip on the handle tightened as if such a thing was even possible to begin with.

He turned the photo album to you, showing you a picture of yourself alone, smiling after throwing the bouquet at your wedding. It was a spontaneous picture, a true smile. That woman in the picture was an entirely different person. Looking at her it was hard to believe that you had been her at some point in time.

“You looked happier here” he pointed out, turning the album back to himself, still pouting “I don’t think she’d hold a knife at a guest”

“Who are you?” you demanded again, your voice louder, desperate.

The man rolled his eyes at you, finally closing the book and throwing it on your bed.

“Think about it, we both know you’re smart” he lightly raised his eyebrows at you “A little over a week ago you had a weird… dream? That’s what you made yourself think, wasn’t it?”

For a moment it was hard to pull air inside your lungs.

You thought that you had gone crazy. You clearly remembered getting out of the apartment, of going downtown in an Uber, of the waiting room, of talking to Jeonghan. But you didn’t remember walking out of the building or how you got home. You just… somehow found yourself back in your bed, in your pajamas in the middle of the night. The clock marked 3:33 AM.

“That was Jeonghan’s fault so I won’t hold it over your head too much. He likes to play tricks like that”

He sat on your bed, arms stretched back, thighs parted. A cocky smile on his lips and you could swear that your legs melted a little when you noticed that he had nothing under the suit jacket.

“Who are you?” you asked again, this time your voice wasn’t as loud or as demanding.

The man raised his eyebrows again and you could swear that it did something to you, tickling a place you didn’t know it needed to be tickled. He moved his chin lightly as if pointing to the knife. You sighed and put the knife down, holding it closer to your body. But that wasn't enough for the man, he pointed at the dresser. You rolled your eyes but did as asked. You didn't dare to get closer to him though. You simply crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against it.

"I'm Seungcheol," the man said, only when he was sure that there was no chance of you stabbing him "Choi Seungcheol"

"I didn't know demons had last names"

His pout was still in place, as he seemed to be thinking of what to say next.

"We're civil enough, though me coming in without your permission might not be the best proof of character" he was quick to add when you opened your mouth to object.

It didn't matter how much you tried, nothing came to mind when you thought about your conversation with Jeonghan. All of it was a big blank. You remembered getting there, him scaring you, the realization of who he was but nothing after that.

“The word you’re looking for is demon king,” he said.

His eyes seemed to assess you, each and every movement you made. Seungcheol’s eyes never left you, not even for a second. When you moved to the chair on the opposite side of the room he followed you, adjusting his own body he would be seated directly in front of you.

If your memory served you right, which at that point you had no idea, Jeonghan seemed to know what you were thinking. You were inclined to think that he couldn’t actually read your thoughts because according to Seungcheol, again if you could take his words for anything, demons too were civil and would just be way too invasive, but he was awfully good at knowing exactly what you were thinking. But then again, Jeonghan seemed to know way too much in the first meeting. Were the files he was looking at something like your life’s history? Where you were born, about your parents, your first boyfriend, your college crush, your husband, and everything that happened after?

You did your best not to focus too much on the demon king thing. If you did, your mind would take you somewhere else entirely and you weren’t sure if you could go there at that moment. Actually, you were sure you shouldn’t, especially because if you did the man in front of you, or a demon, would probably laugh. And being laughed at wasn’t something you were ready for at the moment.

“Okay,” you said slowly, exhaling all the air in your lungs all at once “Jeonghan is the demon king”

Seungcheol nodded, a small smile on his lips as he was proud of a child who had just given a correct answer.

“That makes you…?”

“An incubus”

You closed your eyes for a second, folding your legs in front of you. Incubus… the demon who would sleep with women in their sleep and get them pregnant, and these women birthed demon-like children.

Fantastic.

“So, magic dick,” you said, half not believing what you were saying, on how easily it seemed for you to understand it all “Great”

That seemed to pull out an honest laugh out of Seungcheol, to the point a dimple made its way into his cheek. You couldn't help but smile along with him.

“Something along those lines, yes”

He stood up, his eyes no longer filled with laughter and amusement. They had turned darker, hungry even. At that very second you felt like a prey under his eyes. You bit your bottom lip and he got closer to you, his eyes focused on your lips as he moved deliberately slowly to get to you. It seemed that your room was much, much, bigger than it actually was, almost like there was an entire runaway between him and you.

You stood up as well, though that was probably a bad idea, considering how wobbly your legs felt.

Seungcheol smiled, not in the cute and almost condescending way of before, but in a way that was much darker and held so many promises at the same time. He took your hand, pulled you towards the center of the room, walking backward.

“So, this is it? No flirting, no nice words, no dinner. Just straight-up sex”

You hoped that your tone was light, teasing. Though there was nothing light about the way you were feeling. The few inches of your skin that were under his touch felt like were on fire.

It had been a long time since you were with anyone, your husband was the last one a year and a half before. That wasn't to say that you hadn't found any sort of pleasure, but it had always been by yourself.

You couldn't help but wonder if part of the heat on your skin came from the lack of contact or if it was because of him. Something told you that it was a mix of both.

“Well, you had dinner before I even got here and I thought you holding a knife was flirting”

Seungcheol circled you. The hand that held Yours suddenly pressed on your stomach, holding you against his firm chest. He pressed his nose to the crook of your neck. Giving him more access to your skin felt almost natural.

You felt his lips on the back of your neck. It started as a chaste kiss, followed by the burn of his teeth sinking into your skin and then soothed by his tongue flat over the space he had just bitten.

“Are you a vampire?” you hoped your voice sounded steady but even to your ears it was breathy, close to a moan. The thing… the man… had barely touched you and you were ready to just melt under him.

Seungcheol’s chest vibrated against your back and he leaned into your neck once again, now biting the other side.

“Never met one of those, but if you want, I can become one for the night”

It suddenly crossed your mind “would he do anything I ask?” but you didn’t have it in you to ask. More than that, you didn’t know what to ask. You wanted too much but at the same time, you weren't sure where to begin.

Slowly, Seungcheol ran his hand down your body. You felt your core tighten at the proximity, wetness slowly damping your panties. You were in a haze, one you didn’t want to come out of.

“Tell me what you want. Whatever you want, however, you want it. It’s all yours”

It was like he had somehow heard your thoughts. Was that also part of his abilities? Magic dick and mind reading? Seemed like good powers to have.

He nuzzled your neck again, this time placing kisses all over your skin as he slid down the strap of your shirt and continued his discovery of your skin. But your shoulder was not the place you wanted to feel him the most, it was not the spot that was craving for attention.

Seungcheol ran his nose over your shoulder, the curve of your neck, up to your ear.

“Ah, not so sweet and innocent after all” the hot breath over your skin made your entire body flame up.

Finally, he lowered his hand, going under the elastic band of your shorts. He roughly rubbed his palm over your covered clit as his other hand went up to your breast, tugging at the hard nipple.

“You’re this wet and we barely even started?” he nibbled on your ear “You were all brave with that knife but all you can think about now is my magic dick filling you over and over and over again. Right, sweetheart?”

He pushed your panties to the side, his finger finally rubbing over your sensitive clit. A whimper left your lips as he was exactly where you needed, but it was far from enough.

“Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you”

He circulated your slit with two fingers. Once, twice, three times.

“Please” you whispered.

You felt his smile at the same time he pushed his fingers into you, your arousal more than enough to suck him in. You sucked in a moan as he picked up speed with his fingers, then another when his palm pressed over your clit adding another layer of pleasure.

“Make that pretty noise for me again, sweetheart,” he asked, his voice low, though commanding “Let me hear you”

You tried your best to stay quiet, to not make any sound, and let the only sound in the room be the almost obnoxious noise of his fingers slipping in and out of you. But when Seungcheol found that one spot, that tiny piece of skin that made your mind almost go blank it was impossible to be silent.

The sound coming out of you was pathetic, each new moan getting louder as you felt your abdomen cramp. The louder you got, the faster he moved his fingers. He didn’t stop pumping his fingers, didn’t stop pressing his palm on your clit, until the tide finally broke loose.

You tried to shut your legs, suddenly the stimulation was too much at once, but Seungcheol was willing to let that happen. He kicked your feet apart, using his own knees to keep yours proudly open.

Your orgasm hit you harder than ever before, your body convulsing in his grip, shaking as each new wave of pleasure hit you, somehow stronger than before. Seungcheol held you together until your body calmed down. A moan that could have been easily mistaken for a sob, came out of your lips, a light tremor in your legs, though you were certain that it was no longer visible.

Seungcheol slowly guided your body towards the bed, both of his hands on your hips, steadying you. He sat you down on the bed and took a couple of steps back. He didn’t say anything as he opened the button on his suit and pulled it off his shoulder, tossing it aside on the chair to his left.

He was teasing you, that much was obvious. Under normal circumstances you’d have looked away but as he unbuttoned his pants you couldn’t force yourself to look away. Your mind was in a trance by him, he had your undivided attention and he loved it.

His movements were deliberately slow, a cocky grin making its way to his face as he noticed your eyes following the movements of his hands.

The only piece of clothing covering Seungcheol was his underwear, though it did very little to disguise his erection. Your mouth watered at the sight, a nagging feeling on the back of your mind telling you to get down on your knees in front of him and take all of him into your mouth - or at least as much as it could fit anyway.

Seungcheol laughed as he finally pushed the last piece of cotton off. You bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning at the sight of him on full display. Every inch of his devilish body, in full glory, was mesmerizing. You felt you pussy clench around nothing as Seungcheol started to pump his dick.

“We’ll have enough time to play later tonight,” he moved closer to you, standing in between your legs, his cock was close to you face that you simply inch forward and have him like you wanted, he had different ideas though “but right now I want to know what it feels like to be buried deep inside that sweet, sweet, pussy”

You reached down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. It was only when you reached for the elastic band of your shorts that you felt the embarrassment creeping up every inch of your body.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t hide yourself from me”

He lightly pushed you onto the bed, his knee pressing against your center and he scooped you up on the bed. He grabbed you by the hips and flipped you so that your face was pressed into the mattress.

He pushed your shorts down, though not boring to take them off all the way down. Seungcheol straddled your legs and he teased your pussy with the tip of his cock. Running it over the slick entrance but never fully pushing it inside.

You tried to change the position in a way to force him to just sink in but he was having none of that. He gripped your head by your hair, pulling it back until your ass up in the air, your back arched in a way that should be painful but somehow all it did was heighten your pleasure.

“Beg” he whispered against your ear, his voice deliciously low.

“What?” you breathed out as he continued to tease you, your body moving along with his, a new whimper escaping every time he almost pushed inside.

“I’m not going to make it that easy for you” he laughed “You wanna be fucked? I’ll fuck in ways you can’t even imagine. But you’re going to have to beg”

In any other situation, in any other moment of your life, you’d have felt embarrassed by his demand, to some extent would even have felt angry towards it. But right in that second, with the promise of what was to come, saying a few words sounded like a fair price to pray.

“Please, please, Seungcheol” you begged, voice dripping with need and honey as you moved your hips wanting nothing more than to just be filled “just fuck me, fill me up. All of me is yours…” for the night.

He didn’t let you finish, pushing his cock into your throbbing pussy. There was no time to adjust. Seungcheol drove his dick into you again and again, each thrust harder than the previous one. He pulled your arms back, holding them against his chest with his own.

Each sound that left your mouth was increasingly louder but you didn’t care in the slightest. Seungcheol’s grunts behind you, the slapping of his skin against yours every time he drove into you was intoxicating.

“Oh my god” you chanted over and over again

“No, no, not god” he laughed, biting the soft skin of your shoulder “He can't help you now”

He snaked a hand around your waist directly to your clit, massaging it in slow circles, in high contrast to his dick. The pressure was just perfect, his pace never faulting.

An orgasm hit you yet again, without notice, this time not as hard as the first one, but still enough to have you shaking to the core. Seungcheol held you even tighter, his pace relentless as he searched for his own high.

You felt his warm cum splurged into you, too much of it.

Your body felt limp on the bed, all energy drained out of you, not a single drop left. You turned, looking at the ceiling, trying to steady your breathing, waiting for the tremors to pass when you felt Seungcheol his hand over your thigh.

He pushed your shorts and panties all the way down, tossing them on the floor with a mute sound. He spread your legs and smiled proudly, seemingly happy with his work. It only lasted a second though, as a frown took over his features.

“You’re wasting it, sweetheart” he tsked “We can’t have that, now can we?”

You felt his hand on your sensitive cunt and tried to flinch away but he didn't bulge. His finger grazed over your clit before he pushed them into you. You held his wrist, trying to push his hand away.

“No, it’s too much” you shook your head, pleading “Please, I can’t, please”

He laughed at your words, pinning the hand that held his wrist over your head. Seungcheol kissed your breast, taking the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and blowing on it a second later, all while he pumped his fingers in your pussy, pushing back inside all the cum that had dripped out.

“You can” you bit your lower lip and tugged at it “and, most importantly, we both know you want it”

You could only shake your head as the pleasure became too much, almost unbearable. Almost. You felt yet another orgasm build up again, like your entire body was throbbing, closing itself tightly before it finally broke free.

Seungcheol swallowed your scream, kissing your lips, neck, and shoulders as your body spasmed. Your quiet whimpers were the only sound in the room. He only pulled his fingers out of you when you calmed down completely.

“That’s it” he kissed your cheek, letting go of your hands and using them to hold his head so he could look down at you “See, I told you you could it”

Out of the possible outcomes of the previous night waking up to a mop of red hair on the other side of the bed wasn’t one of them. You were certain that when you woke up you’d realize that the night had been a dream — the most real one you had ever had in your life but that was beside the point.

Just for good measure, you pressed your index finger to the shoulder of the man. Warm and soft skin was under your finger.

Okay, not a dream then.

You turned on your back, facing the ceiling of your bedroom. The night played vividly in your mind. The way Seungcheol pressed the first kiss to the back of your neck and how that alone was enough to make you go crazy under his touch. Not only that, how you were so willing to completely let yourself go to him, how every time he whispered in your ear, chills ran down your entire body and you could feel him everywhere.

You couldn’t help but wonder if all of your emotions had been heightened because he was…. him. A demon. Or if you were just so touch-starved that the smallest caress was enough to drive you over the edge.

Most of all, you couldn’t look past all how you had been so incredibly reckless. A random man who looked like he had gotten out of some comic book suddenly showed up in your room — mind you without using the door — and you somehow, for whatever reason, thought that it was a good idea to have sex with him. And then, as if all of that wasn’t enough, you still fell asleep by his side like it was the most normal thing in the world like he was someone you could trust entirely.

You covered your eyes with your arm, a groan leaving your lips.

There was still the whole “deal with the demon king” part that you were yet to think about.

It seemed unfair that you couldn’t remember what you agreed on. You should have the chance to prepare for whatever was to come, didn’t you? The demon king, or Jeonghan, you weren’t sure how you should address him, was well… unfair.

“Are you usually this loud so early in the morning?”

Your entire body jumped on the bed and a scream died in your throat. For a couple of minutes, you had been so lost in your mind that you forgot that Seungcheol was by your side at all.

His voice in the early morning, just after waking up, was almost made out of honey, velvety, tingling in your ears. By your side, Seungcheol had turned to you, his eyes barely open, his full lips pulled almost in a pout, a few strands of hair covering his face. You had to grip the sheets closer to your body just so you could suppress the desire to move them aside.

Your eyes moved slightly down, to his half-exposed chest. Another flash of the night before crossed your mind, of him over you, the way the chain around his neck hung just over your nose, how you used it to pull him to you again.

“You look cute when you blush,” he said with a lazy smile on his lips. You felt your cheeks warm but didn’t think it was enough to cause any visible change.

Seungcheol folded his arm, holding his head up. The sleepy smile he gave you was the most delicious thing you had ever seen, it was enough to take your breath away all over again. You were happy that you were still in bed, otherwise there was a chance that your legs might have given in under you.

“I didn’t think you’d stay” was all you said as you swung your feet out of the bed, looking for the pajamas that were lost somewhere on the floor.

It was on the other side of the room, how it had ended up there was beyond you. You gripped the sheet closer around your body but you were only able to move one step away from the bed before you felt it being pulled back.

“You know, I already saw everything there’s under those sheets” you didn’t turn to him but you could hear the smile in his voice “In fact, I did a lot more than just look at it”

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You were certain that if you forced the sheets out of his grip, Seungcheol would have let go of it but if he did such a thing then he would be the one exposed, and while you were sure that he had no problem with the idea, everything you screamed that if you saw him naked again there was no way that you would just have a redo of the night before.

Letting go of the sheets, you walked to the other side of the room, opening the dresser drawer and pulling out a clean pair of panties and bra.

“I’m going to shower and by the time I finish it I want you gone”

Seungcheol’s laughter still echoed through the apartment when you closed the bathroom door.

You had managed to keep yourself busy enough during the weekend that you had almost forgotten about Friday night. The keyword being almost. Usually, you would have come up with an excuse to not help your sister during the weekend. She was a wedding planner, a very good one at that — she had been the one to plan your wedding — and highly sought out so it was easier to find her working than being at home.

The reason why you always declined was that weddings, while they could be wildly different from one another, there were things that were the same, didn’t who was at the isle. Two people were promising each other eternal love.

When you saw those people, standing in front of each other, eyes filled with love and hope, you couldn’t help but think about Joshua. How you had once been in that exact spot, saying similar words, how you had been happy with him for so many years until all of it came crashing down on you. The only thing that love left behind were scars that were still all too fresh but hidden enough that no one would ever see them.

Still, working during the weekend with your sister was better than staying at home and thinking about all the stupid decisions you made and how much you’d love to make at least one of them once again. She was also kind enough to let you work on the setup and then later back in the kitchen. Maybe she had some sort of sixth sense that said that you need to get out of your mind. Her call was at the right moment.

Even so, there were moments when you were on your own, in the darkness of your bedroom, when Seungcheol’s perfume somehow still lingered in the air. There was no escape then. It was like a replay of that night played in your head again and again, and everytime it it did there was a new detail that you had somehow forgotten.

It was both a blessing and a curse.

You ran your hand over your face and hair, urging your mind to just stop and let yourself fall asleep. You had a meeting early in the morning and you needed your sleep, just so you could function like a semi-normal human being.

You were in the kitchen when you heard a sound in your bedroom. Your heart skipped a beat, hoping that maybe… just maybe… You shook your head in an attempt to come back to reality. The chance of seeing Seungcheol once again was below zero. You heard the sound again and this time your heart wasn’t the only thing doing a weird flip inside your chest, you also felt chills run down your skin.

The third time the sound came you felt as if you were under a cold shower when it was followed by the sound of laughter in the hallway that belonged to your neighbor.

It was hard swallowing the expectation that had somehow found its way into you. You weren’t even sure why you were expecting something in the first place. After that night it was clear that there wasn’t going to be a second one. Not that there was any conversation on the matter, it just seemed like the most natural option.

If things had gone according to plan, and if your mind was worthy of any trust, apparently it did, there was no real reason why you should ever see Seungcheol again. And yet, there you were wishing that he’d just show up again, and for what?

You set the glass of water down, wishing you could have something strong – God knew that if you wanted to sleep you’d need some help – but not wanting to risk anything. Shutting down the lights in the kitchen and living room.

Before you even opened the door to your room you felt this shift in the air. You pushed it open, hard enough that it smashed against the wall.

“You must really love your kitchen, the second time I show up here and the second time you're in the kitchen”

You closed your eyes for a second, basking in the sound of his voice, how it made chills erupt in your skin.

“Second time you don’t use the door”

“I’ll be sure to remember that”

Seungcheol smiled, hands in his pocket.

“You better”

Before you gave yourself a chance to think about it, you crossed the room in two strides and pulled him to you. Seungcheol smiled against your lips before he finally kissed you.

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog and leave a comment, it really does mean the world to me and i would love to know your thoughts. thank you! 💕

you can read my other fics here ➝ masterlist

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ssentimentals · 3 days ago

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NINIIIIIIIII (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀) WAAAHHHHH YOUR PROMPT

LIST LOOKS SO YUMMY I CANT WAIT FOR IT!!!!

would i be able to rq prompt no. 1 with dk pls 🥹🩷🩵 and happy carat day!!!!!!!!

- 🫧

awww hi my baby! omg i LOVE the excitement from this message, it's so cute :') of course you can request it, thank you so much for doing it! 💜 hopefully you will like it!

prompt: touch starved/cuddle curse

seokmin knows. knows he can be too much: too touchy, too clingy, too annoying. with time he learned to surpress his desires, moved around like shimmering desire to reach out and touch did not burn under his skin. his ability to adjust in any environment is truly remarkable, his acting skills are so on point that not a single soul knows how deeply he needs physical contact. but any patience can run thin and with additional stress the usual need for closeness leaves him irritated, stripped bare and miserable.

'seokmin?' your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. he looks up and finds you standing in the doorway with a hand raised. 'i knocked twice. sorry, is now a bad time?'

'no-no,' faking a smile is painful but he tries to do so anyway, because he actually likes you and doesn't want you to see him in any other state other than happy. 'come in, sorry, i didn't even hear you.'

you step inside, eyeing him warily. seokmin is sure that you don't see anything attractive in front of you; he probably looks like a worn-out rag and that's not how he wants to ever appear to you. you, however, look wonderful. you always do, at least for him. seokmin loves how any outfit of yours always looks so cozy, so touchable, so cuddly- he shakes his head. god, he's down bad. silently telling himself to get a grip, he asks: 'how can i help you?'

'uno reverse,' you proclaim, frowning. 'how can i help you? you don't look good, seokkie. what's wrong? did something happen?'

seokmin is not sure how to say that he's going to die if he won't hug someone, so what comes out is: 'i'm fine.'

your skeptically raised eyebrow makes it clear that he's busted and when you step closer, leaning on the table a little, his breath hitches. 'do you have a fever?' you ask and without asking reach out and place your hand on his forehead. 'a bit warm. how are you feeling?'

seokmin can't help it- his eyes close on their own accord and he bodily leans forward, chasing your touch. he pushes his forehead closer, his body zings with pleasure just at that little contact. he doesn't see how your eyes widen at this display, how you look confused at first before realization strikes. careful like you're afraid to spook him, you step closer until your legs brush. 'seokkie,' you call out quietly. 'what's wrong?'

seokkie. seokmin shivers at this nickname. in this new city no one called him that and hearing it from you makes him want to cry. he can't tell you what's wrong, doesn't have a courage to do so, but when you hesitantly squeeze his shoulder, he turns fully and opens his arms. one second passes, then another and another - seokmin is ready to die right here and now when you slowly pull yourself into his arms, hugging him tight. the closeness and the warmth of your body make him weak; he buries his head in your shoulder and holds you carefully, afraid to cross the boundary, afraid to spook you, afraid-

'it's okay,' you mumble quietly. 'i don't know what happened, but it's going to be okay.' you pat his back soothingly. 'i'm here. it will be fine. we can hug it out, yeah?'

you don't even know how close to home your words hit. seokmin tries his luck and tightens his arms around you - you don't react anyhow and tension leaves his body as he hugs you close. he hopes you're kind enough to not comment on his rapidly beating heart and tears in his eyes. he hugs you and it really does feel like it will be fine as long as he can stay with you like this.

a/n: i went for touch starved here, hopefully it was okay!! let me know if you liked it <3 - nini

request your own prompt here

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zepskies · 3 days ago

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ahahaa I love it, hun!! I love hurt/comfort in pretty much all its forms too, and sick-fics are no exception!! 💓💓

ahhh i loveee mondler 😩 this reference was so cute. 🥺 he’s just as stubborn as she was in that episode lmaooo (also i think of that ep every time i have to use vapor rub 😔🤣)

I always liked them more than Ross/Rachel tbh! Hahaa I thought Dean's stubbornness would be Monica-like. 😝 (fun fact: I'm allergic to vivaporu so I can't use it anyway lol)

the way you describe food in your stories reminds me of watching a studio ghibli film and seeing the food animations — i get that same feeling of “oh my gosh that looks/sounds amaaaazing” 🙂‍↕️🫶🏽 so good

Ahhh I LOVE writing about food loll. And I have that SAME THOUGHT every time I watch Studio Ghibli or literally any anime or K-drama where food is present. It all looks SO good. 🤤

i’m so soft stoooooop 😭 our boy getting the love and affection he deserves <333 this was too sweet 😔💖

This is the thing with Dean, isn't it? We want to give him the comfort and affection and love he should've gotten on the show. 💞 It's honestly gotten me thinking about brainstorming something for the Midnight Espresso-verse again.

the banter 😩🫠 agh, so so sweeeeet 💞💞

aww thank you! Idk why Beau brings out the bouncy fluffy banter in me. 😂💓

he’s so funny for that lmfaoo i love him 😭 I’d happily take care of him ofc…buuut i’d also give him some caldo de pollo and put cough drops in his tea so he could recover asap 😅🤣

Omg YES caldo de pollo. 😋 My mom made that for me after my surgery. 🥹 Probably why I included the soup and the bread on the side for Dean loll.

now ben you know damn well 💀

lmfao he don't wanna admit he's been brought down by a measly little cold. 🤧

joey core 🤣 (sorta)

LOL Joey tried to be fancy with that yacht, but it didn't take. It's honestly endearing to see him remain true to his core despite his soap opera fame. 😂

period 🙂‍↕️💅🏽 loll

Right? Like stfu and eat your soup, Ben. 😆

aaaand i’m soft again 😔🥺 ben be like:

He won't admit it, but he's got a heart beating in his chest that wants to be loved. 💓💓

now i’ll admit, I haven’t seen 10 inch hero yet :’) however, I thought priestly’s hcs were adorable, he just seems like a very lovable goofball lol <33 (kinda gives me alternative shaggy from scooby doo vibes?)

*snorts* highly accurate on "alternative shaggy" vibes. 🤣 Basically all you need to know about Priestly is that he's got an "edgy" appearance and he tries to talk tough, but he's a total adorkable mush inside. 💙

these were all so good alex!!💓 i think dean was my favorite for this batch of hcs, not sure if the friends reference made me biased 🤣 but as always, these headcanons were lovely 🫶🏽

Aww honestly I had so much fun with these HCs, but Dean might be my favorite too this time around -- just because I love any opportunity to shower that man with affection and make him sit his ass down and let it happen lol. I'm so glad you enjoyed these, hun! 💞

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

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@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2

#lovely review! 💞💞#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #headcanon: man flu

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nabi-unveiled · 2 days ago

Text

Hagiwara isn't off the hook.

He shares responsibility in the state of his and Kaori's relationship, and I'm not talking about the cheating.

Put down your pitchfork. Just hear me out.

I adore Hagiwara. He cheated. I don't care. I have mentally added him onto my list of "good boys". I will make a special category just for him.

I'm also not making excuses for Kaori. She must own up that she kept Hagiwara on a string while knowing it was hurting him.

However, their relationship was doomed to fail. They need different things. Kaori needs a relationship where sex isn't expected, and Hagiwara needs a relationship where he can be fully open and honest with his feelings and desires. Frankly, he needs something deeper than Kaori can offer, and I'm not talking about sex.

But the relationship shouldn't have lasted this long, and that's on BOTH of them. It's perfectly okay that Kaori doesn't want sex. It's perfectly okay that Hagiwara does want sex (and intimacy). The problem is that neither of them communicate about it.

Before we go further, there are some points that need to be established. Also note - the symbols are EVERYTHING to me.

1 - Kaori/Hagiwara's relationship is NOT the same as Fujisawa/Sei's.

Their relationships share similarities, but they are NOT the same.

Sei's relationship with Fujisawa developed as a trauma response to a violent car crash. It has carried violent undertones the entire time.

The symbols convey that Fujisawa has methodically trapped Sei in this relationship.

But Kaori and Hagiwara's relationship? It starts with a romantic meet-cute. It was warm. It had saturated colors.

Their relationship does not have a violent undertone. It has an undertone of passivity and complacency. Of note, Hagiwara didn't initiate anything in this relationship. He's waited on Kaori's lead.

The door is open. Hagiwara could leave at any point.

These two relationships also do not have the same power dynamic. Kaori DOES control many aspects of the relationship. However, Kaori has control of the relationship because Hagiwara lets her. Fujisawa has control over his relationship with Sei because Fujisawa demands it. There is a difference.

In fact, the show actually has already acknowledged that there are different types of "controlling". The coworker's relationship isn't painted as unhealthy. Some of us may see it as unhealthy, but the show doesn't give ANY indication of that itself in sound or symbols.

2 - I am in the camp that thinks Kaori DOES like or care about Hagiwara.

Not because I believe her words, but because I believe in the symbols. Kaori made Hagiwara rice.

The rice that represents home and affection? Kaori made it. It's just her version had a sour plum in the middle.

And when she offered it, Hagiwara willingly chose to eat it. He knew the plum was there, and he ate it anyways.

In this week's episode, Kaori explains herself, and she's in black. This is not a typical color for her. She may be smiling, but she is mourning.

We could discuss in length about whether emotional abuse is in play here or if it's just an unhealthy relationship. That's not really the point of this post. Either way, we know that Kaori was finally being honest and vulnerable.

WE SAW HER FEET.

Feet shots happens when our character's true feelings and motivations are exposed. Sei has beautiful heels (desires) but his toenail is broken (😭 Just like his Sim card, but I can't go there right now). Both Kaori and Hagiwara have feet shots too. No broken toenails. In this case, Kaori's feet stop moving. Unlike Fujisawa whose body moves on it's own, her body won't move. We haven't seen Fujisawa's feet.

Kaori can't make herself take action to deal with the situation with Hagiwara. Her choices are selfish, and they hurt Hagiwara. However, I actually think that's very realistic and very human. In unhealthy relationships (and even healthy ones), we can often hurt the people we care about. It's not easy leaving an established relationship. Especially, one that you want. We're not all as altruistic as Hagiwara.

But Hagiwara isn't off the hook.

He shares responsibility in the relationship lasting until this point.

Sei admits his relationship has problems.

But Hagiwara? He denies that they have a problem at first. He's choosing to ignore reality. A conversation with Sei later shows it too.

He wants to believe they've been honest with each other.

Even though he's not verbalizing his actual thoughts to Kaori. For those that don't remember, he has an entire sequence in his head at the BBQ with their friends of what he wants to say. But he doesn't say it. He's not being open and honest with Kaori.

He's also hiding what he truly desires. Kaori didn't say he couldn't drink the sweet coffee. She said it was unhealthy. Sei said it was unhealthy too. He drank it around Sei anyways.

He even bought it FOR Sei even though Sei thought it was too sweet. Hagiwara initiates with Sei.

It's actually been shown that Kaori doesn't care what Hagiwara eats. He's allowed to eat whatever he wants. Kaori isn't telling Hagiwara to go to sleep or eat the yogurt.

She controls sex (and maybe their social agenda). However, unlike Fujisawa, Kaori doesn't keep tight control on Hagiwara as a person.

Unlike Sei, Hagiwara isn't isolated. There's no traumatic backstory. He's more self-confident than Sei. Unlike Sei, he talks about the things he CAN do rather than things he can't. For example, in episode 1, he mentions that "he's good" at organizing parties.

Unlike Sei, he's not trapped in a locked room.

His affection might have been contained and hidden. I think he wonders whether Kaori has things she has to keep inside, because he knows there are things that he keeps inside. But...

He's not trapped. He's stuck. There's a difference.

Hagiwara didn't forget his ID. He didn't forget who he was. He lost his ID, because he's losing confidence in his relationship.

But he's still walking around this building freely. Apparently, he's been walking free without that ID for months. And when he gets a new ID? He chooses to put it back in the case that Kaori gave him.

He wanted to change his picture, but he hadn't taken the steps to do so. He could've changed the situation by being frank with Kaori at any point. Just like Kaori, he avoided. He has chosen to stay.

He chose not to call Kaori out. He doesn't like making people uncomfortable. His nature is to prioritize the other person. Unlike Kaori, his avoidance is inherently unselfish. But it got him stuck. I'm someone who was actively taught to avoid confrontation and to always think of others first. This hits hard.

Kaori was too selfish, but Hagiwara wasn't selfish enough. Being a little bit selfish is a good thing.

He chose NOT to talk about sex with her. He's not comfortable bringing it up with her, because he's not open with her.

Kaori doesn't communicate about sex, because she's afraid that not wanting sex makes her a bad woman. She's surrounded by heteronormativity after all. As @babyangelsky points out, this is what society treating libido as swamp does to you.

Hagiwara doesn't communicate about sex, because he's afraid prioritizing sex makes him a bad man. After all, wouldn't breaking up with his girlfriend just because of sex make him a bad person? Isn't his desire just making the river murky with swamp water? Stupid swamp. He doesn't realize sex is not the real issue. In the end, he has chosen to stay in this relationship even though he's unhappy.

It's why I had positive thoughts about the breakup scene. A lot could be said about Kaori forcing Hagiwara to be the one to breakup, but I was actually glad that Hagiwara said it. It was on both of them that the relationship lasted this long. Neither of them had been willing to speak up about what wasn't working. They both stayed stuck.

Hagiwara is finally speaking his mind. He calls Kaori out.

Hagiwara is no longer being passive. He's asserting control.

Hagiwara is no longer hiding what he wants. He's being open.

Hagiwara is now taking action to change the picture on his ID.

Previous posts about Hagiwara:

The Desire to Be A Good Man

I also have two additional posts about Hagiwara in my drafts. I'll try to get them posted this weekend.

#choosing to be passive is still a choice #there's so much to say about this show #it may not be your cup of tea #it is definitely mine #when it rains it pours #futtara doshaburi #my when it rains meta #japanese bl #this post became an essay #no surprises there #i hit the image limit #choices were made

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crimsoncandy04 · 20 hours ago

Note

Have u ever thought of Scara w tentacles😳 like he was an experiment and we are the one in charged of cater for him, then one day he escape and take us with him to breed cause' he really likes us... Idk if it's possible but might lay eggs for him. Please try writing it one day!! Tysm for those fics u feed uso(≧▽≦)o

I should really check my inbox more often than I do. This is literally such a hot idea.

(also just a heads up, I'm absolutely blasted right now while writing this so if it's not perfect I'm so sorry. Cannabis gummies are a double edged sword for me. On one hand I get the BEST ideas to write but then on the other I forget how words work)

Hope you like it;)

You had seen some weird stuff in your 25 years. It was expected though. You WERE working for the fatui and under one of the more deranged harbingers known for fucked up experimentation too.

However, being put in charge of one of the less important projects involving the sixth harbinger had proven to be more than you were prepared to handle.

A LOT more.

You had no idea why he allowed this to happen or if it was just a bizarre side effect of another failed experiment. But one thing was for certain, the sixth harbinger had been altered physical and now needed to be restrained at all costs. He had actual tentacles growing from his back. Like REAL ones. And for some reason they seemed to have minds of their own at times.

Thrashing around and hitting the thick glass of the containment room as if trying to break out while the young man at their base sat on the cold concrete ground and refused to look at you each time you went over to slide him food through a small opening in the wall that your hand could barely fit through.

You weren't important enough to know the details of what went on in your boss's lab but you had to admit that the sentient tendrils were a bit pretty to look at.

They were a deep indigo. Almost black with small barely discernable silver accents along the sides.

They appeared almost metallic in the right lighting and you had to make yourself look away and stop staring sometimes because you didn't want to be rude.

You were here to complete a job and that was all.

Until the night everything went to shit of course.

You were summoned sometime after midnight along with two other subordinates to check the lab for accidents after a security alarm was triggered for unknown reasons.

You rushed in and immediately you felt your blood go cold at the sight before you.

He had escaped.

Shattered glass lay at your feet as well as blood presumably from the guard who was now nowhere to be seen and most certainly dead.

You heard a yell from the room next to you.

"Stay here!" The other man with you insisted as he drew his gun and took off after the source of the cry.

You didn't need to be told twice.

Because right now you were confused but also rightfully scared.

What happened to the sixth harbinger? He never once gave you reason to believe he was distressed or restless before. He never even spoke to you when you fed him and checked the condition of his holding room.

Did you perhaps miss something?

What caused him to suddenly lash out and attack the guard?

And most importantly what happened to-

*PLOP*

You hear something hit the ground next to you and slowly turn your head to look.

You shriek.

On the ground next to you was the decapitated head of the subordinate who had just left to search for the other man.

You immediately tried to run but were stopped in your tracks as something wrapped around your waist and hoisted you into the air.

You tremble and go silent. Preparing for the worst when you look down and meet eyes with the sixth harbinger.

One of his many new appendages coiled around your middle and rendering you helpless as you silently prayed to every archon you could remember that if you were to die here it would be quick and painless.

He narrows his eyes up at you.

"You. You didn't want to try killing me as well?"

You struggle to answer as you shake violently.

"No sir. I see you nearly every day. I assumed something was wrong and that you were seeking help. I didn't feel like it was right to murder you."

"Are you scared?"

You felt your heart race.

Something about his tone seemed off. Different.

Did he...enjoy the fact that you were clearly terrified?

You closed your eyes and sighed.

Alright.

Every life had its end. This was surely yours.

Don't think about it. Go to your safe place Y/N.

You suddenly feel more tentacles slither around your arms and legs.

You immediately open your eyes as you feel them spread your knees apart.

What the FUCK!?

There's a chuckle from underneath you.

"I must admit... I am enjoying your terror immensely."

Obviously.

You feel an indigo tendril slowly slide up your shirt and wiggle underneath your bra. coiling around one of your breasts and squeezing it roughly as you feel your cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. It was cold and slimy but thanks to what you assumed was the natural power of the young man before you, the tentacles emitted a gentle electro current throughout their entire lengths and the sensation caused the muscles in your limbs and stomach to relax unwillingly as you were fondled.

The entire stimulation was now sending jolts of unwilling arousal through you. Scaramouche's eyes darken as he feels your nipple stiffen against one of his slick, muscular coils which had wrapped itself tightly around one of your tits and was now rubbing its head against your delicate peak. Making you struggle to stay quiet.

"Your body is betraying you. How does it feel existing in such a delicate and worthless form? I'm not even trying yet-."

Another tendril snakes up your thigh, sliding beneath your skirt, the cool slickness a shock against your bare skin as you didn't expect this so quickly. It inches higher, brushing against your clothed sex.

Scaramouche chuckles darkly at your soft whimpers then, his voice a sinful caress in your aroused mind as you're made to enjoy this against your will.

"I can still feel you with these. You're so wet already. Does it feel good being teased in such a disgraceful manner? Or were you always this much of a slut?"

He grins wickedly, a predatory gleam in his indigo eyes. The tendrils tighten their grip, squeezing and kneading your most sensitive places, stoking the fire within your core. The air crackles with his power and reeks of your excitement.

A small tentacle hooks into the waistband of your panties and suddenly rips them off completely, baring your glistening sex to the cool air. Another one quickly begins to rub against your slick folds, teasing your wet entrance.

"What a cute little hole~ hmm. I wonder what would happen if I-"

The thick tentacle at your entrance instantly rams itself inside in one painful push, stretching your tight pussy and curling in to rub against your sweet spot as it began to thrust quickly. You could only gasp and cry out as you felt another tentacle slither up your thigh and rub your clit at the same time.

Your eyes widened.

It hurt yet it felt like you had ascended to Celestia all at once.

You force yourself to cry out before you went insane.

"S-Scara! Please! It's too big! You're... stretching me!"

Scaramouche smirks up at your quivering body as he feels your tight walls clenching desperately around his invading tendril. He grinds it deeper, relishing your breathy moans and gasps, the electric current making your body shudder with every caress and thrust.

"Too big? Ha. Your greedy little cunt is taking every inch like it was made for it. Like it was made for me."

He pulls back slightly, then slams the tentacle in deeper. The wet squelching sounds of the violation fill the room, mingling with your increasingly wanton moans and whimpers.

"Listen to yourself, enjoying the feeling of being so ruthlessly defiled. You can't deny your true nature Y/N. You're a weak and disposable creature. I've seen how you go out of your way to try and care about me. How you act so..."selfless" and "considerate" when forced to tend to me knowing damn well it was all only to delude yourself into believing you were making a difference. Tell me, was it tiring?"

Tendrils squeeze your breasts harder, the electric shocks making your nipples stiffen into aching peaks. Another then pushes into your mouth, silencing your cries and leaving you gasping around the slick intrusion.

"It must have been exhausting. Pretending like you actually cared so much. Did you enjoy your little charade? Was it nice pretending like you weren't worth less than the dirt on my shoes because you were "helping "?"

Scaramouche's voice is a dark, lustful growl as he crosses his arms and continues to watch as his tentacles ruin you. The tendril pistoning into your cunt speeds up, the electric shocks growing stronger, pushing you closer and closer to a reluctant release.

"Come for me, Y/N. Come on my tentacles like the wanton slut you are. You wanted something like this right? To be seen and "loved"? Well let go then."

As Scara speaks, another tentacle snakes down to your puckered rear entrance. It teases the tight ring of muscle, the electric current making it relax. Slowly it pushes inside, stretching your virgin hole around the slick invader.

"Such a tight little asshole... I will enjoy breaking this in as well. You'll be my perfect little fuck toy, ready and eager for me at all times. How does that sound?"

The tentacle in your mouth begins fucking deeper into your throat, making you gag and choke a little. The one in your ass pushes deeper, stretching you impossibly further now as everything borders on pleasure and pain now in an overwhelming way.

"That's it, just like that. Take it all. Take every inch, every inch of my desire. You'll learn to crave this, to need this, to be nothing but a set of holes for me to fill and use. I'll give you a purpose. A reason to exist. Just like you always wanted."

Scaramouche's eyes blaze with sadistic lust as he watches you try to writhe and struggle, your body shaking with unwanted pleasure, your mind clouding with shame and need. He knows he has you now, knows that he can shape you, mold you, ruin you for all others.

And it's driving him insane.

You had caught his attention long ago but of course you were too stupid to notice. You always thought his tentacles were just being "aggressive". No. He had been trying to get you to say something to him. But every time you just stared at him, gave him a stupid little tray of food that he didn't even need. And then just left.

You couldn't blame him for getting a little frustrated and impatient. You had practically forced him to make the first move here.

A couple of minutes went by and suddenly you feel something else being stuffed into your stretched cunt alongside the enormous tentacle already buried inside.

Two smaller and practically microscopic sized tentacles wiggle in and begin to tease your cervix opening. Slowly coaxing their way into your womb as you feel yourself climaxing from the intrusion.

The tentacles writhe and squirm in your womb, painting your inner walls with their slick, tingling essence.

You suddenly feel a deep pressure as something is pumped directly into your womb. You wince and cum again as Scara begins to forcibly impregnates you with his offspring yet instead of your earlier nervousness or shame, you now feel oddly at ease. As if your new reality finally set in for you.

It was kinda enjoyable.

Scaramouche chuckles darkly as he feels your womb trying instinctively to reject his eggs. But the tendrils hold fast, forcing the small yet soft jelly-like lavender eggs deeper, stretching your most intimate space to its limits.

You had finally accepted your place it seemed. Utilizing your body's full potential from here would be far more easy with you now more willing to endure the process and transformation.

The tendrils continue their relentless assault, pumping more and more of the eggs into you, each one a cruel mockery of a seed, a promise of the countless times he will fill you after this as well. You had one purpose now. To be used, bred like a bitch in heat. All for the singular goal of birthing a new army for Scaramouche and his future plans.

You were important for this reason alone.

"Welcome to your new life, mortal. Welcome to eternity as my personal fuck toy, my breeding bitch, my eternal plaything. And you will love every moment of it. I promise."

A few hours pass and your belly swells quickly. During this short incubation period Scara manages to stretch your holes even further almost to the point of beyond recognition. Three tentacles now thrusted in and out of your ruined asshole and Scara had decided to reposition you both to keep an eye on you and to jam another thick tentacle deep into your pussy and continue to ravage it while he silently marveled at your swollen belly from where he now stood over you.

His hands roam possessively over the stretched skin of your stomach. He can feel the eggs he's planted inside you, each one a testament to his dark triumph, a promise of the future that he envisioned where he was untouchable by absolutely anyone. God or human alike.

"Look at you, already so round and full. And this is only the beginning, my dear. I will fill you again and again, until you know nothing but the feeling of carrying my offspring."

He leans down, his lips brushing against the taut skin of your stomach, his voice a dark, mocking murmur.

"Such an easy bitch to breed, so quick to take my eggs, to let them take root inside you. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were meant to be my incubator, my vessel. And now, here you are, already looking like a proper mother~"

The tentacles continue their relentless assault, stretching you impossibly further, The one now sucking on your clit pulses in time with your racing heartbeat, pushing you to yet another orgasm.

More tendrils move to your heavy, aching breasts again, squeezing and kneading the swollen flesh. They latch onto your nipples, suckling greedily, the electric currents making milk drip faster as it's quickly consumed.

More time goes by. You aren't sure how much exactly but then.

You feel movement in your belly and an uncomfortable shift as the eggs begin to hatch within you. The tentacles in your pussy immediately slide free and smaller ones seize your battered lips before rudely pulling on them to reveal your now loose and sloppy canal in its entirety.

Within seconds a small writhing indigo tentacle pushes its way out of your cervix and begins its descent.

Scaramouche's eyes widen with a fevered, manic light as he watches the first of his offspring emerge and fall to the floor with a small thud. He leans in closer, his breath coming faster as he watches the next little and writhing indigo tentacle push its way out, covered in fluids and its own natural secretions, a grotesque parody of a newborn.

"Look at that... your womb was actually able to grow these things without issue, your body has given life to my creation. I knew I made no mistake when I chose you for this."

The tentacles in your ass begins to writhe and pulse at that moment, easily pulling free from your body to make room for more of the "children " to emerge. Within seconds they start slipping out of your abused holes like nightmarish serpents and forming a horrific pile beneath your deflated body. Their movements are jerky and erratic, their beautiful flesh glistening in the dim light as they slowly start to slither up your legs in search of the warmth they once knew moments ago.

"Such a good mother, so efficient in your purpose. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were meant for this. And now, look at you... a true incubator, an ideal vessel for what is to come."

Scaramouche reaches down, his fingers brushing against the writhing mass of tentacles, stroking them like a proud parent would a newborn. They pulse and twitch at his touch, as if recognizing their creator, their master.

"They will be the first of many, the vanguard of a new age, a new era of power and dominance."

Your belly continues to churn from inside, more of the eggs hatching, more of the small tentacle creatures slipping out to join their brethren. The floor quickly fills with their jerking, twisting forms, a nightmarish scene.

Scaramouche's maniacal laughter then rings out, echoing off the walls, a sound of pure, unhinged joy at his dark triumph. He knows that he has won. Because with this plan now in action, no one would be able to oppose him for long.

And the world would be his for the taking.

#genshin impact #wanderer #smut #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin wanderer #wanderer x female reader #wanderer smut #wanderer x reader #genshin kabukimono #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche smut #scaramouche #genshin scara #scara

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honeysorwell · 2 days ago

Text

all of it (all of you)

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x hairdresser!fem Reader

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Link on AO3

Chapter 2

Tag list: @janeyseymour @italianaidiota @chloeelou02x (and if you want to be tagged too just let me know.)

Warning: there is a line for people who want to kiss Mel's burn hand, and I'm the first in it.

Words: 5,7k

The comments and compliments I received for this work caught me completely unprepared. Guys, thank you all very much for embracing my work with such affection.

Enjoy!

Fifteen people in the last twenty days.

Fifteen people have complimented Melissa's hair in the last twenty days.

In theory, everything was done the same as usual, but by someone else's hands. However, the universe decided to make the redhead feel even more guilty about everything that happened on her last visit to the salon.

First, it was Barb. The older woman touched Melissa's red hair tenderly in the teacher's breakroom, without any apprehension or concern about the second-grade teacher's reaction, and complimented the way it was colored, saying it looked brighter than before.

But it quickly escalated into something more significant.

Ava asked if she did anything differently, and the principal did so while telling a flattering joke asking where her Roger Rabbit was, which even made Barbara laugh softly. Next, it was Janine and Jacob who also complimented her hair, with a shy Gregory by their side who just nodded.

Then more and more parents of students joined the complementary wave of affection towards her. And then Melissa was hearing compliments from Abbott’s new stocker and vending machine operator, a handsome man with hair that was too long for her taste named Julian who now shares the heavy workload of the truck with Gary (causing the bald man with the mustache to blush before he softly agrees with his new co-worker).

Then there are a few random teenagers, grocery store clerks, who stop her to tell her she looks hot, quickly finishing the sentence with a “respectfully” before Melissa even has time to respond to them.

Normally Melissa would love all of this attention, and in another scenario, the compliments would have encouraged her to go out after work on some random Friday night looking for someone brave enough to try something more than a compliment. But this time the Italian woman felt her heart clench and her mind race a thousand miles an hour as she thought about the hairdresser who did that job every time someone complimented her.

So she actively swallows her pride and visits the Riverfront Roots Salon once again. Melissa would truly rather die than apologize or admit she was wrong. She memorized this from her family and she carries this learning throughout her life, but even someone like the redhead needs to admit that nothing can be applied in life without at least one exception.

That's why Melissa makes this visit to the salon on a Tuesday, after the school day is over since the darkness of the night could allow a little more privacy between her and Y/N.

As she parks her car in front of Riverfront Roots, the redhead convinces herself that it doesn't hurt to make sure that only the minimum number of people witness this display of vulnerability coming from a Schimmenti as she watches what seems to be the last customers of the night saying goodbye to the receptionist before leaving.

What will she say?

She has no idea.

But everything goes down the drain when the redhead's idea goes wrong. So when she returns home at night, unable to even talk to the hairdresser to replace the image of discomfort written on Y/N's face from her memory with an apology, Melissa decides to call her confidant and arrange to meet her the following weekend, using the next few days to gather courage and ask for advice from the one who never failed to give her the best of them whenever the teacher needed it.

“Oh, Melissa. How are you, dear? Don't get me wrong, cuz I figured I'd get your call, just not exactly as an invitation for coffee...”, Andrea's voice rings out as Melissa enters her favorite coffee shop, sounding happier than the last time the teacher saw her, and the redhead imagines that this is the result of the free time resting that the Italian woman must now have in abundance thanks to her retirement.

“What? Can't I invite my friend for coffee and ask her how her days are going without the sound of the hairdryer making her deaf?”, her voice sounds playful above all, which makes the answer she receives from Andrea come along with a laugh.

“Of course you can, silly girl!”

And so they talk for several hours, drinking coffee after coffee and hardly caring about how electric their bodies will be after ingesting so much caffeine while sharing pieces of their current lives. At first, it is strange to look at the woman in front of them and not see their own face next to that one, sharing a reflection in the mirror, but it is fine and the two women quickly get used to the new arrangement.

“Of course, you knew I would miss you,” Melissa says with a laugh, chewing gently on one of the best butter cookies she has ever eaten after taking another sip of her particularly hot coffee.

“Oh, I knew that. But, that’s not exactly what turned on the light bulb in my head,” the older woman says with an air of wisdom that only someone who has ever lived in the world enough to know too much can have, and after taking another sip of her coffee, she continued, “You see... Y/N called me a few weeks ago asking for permission to pass on the mix recipe I developed for you to another hairdresser... So, even though she didn't give me any details, I figured something had... happened.”

Melissa felt that the blood under the skin of her face was truly burning with shame.

The redhead thought about swallowing the coffee in her cup in one go, hoping it would burn her tongue with how hot the liquid was, and thus be able to escape from answering what Andrea clearly wanted to know.

She knew she was cornered and had been caught, with no intelligent way to escape. Shame and guilt mixed together, creating a bitter taste in the teacher's mouth even with the memory of the cookie so fresh on her tongue.

But, Melissa's usual response to these situations, loud and ready for a fight, doesn't happen here. Not with Andrea. Never with Andrea.

“What a big mouth... Jezz...”, is how the teacher responds, mumbling as she looks away from her friend in front of her.

“Something tells me yours is too.”

“I just... I was angry, okay?”, for the first time the redhead is honest even in the midst of murmurs, “And she’s different, and she kept talking so I... I freaked out and said what I shouldn’t have.”

Andrea remains silent, just observing the discomfort of the one in front of her with affection and understanding, and it’s this look that makes Melissa continue to speak.

“I know I crossed the line... But she did too!”, the words come out of the teacher’s mouth accusingly before she shares the whole story with Andrea, who smiles and shows surprise at every bit of her student’s encounter with Melissa shared with her, especially with the scissors.

“And what do you want to do now? I even know other hairdressers, but–”

“No! I just... I don't know exactly how I should apologize... Don't get me wrong, I don't want to apologize, but I really know I need to.”, honesty and vulnerability continue their journey between Melissa's mind and tongue as she speaks, “I stopped by her salon but they didn't even let me see her, they just gave me a paper with how many grams of each dye I need for my whole head and sent me away. But since you told me she was your pupil... Well...I thought that maybe...”

“Oh... I see.”, Andrea's voice has the most suggestive tone Melissa has heard in years, and thanks to the look the older woman gives her, full of knowledge, the redhead's cheeks blush.

“Please Andrea, it's not like that.”, the sentence escapes her lips just as her neck also begins to blush, with a speed that would be justified if Melissa were being tortured, trying to prove her innocence of a crime that the teacher definitely did not commit. But maybe she thought about it.

Or if she had enjoyed many generous sips of her coffee, even though she knew how hot it was.

“I didn’t say anything, dear. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Andrea can sense Melissa’s embarrassment, so she diverts her attention to the bigger picture, even though her knowing smile never leaves her lips, “Look… You know you’re a good cook, and you’ve gotten your fair share of favors that way. Maybe it’s worth trying your luck.”

After that, the subject goes back to where it was before, and the teacher actually tries to focus on Andrea saying that she’ll be spending next summer in Europe, but Melissa’s mind starts working in a completely different way. She silently goes over (in her memory) the most beloved dishes from the cookbook she inherited from her grandmother while listening to Andrea talk about how it would be a pleasure to have Melissa over if she decides to run away from her family for the upcoming holidays. And when they pay the bill for the coffee, Melissa knows what to do.

“And Melissa… Cut off an inch when you get the chance, my dear. It's getting a little.. uneven.”, this is the end of Andrea's farewell to the redhead after a tight hug and a sweet kiss on the forehead, but the words are said in a maternal tone, of genuine care for the teacher that makes Melissa, even without thinking, respond to the older woman with just an affirmative nod and a loving smile.

And, as she doesn't want to think about what happened when someone else suggested the same thing, at least not now, Melissa goes home with only that feeling in her chest.

When the moon took over the sky that night, Melissa was lying under the covers of her bed, staring at the ceiling of her room and completely giving up on falling asleep, while her mind went over and over her conversation with Andrea. The older woman was right, as always.

She could cook something for Y/N.

Cooking has always been her passion since she was little, and that was one of the things that made the redhead and her grandmother even closer. The fact that Melissa was very good at it only helped her cause of being her grandmother's favorite.

Most of the time the redhead cooks as a thank you, rather than an apology, but the change is small. And so, the fact that the idea of cooking to apologize has not left Melissa's mind honestly shocked her.

Most of her guys are just people from all over Philadelphia who work in different places and when they hear about how good her food is, they actively choose to seek her out, willingly offering services (sometimes illicit) that the redhead might be interested in in the long run in order to have the opportunity to taste her seasoning, thus forming an alliance.

It's impossible not to take advantage of this after a few years.

Finding out and memorizing what her most skillful guys' favorite dishes are. Doubling or even tripling the size of recipes that were previously made for only ten people, making her thanks become something shared with more and more potential “guys” (thus increasing the number of guys offering their services to her) so often that the redhead has forgotten how to cook for just two people in the last twenty years.

Cooking is a gift that, unlike her job as a teacher, the redhead didn't have to choose. It was flowing through her veins.

Melissa knows that this is one of the simplest ways to get what she wants. And maybe that's what made her block this possibility until now.

There was a voice inside her head, not the part inflated by her ego for always getting what she wants thanks to how good her food is and how everyone who knows about her talent wants to appreciate it, but the insecure and confused one that whispers in a soft voice that Melissa wants to manipulate Y/N.

And for the first time in a while, she’s not bragging about doing it. In fact, she doesn’t want to do it.

For some reason that Melissa still doesn’t know but keeps scratching her insides, she wants to earn Y/N’s apology, not demand it with her food.

And it doesn’t help that it’s been a long time since Melissa apologized to anyone.

Knowing that she won’t be able to sleep anytime soon and taking advantage of the fact that tomorrow will be Sunday, the second and third-grade teacher gets out of bed and goes to the kitchen, wondering what she should cook.

It’s already the middle of the night, and she has a lot of grading to do for her students’ tests tomorrow, but Melissa knows she won’t be able to concentrate if she doesn’t do that first.

Wrapped in a dark blue robe and hoping that Jacob won’t come to check why she is up so late at night, the teacher carefully opens the refrigerator and checks the ingredients she has and the ones she bought the last time she went to the farmer’s market.

Orange juice... Half a bottle of wine... Milk... Eggs... Fresh mascarpone?

When her eyes focus on the sweet cream-colored cheese, a train of thoughts runs through her head. Melissa knows less than little about her new hairdresser – which is her fault, really – but who doesn't like a sweet treat after a long day of work?

The redhead has dark chocolate in the pantry. Coffee is always a must in a teacher's house. And her cousin gave her a cocoa powder so rich and velvety last Christmas that it could melt in her fingers.

So tiramisu it is.

It was a simple yet sophisticated dessert, full of layers of flavors and textures that the redhead hoped would be enough to convey the care and effort she had put into the dessert. And that would certainly be worth more than a few words, right?

When Melissa goes back to bed, she knows that this is a good idea, and, bathed in this certainty, the redhead can finally see herself falling asleep as she climbs back to bed.

"Perfect," is the word Melissa whispers softly to herself, as she finally gets the thing that was preventing her from sleeping off her chest.

The next morning, the redhead took a quick shower and went downstairs, deciding to organize everything she would need to grade her little eagles' work on the dining room table before taking a deep breath and heading to the kitchen.

She hadn't made homemade Savoiardi in years, always using the ones from the Italian bakery that sold her favorite cannolis. But today was different. Today, cooking would make her put her feelings in order, perhaps even directing her mind to a light that would clear her ideas for what the teacher should say when giving the dessert to Y/N the next morning.

The redhead begins to separate the ingredients she will need to bake the cookies quickly, already deciding that it would be smart to have the necessary ingredients on the kitchen counter even before she finishes making her coffee. Anticipating the company she will have when she hears the sound of lazy footsteps coming from the stairs, Melissa fills one more cup than she would if she were alone with the dark liquid and begins to grab her frying pan to put it in the stove and prepare what she's going to eat.

"Good morning Mel-Mel!", Jacob sounds as he enters the kitchen, hoarse and sleepy, leaning softly against the kitchen counter and observing the ingredients that are displayed there.

"Morning Jacob. There's coffee ready.", Melissa answers softly, pointing to the coffee cup next to hers, still full and steaming, waiting for the younger teacher.

"Thank you.", the smile Jacob gives her is initially full of gratitude, but quickly turns to curiosity when he continues, "Oh... what are you cooking?"

The teacher isn't sure what exactly this question refers to, but considering how curiously he was looking at her ingredients just a minute ago, Melissa gives Jacob two simple answers.

"Eggs, and then baking."

"That's cool. Let me finish this, you already made me coffee.", Jacob says as he gently takes the spoon from the redhead's hand, then grabs four eggs from the fridge and takes her place in front of the stove.

After he moved in with Melissa and this new and sweet idea of friendship was born between the two teachers, what had previously been just a few cooking lessons here and there turned into an intensive course. But the younger teacher loved every second of it. Jacob learned so much about everyday food living with the redhead and even managed to succeed at it, making moments like that more and more natural in the Italian woman's kitchen.

Taking advantage of the softness of her replacement in front of the stove, the redhead begins to gently check if everything she needs to bake is there until Jacob's voice sounds again.

"Did you know that astronauts can bake bread in some space stations?", the man says the words with childish excitement, but still with his eyes attentive to the eggs he is stirring gently on the stove, exactly as the redhead instructed him weeks ago, "Wouldn't it be nice to eat warm bread while you watch the earth from afar?"

"First, I'm not baking bread. But yes, it does sound good to them, kid.” Melissa’s response is simple and sweet, not irritated like she usually would be when she hears silly things like that at work.

They ate breakfast in comfortable silence. Melissa knew Jacob was going on a date that Sunday, so from the moment she woke up to the moment she heard Jacob singing in the upstairs shower before he began to get properly dressed for the lunch he would share with Avi, the paramedic at the local Philadelphia fire station, everything was going according to the plan the teacher had until she started baking.

Melissa tried to focus on the methodical rhythm of her task. Crack the egg, pour the white into a jar, pour the yolks into the mixer bowl, and repeat. But her mind insisted on going back to what she had done a few weeks ago. The words she had said to Y/N were sharp and thoughtless, but what weighed on her like a stone in her stomach was the change in the hairdresser’s expression. "She may have already forgotten...", Melissa muttered to herself, trying to calm her mind. But she knew it wasn't true.

She knew Janine didn't mean to say that she was a bad teacher when Courtney was transferred to her class, not really. It was just the younger teacher's ego and naivety, both screaming and destroying Janine's judgment for having been actively chosen.

But Melissa also couldn't deny that her mouth turned bitter the moment she heard her colleague's words, even if they were whispered.

She would never say it out loud, not even to Barb, but that first night, after hearing that unexpected insult, the younger teacher's words remained too vivid in the redhead's mind when the lights in her room went out and she had to go to sleep.

Maybe I'm not a bad teacher. Maybe you are.

She really didn't deserve that.

The memory flashed through Melissa's brain so quickly that the teacher even lost her rhythm as she added more ingredients to her mixture, but she recovered enough to start beating the egg whites. However, the continuous noise of the mixer only made her remember how much she had thought about it, lying in her bed watching the sun rise through her window when she woke up before her alarm clock.

A bad teacher.

Sighing, Melissa thinks about how much it took for her to understand what was going on in the mind of the younger teacher back then, and then turns off the mixer and begins to mix its contents with the few that were missing.

As she spread the molds she would need on top of her table and, with the experience and speed of a chef, the redhead put the freshly mixed dough she had in her hands in a pastry bag and continued without even blinking as she remembered that little clash in Abbott.

When Janine got upset about being described as an inexperienced teacher in the teachers break room, the redhead hadn't even blink, and that was why she started teasing the younger woman.

Because, to the redhead, it was obvious that she was a more experienced teacher.

If Melissa, a teacher with over twenty years of experience, wasn't more experienced than a teacher with only three, then Melissa was doing something very wrong not only with her life but also with the lives of the children she taught. The fact that the two woman had different times to prepare and perfect themselves to where they were now, both in the same place (teaching Abbott Elementary as second-grade teachers at the same time), had nothing to do with Janine's qualities as a teacher.

Eventually, she managed to explain this to the younger teacher.

"Thank God.", was the muttered thought that Melissa let slip between her lips as she put her Savoiardi in the oven after sprinkling them with her mixture of sugar and cornstarch, automatically starting the timer.

Melissa forgave Janine because she knew she didn't mean it with all her heart. The younger teacher was foolish but not cruel. She couldn't be cruel even if she tried.

Melissa knew. But Melissa knew this because she knew Janine.

The problem was that... Y/N didn't know Melissa.

So what the hell was she going to do if the hairdresser didn't accept her apology?

And so it was over. Her mind was just taking away the possibility of a peaceful morning for Melissa. Because not even her grandmother's collection of favorite Italian songs would be fair competition for what was starting to form in the redhead's mind.

The redhead isn't someone who has a problem with someone she barely knows not liking her. Melissa sometimes even triumphs over this idea of being disliked by people close to her, so someone she doesn't know should simply mean nothing.

When Uncle Archie says she's his least favorite in the family, it doesn't mean anything. It's an honor, really, and the words of her mother's brother would never keep her awake at night. And he is family.

Now among people she knows, Schimmenti loves the idea of being seen as unreachable, distant and unsociable. But there is something about that hairdresser...

With a huff, Melissa simply grabbed a cloth within her reach and began to clean the counter of her sink, ignoring the insistent sound of the timer that finally went off, still lost in all these thoughts.

Maybe it's because the hairdresser really didn't deserve those words... Maybe it's because the poor woman was just doing her job... Maybe it's because the hairdresser is connected to Andrea... Or maybe...

When the smell of sugar began to intensify, Melissa finally realized that the time had passed. With a start, the redhead opened the oven, letting out a wave of heat so intense that it made her eyes water. The teacher hurriedly pulled one of the baking sheets out of the oven, her bare fingers touching the hot metal before she realized her mistake.

"FUCK!" she groaned loudly, backing away quickly, knocking the tray onto the counter. One of the cookies fell to the floor with a dry, crunchy sound, while her instinct forced her to hold her hand against her chest, her eyes watering.

The burning heat pinked up her palm like an immediate punishment, and defeated Melissa finally turned on the kitchen faucet, placing her red hand there.

"MELISSA??" Jacob's shrill voice sounded faster than she imagined. And more desperate too.

For a moment, the older teacher stood there, staring at the cookie on the floor and feeling the buzzing in her throbbing skin as she felt the flow of water. The pain was real, but it served only as a reflection of something greater: guilt.

“I’M FINE, JACOB!” the redhead yells back at her roommate, even though she knows that from the sounds she hears upstairs, he must be desperately putting on the first piece of clothing he can find and then coming to check on her.

By the time he appears in the kitchen, as out of breath as Janine had been running around in her early years as a teacher, the pain has already subsided. But the younger teacher doesn’t care about that, or the fact that Melissa honestly tells him that she used to get burned all the time when she was younger and that heat tolerance is in every Italian woman’s blood, as he gently rubs some burn ointment from his personal first aid kit onto her burned fingertips.

After repeating what she imagines to be a thousand times that she is fine and perfectly capable of being alone, Jacob finally leaves her alone and goes on his date, giving Melissa the space she needs to sit at the kitchen table. She doesn't want to sound insane, but the savoiardi, perfectly shaped but with some slightly over-brown, seemed to judge her silently.

With a fork and using her non-dominant hand, Melissa tried to transfer all the cookies she baked to a covered container as soon as they cooled and went to her living room.

Finishing the corrections of her students' tests with her non-dominant hand takes longer than she imagines, taking up most of her morning and afternoon. But at least she is back in the kitchen when Jacob returns from his meeting, with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, a sweet smile and lost eyes as he asks her if her fingers still hurt.

She softly denies it, with a smile on her face and thankful for Jacob's concern written in his eyes. He understands even the words she doesn't say, and she is also thankful for that as she grates some of the dark chocolate she will need to finish her recipe the next day and puts it in a covered container.

On Monday morning, Melissa gets up ready early.

If asked, she would say that she set her alarm to wake her an hour and a half earlier, but the reality is that her nerves did the job without the help of technology.

Calmly, Melissa took the mascarpone from her refrigerator and began to make the cream that would bring the entire recipe to life. She beats the egg whites with the egg yolk, and uses the mixer to first mix the sugar, then the mascarpone and finally the carefully beaten egg whites.

When everything was ready, the redhead took a deep breath and, next to the precious dish she had chosen, arranged on her counter the Savoiardi cookies made the day before, the grated chocolate, the mascarpone cream and began to assemble the dessert. She dipped the cookies in a little room temperature coffee, one by one, taking care to make sure they were just the right amount of wet so that she could arrange them on the bottom of that precious glass dish, creating an even base and trying to ignore how much she wished the hairdresser could see the care she put into it.

When Jacob finally came downstairs, she was already spreading the fourth layer of the mascarpone cream, smoothing it with a spatula to ensure that each part of the dessert was perfect. When she finished, the redhead noticed that it was exactly ten minutes before the time she and the younger teacher left the house every day, so the redhead took her time sprinkling cocoa powder on top delicately, as if she were drawing an invisible message to Y/N.

Forgive me. I'm sorry.

Melissa wasn't sure.

But what she knows for sure is that Jacob is practically melting with curiosity in his passenger seat as he holds the dessert in his lap.

The Italian woman wanted to rest the tray on her back seat, as she always does when she needs to take something important to school. But he asks so genuinely to carry it that Melissa doesn't have the heart to tell him to take the bus that day. Especially after his ointment worked wonders by almost completely healing the burn on her hand.

At least not inside the car, since she takes the tray from the younger teacher's hand and is the one responsible for putting it in the refrigerator in the teacher's break room.

"Oh. This is a...”, Janine's voice is uncertain as she inspects the tray that prevents her from storing her sandwich on the common refrigerator shelf, already stretching her fingers to get a better look at what it was.

“It's mine. Do you have a problem with it?”, Melissa says rudely just so that there are no additional questions, but, as usual, Janine doesn't get the hint.

“That's beautiful. But can I—”, Janine starts again only to be interrupted.

“It's not yours. So don't touch it.”

After that, a heavy silence takes over the break room for a few moments.

“She spent the whole day yesterday making it... and she even got burned and then she was putting it together this morning.”, the youngest man in the room mumbles to his friend, not as quietly as he imagines he did since everyone in the room hears Jacob's words even with the news on the television.

“Did she give you a piece?” Janine mumbles back to Jacob, now curious. He shakes his head at the younger woman, purposely leaving out the fact that Melissa left a fair amount of the cream she used for that tiramisu in a small bowl, next to some of the homemade cookies just for him this morning. And that’s why Jacob gets a slap on the arm from the redhead along with an irritated look as he passes her on his way to the coffee maker to refill the dark liquid in his cup. Finally, intrigued by the younger man’s groan of pain, Barbara looks at the refrigerator that Janine still has open, trying unsuccessfully to put her lunch inside, and sees the reason for everyone’s commotion. A big tiramisu. But she also sees something that no one else does.

Something that cannot be questioned is that, out of everyone there, Barbara knows Melissa like no one else and is able to figure her out without even trying. And, with a small look at the glass dish in question, she had already figured her friend out.

That was one of a set of five glass dishes that Barbara Howard had heard about and only seen from a distance. Before her third year of marriage, the redhead's ex-mother-in-law, who was battling lung cancer although she still refused to give up smoking, distributed her most precious possessions to her family. And among them was that set that had been desired by all the women in Joe's family for many years.

As expected, four of the dishes were divided among Mary Alice's four daughters, but, surprising the redhead in a way she never imagined possible, Melissa was given the last one of the set, much to the despair of Joe's older brother's wife. Melissa's ex-husband's mother told the teacher that her talent for cooking would give a better destination for the last piece, unlike the idiotic fight that the sisters would probably start over the unequal number of the set.

Even after the divorce, the heartwarming gift was never claimed by Joe.

So Barbara knew that the tiramisu in question, taking up a huge space in the refrigerator of the teachers' break room on the first floor of Abbott Elementary, was not like any other.

"Girlfriend?" Barbara says softly to get the redhead's attention, speaking again only when Melissa's green eyes are looking directly into her dark ones, "Don't get involved in anything dangerous, please."

"I won't..." Melissa's voice no longer has the bite it had when she spoke to the other teachers, "I swear! It's just... an apology."

"For Joe?", the first-grade teacher knows she might be pushing, but she can't help but ask.

"No!", it's almost a scream, the redhead's tone of voice sounds scared and indignant, but it calms the teacher next to her.

And that, for now, is enough.

At the end of the day, with the tiramisu neatly packed and in her passenger seat, Melissa got into her car and drove to the salon where Y/N worked. The teacher's heart was beating fast as she parked and walked to the entrance, holding the dessert tightly even though her hands were sweaty. As she entered, the sound of scissors and the buzz of conversation seemed to fade in her mind. Her eyes searched for Y/N, who was distracted by a client and she didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The last time she tried to talk to the hairdresser, Melissa gave her name right at the entrance and the receptionist automatically started searching through her notes for the note addressed to her, but now the redhead knew better.

"My name is not important. Just say that someone really wants to talk to her."

"Y/N!" the receptionist shouts the hairdresser's name loudly, using her vocal cords without any remorse, "There's a redhead who wants to talk to you."

“Is she hot?”, the sound of Y/N’s voice rings out from a distance to Melissa amidst a laugh, at the same time that her rhythmic footsteps echo on the floor of the salon, as if the hairdresser wasn’t exactly running, but in a kind of hurry and curiosity to know what was waiting for her at the reception.

When the Brazilian woman turns the glass corridor and finally appears in front of the redhead, with a soft smile on her face, Melissa can’t help but think that Y/N is even more beautiful than the first time she saw her.

But that smile doesn’t last long because, the moment the hairdresser’s eyes meet Melissa’s green ones, Y/N’s soft face turns into a frown as she asks harshly:

“Oh. You. What do you want?”

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti imagine #melissa schemmenti x reader #abbott elementary fanfics #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #lisa ann walter imagine #lisa ann walter x reader

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 days ago

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I saw what you said about the dreams being nothing and useless to the story, and I was curious about something, do you think the characters that never got closure or development from their book should have stayed like that or do you think a new book should have been made to tie up the initial stories?

Heartslabyul for example had a lot of loose ends on their book that never got resolved, Cater never had focus or allowed development, the others too didnt get true closure, and I thought the heartslabyul dreams was the perfect way to finish their arc in a fulfilling way.

But you hold the opinion the dream arcs shoudnt have focused on them too much right? Do you think It was okay for the characters development to end in their book, or do you think their closure should have been in a different moment or way?

[Referencing this post!]

While I realize that the original post was very critical of the dream hopping segments, I did not mean to call them "nothing" and "useless" as a whole. I'm unhappy with how the dreams were executed, especially the lack of urgency present in them. My main gripe is how the characters know that they're on a time crunch, yet they hardly ever act like it. Instead, they stand around for multiple segments eating fake food or casually sharing stories about their families. This is time-wasting nonsense and it does nothing to help their situation. We quickly started to stray from Diasomnia and the urgency of the conflict at hand in favor of fanservice (like dorm leader Cater, despite Cater expressing he never wanted the position) and trying to explain away that fanservice with contrived dialogue.

Please do not misunderstand me. I never said that I don't want any non-Ignihyde or non-Diasomnia character to get development in book 7. It's true that many characters, especially the non-OB boys, never got the spotlight in previous books or that we never got the satisfaction of seeing their growth this far into the school year. If any of them were going to get attention, it makes sense to do it now as one last hurrah in book 7. It might not have been very obvious due to the critical nature of that original post, but I actually thought some of the later dreams (namely the Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul ones) were good and wrapped things up nicely. I will, however, still lampoon them for having the characters standing around and eating/talking for way too long.

It's not that I wished the game didn't focus on the non-OB boys, it's that I wished the execution of them wasn't so meandering. If the devs wanted to keep the dream segments in, they should have trimmed the fat out. Get rid of all (or most of) the idle parts, or at least trim down on the idle dialogue by a lot. Or maybe just make the OB boys mandatory and the others optional. Like, still part of book 7 but you can read the non-OB boys at your leisure, similar to collecting individual students' wishes in the Wish Upon a Star event, and you only need to clear the OB boys to advance in the story. Have short scenes where dorm members reunite (sort of like at the end of book 6, when everyone regrouped with their respective OB boy) and gear up + strategize with each other. Cut back briefly to Malleus and Lilia's brawl between each dorm, just to keep them relevant and/or remind us of that clock ticking down as Lilia gets more and more worn down. Maybe standardize how many parts are dedicated to every character too… Not have a spread of 4 to 46. That would at least speed us along a little faster or at least give a better sense of rushing to prepare for the fight against Malleus.

That being said, characters don’t just magically stop developing the instant their book ends. They’re changing on their own, outside of the purview of the player or off-screen (like when Riddle talks with his mom over winter break), all the time. A lot of this happens through self-reflection/internal thoughts, so we the players don’t get to see it. It doesn’t mean the characters haven’t changed or wouldn’t change without us viewing it ourselves. Even now, the characters are still growing and changing. Some of them might have more concrete “closure” now (like Kalim finally getting to punch Jamil), but the truth of the matter is that character development never truly “ends” (ie Kalim and Jamil still have their complicated relationship to sort through). It is a continuous thing we consciously work at. There’s truly no end in sight for it. Regardless of whether we got those dream sequences or not or how that development was delivered to us, this still would have been true.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #notes from the writing raven #question #Malleus Draconia #Lilia Vanrouge #book 7 spoilers #book 6 spoilers #wish upon a star spoilers #Cater Diamond #Riddle Rosehearts #Jamil Viper #Kalim Al-Asim #Scarabia

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pumpkinowl13 · 5 hours ago

Text

My opinion (& honest critique) of Poppy Playtime Chapter 4

Okay hi. First things first, I have been a fan of Poppy Playtime since Chapter 1 came out. I was hooked from Chapter 1, thought Chapter 2 was just fantastic, and was absolutely blown away by how good Chapter 3 was.

And then ... Chapter 4 happened.

I'm not gonna act like it was completely irredeemable, because it had parts that I really really liked- I thought Doey was awesome & the puzzles were by far the most innovative yet. I think the issue for me is that it just didn't feel like a Poppy Playtime game, for multiple different reasons.

My overall summary if you CBA to read everything is that I wish they had just committed to one plot line, one antagonist, one setting and one plot twist: Quality over Quantity. Because of this, it just didn't feel like a proper chapter, and instead like a mishmash of concepts.

Read on for my criticism, & if you have any opinions on it or corrections I'd be happy to read them :))

The first big thing for me

is that it didn't feel like it had an antagonist.

Or rather, it felt like it had three potential antagonists (Doey, The Doctor and Yarnaby) that they couldn't decide between and just shoved all three together, at the expense of the quality of each character.

The first three games it felt clear who the antagonist was- giving each chapter it's own unique story. However, the inclusion of the prototype also added to a larger, cohesive plot which each chapter followed, giving each of them a purpose. However, in Chapter 4... who was the antagonist?

Let's talk potential antagonists for Chapter 4 (& why none of them worked...)

I know what you're gonna say. Doey. And Doey was certainly the main character of this chapter, but if he's the antagonist, then he falls flat.

Part of the charm of the games was the feeling of not knowing what was going on. The isolation in the huge factory, knowing that there was someone after us, but not knowing where they were or what they were doing - like when Huggy dissapears in Ch1, or the occasional limb from Mommy or Catnap's tail snaking down from the ceiling. This makes our imagination run wild - being left alone with the knowledge that we are not alone is such a divine way of building tension.

But if Doey was meant to be the antagonist, then like ... none of this beautiful tension building can happen at all. He's pretty consistently by our side after we meet him, and we immediately learn his entire backstory from the tapes. This feels like the establishment of a new friend, rather than an antag. So then like ... why did they make him start attacking us and have him be the big boss fight? Why didn't he just stay a friend for the rest of the series, or save that boss fight for later games? Instead he randomly turns on us, which just felt so forced. Why did he need to be the big disney villain plot twist? I feel like Doey should have stayed a friend to us, along with Kissy & Poppy. While his Boss fight was cool for lore I guess, we also could have just seen the transformation in another context (like fighting an actual antagonist with us) or just hearing it on a VHS tape (like we did when he met his parents). And then to make matters worse, they just kill him off.

So then, maybe the Doctor is the antagonist. But again, this annoys me. The Doctor is an awesome character, don't get me wrong, but as a main antagonist... hmm. I'm not so sure. Firstly, he just doesn't visually fit with the style of the other antagonists. He's not a toy - he's literally just a computer. Visually, I feel like he just didn't really fit Chapter 4 just yet. I really wish they had just saved him for Chapter 5 (when presumably we meet the prototype & the tone will be much darker) Another issue with him as an antagonist is he didn't really build up any tension either, constantly yapping to us through the security cameras - i get that he's always watching us, but it could have been much more subtle (like how they did it with Catnap).

So I think that the strongest candidate is probably Yarnaby. I mean firstly, visually, Yarnaby fits with the other antagonists. I saw Yarnaby's design and actually got excited about it. he's awesome and that mouth opening thing!!! I mean, Wow! Literally the best designed character in this Chapter.

But then why why why did they not even bother to make him the main antagonist!!!!! He constantly stalks us throughout the whole game, he builds up enough tension... I mean like, they could have done so much with Yarnaby. But no, they just kill him off. Right after introducing him. I wish we had just focused on Yarnaby, and not all these other characters.

I mean, reading these files, there is such a missed opportunity here. I personally think they should have made the main antagonist Yarnaby, he stalks us the entire game. And then, they could have played into this “domesticated dog or cat” thing and maybe had us domesticate Yarnaby? And that could have been the big chapter plot twist- the player then going in to defeat the prototype with Yarnaby and Doey on our side...? Or if they didn't want to do that, why make his death so lame?? Why not cut him in half or something, it feels so obvious!! and then to have the twist be that The Doctor actually owns Yarnaby and he's pissed and that's the cliff hanger we leave Chapter 4 on!!!? Like SO MUCH POTENTIAL!!!!

But no, instead of just committing to one character, they decided to waste three. Justice for all three semi antags in this chapter:(

Up next, why I think the setting could have been much better. Stay tuneddd

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime 4 #poppy playtime chapter 4 #poppy playtime character #poppy playtime theory #poppy playtime rant #yarnaby #the doctor #doey the doughman #poppy playtime doey

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she-whatshername · 2 days ago

Note

You’ve been so good to us the past few days so no pressure, but what would our favorite tyrrish men do for Valentine’s Day? 💘💌

Hello!

We may be a day late but never a valentine love short. I hope this still fills your cup!

Onyx Storm Spoilers below, you've been advised

Garrick

This man

This tall person

This dimpled cutie

Does he ask to be your valentine? No. He just assumes he is. Because who wouldn't want to be his Valentine?

If anything he'd make you ask him. "Wait. Love, aren't you forgetting to ask me something?"

What is he getting you? Even though he'd be, Garrick about the whole thing, I think he'd have something romantic and sentimental for you. I could see him tempering his signet into a small glass orb to wear around your neck, just a swirling piece of air constantly revolving in the glass representing his breath that he always says you take away every time you see him (someone please write a full fic on this please)

He also is the right type of cheeky to just be laying on your bed naked for when you come into your dorm like, "Surprise, love. Come take a bite." Dimples and all

Date Plans? Also, I know its classified and guarded but if you are a marked one and you know about second signets, he is absolutely distance wielding you across the contentment so he can boast that you two have hooked up in every province

Xaden

Onyx Storm has really soured my 'love to hate' vibe I had of Xaden because ho-my, name a better man at words of affirmation

I'll wait

Does he ask to be your valentine? Yes and no. He would assume that he is yours because why wouldn't you be....no really, why wouldn't you be?? But then his jealousy/insecurities is getting the best of him and he's finding you in your room like, "you're my Valentine right? And, I'm yours too right?"

And you're like "Xaden we've been married for years..." lolol

What is he getting you? Lavish gifts of affection. If he has the power and means, lots of flowers that he picked out in your favorite type and color

Instead of a card, its a letter. A full page note on his love for you

And, I do know this man loves a little sensual type of gift as well. Expect something to wear to dinner and something to wear for him to take off.

And make no plans for the day after because you will need a days rest afterwards.

Date Plans? Yes. And he's had them for awhile. However it's something simple. Its dinner together and cake on the roof of Riorson House watching the sunset. Honestly it's so amazing you both decided you'll do this every year for valentines day. Like when you two get older he builds a balcony on the roof so you both can sit safe and comfortably.

This sweet man!

Bodhi

Well hello there Mr Durran

Does he ask to be your valentine? Yes. Every year he does. And it's always something sweet like a note slipped under your door or something actually akin to a proposal.

And yes, he is asking if he can your valentine as well.

He does not assume, he has to ask. And he takes it very seriously to be your valentine. He's like, "I wont let you down." Like he's on a mission to make your happy on that day.

This man is loyal, we know this

What is he getting you? I've shared before but I think Bodhi was the mind behind the saddle for Violet. He's just naturally very crafty and can build things. So, I'd like to think that every year, instead of flowers he crafts up a gorgeous metal rose (or flower of your choice) and paints it. The color represents something that happened to you during your year together. It was brown when you bonded your dragon in your first year. Black when you finished your second year as a rider and got a leadership position. Green with golden edges when Xaden took the dutchy back in Tyrrendor. Purple the year you married.

Xaden and Garrick tease him when he's starting to craft a new rose, "What color this year, cousin?" "Will it be blue for that time she blue balled you when you two had to run off to the borders during that attack?"

But they both admire him for being so dedicated to you. Xaden makes sure any duties he has the week he's making you the rose are given to someone else

Date Plans? Yes. But its something sweet like a stroll through the gardens where he gives you the metal flower or riding together along the cliffs.

But....evening plans. Xaden doesn't know, he doesn't want to know but let's just say if he ever found out about what happens when you two do have some time together.

Because I just know Bodhi would love his partner in such a beautiful, infinite way

Xaden did say it would be a shame to end his only living relative, and that Bodhi is exceptional. I think that this would be the one category where Xaden is a few steps behind Bodhi lolol

#fourth wing #the empyrean #garrick tavis #xaden riorson #bodhi durran #tyrrish men headcanons you didn't ask for

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theshiftingwitch · 1 day ago

Text

How to manifest an sp

The fastest and easiest way:

One thing I can tell you about me that I have reserved the right to brag about, is that I've never ever failed at manifesting a specific person.

Even when I didn't know about the law, even when I was still a wide-eyed teenager sauntering through life with bucket loads of anxiety, baseless hope, and religious trauma, I have always manifested every person I've ever wanted. From boyfriends, to friends, to strangers complimenting me on the street randomly for no specific reason whatsoever, when I decided to get a person, I have always succeeded.

It is the easiest thing you will ever do. Now don't give me that look, I can see you already rolling your eyes at your screen saying "I have been trying to manifest my SP for a year and a half and nothing happened, how can you tell me that it's the easiest thing in the world?" Well because I have the experience, the expertise, and the success stories to prove it and I'm going to break it down to you in the simplest of ways, that you're going to manifest your Sp tomorrow morning.

One thing I noticed about everyone trying to manifest a specific person is that most of you (and I want you to take no offense whatsoever to this because we're going to change it immediately) reek of desperation.

You want your SP, and you want them right now, and you will do anything to get them, and you are so desperate that if they were making a reboot for desperate housewives you would get the role effortlessly.

You are a Carrie when you're supposed to be a Samantha. If you haven't seen sex and the city first of all what are you doing? second of all get on it now. But if you have, you will know that Carrie throughout the seasons and the movies was the most desperate bitch anyone has ever seen and all of her relationships ended horrifically including but not limited to being left at the altar by Mr big. Samantha however, was a bad bitch, she knew what she wanted and she got it 100% of the time because she knew she was THAT bitch.

The first thing you need to do is become a Samantha. You need to know your own value, you need to understand that you are the prize, that you should be on the pedestal, that you control this reality and that no man/woman or non-binary person is going to tell you how things are going in your own reality. Stop victimizing yourself, stop waiting on your manifestations, stop waiting for your SP to notice you or text you or acknowledge your existence or leave their 3p behind for you!!! this is your reality and you tell it what the fuck to do.

Your self concept needs to be through the roof, no screw the roof, your self concept needs to be in outer space! you need to think of yourself as God, you need to think of yourself as the only operant power in your reality, you need to think of yourself as if the world will end tomorrow if you decide it would. You need to take care of yourself like the queen (or king, or monarch, we are inclusive here) that you are. Stop overthinking it, stop being desperate, stop waiting for the opportunity for someone else to notice you, notice yourself.

I don't care if your SP is a celebrity. I don't care if you've never met them before in real life, I don't care if you have an enemies to lovers arc that is still developing its enemy portion, I don't care if they think of you as a goblin, as a gremlin walking on two feet, I don't care how they see the world, this is all about you. So you decide who you want to be and carry yourself like that bad bitch.

The second thing you're going to do is decide and fall back. So you decided that your SP is obsessed with you, you decided that your SP is texting you right now as we speak confessing their eternal undying love for you. What are you doing now? Are you holding your phone obsessing over when that text is coming? Are you stalking them on social media to see if they're posting anything or to see if they're online? Are you stalking them to see if there's another girl/boy/person in their life right now? Absolutely the fuck not. You affirmed, you decided, you put things in motion. Now you're going to put your phone down and you're going to screw off to do something else. Go read a book, go watch a TV show, go rearrange your wardrobe and throw away anything you're not wearing anymore, go put on a full face of makeup and take pictures just for the hell of it, go hang out with your friends or bully or younger sibling or go for a walk. Touch grass. Stare at the sun or the moon and acknowledge that you are just as fantastic and magnificent and beautiful and Powerful as that luminary goddess in the sky. The point is, you decided! you put things in motion! there is no reason for you to be checking the 3D every 2 seconds saying "oh where's my manifestation? where is my text? where's my SP?" who the fuck cares? Your SP is currently spiraling, they are losing their goddamn mind trying to come up with the perfect text to send to you that will show just how much they're obsessed with you. They're currently losing whatever brain cells they have left trying to figure out what gift to buy you, what grand gesture they're going to win you over with, what clothes they're going to wear on your date, what restaurant they're going to take you to, what car they need to bring so that would make a good impression, what picture they're going to post on social media so that you would notice them... your sp is currently spiraling, I don't need you to do the same thing! you are in control.

And the last thing you are going to do, is to bask in the feeling of a manifestation well received. You already have your SP, and you already went on the dates, and you already posted the soft launch and the hard lunch and everyone in the world knows that you two are together and everyone is congratulating you in your DMs and everyone is liking your pictures and saying "oh my God couple goals! I wish I had someone who loved me like that! I wish I had someone who showed me off like that! I wish I had someone who bought me flowers and gifts and chocolates like that..." everything is going exactly as you wanted it to and everything is perfect in your life and you are feeling amazing! you are feeling on top of the world, you are feeling like THAT bitch because you are THAT bitch. You are Samantha. Act like it.

Neutralize the energy of desperation and bask in the energy of fulfillment.

Manifesting an SP works based on the principle of thought transmission, which means you need to understand that every thought you have about your SP is going directly into their tiny pea sized brain. (And no, I don't mean every single thought, they can't read your mind. I mean thoughts directed at them with the intention of manifesting them, so don't go and spiral thinking that there are vampires out there reading your mind making fun of you, I am talking about manifesting.) So if you think that your SP is obsessed with you, your SP is going to mirror that because we're all one part of the big brain that is the great consciousness and once you send a direct message it will always be received. So stop losing your mind, stop wondering if it's working because it is working because the law never fails. It's what makes it a law. So rest assured that your thoughts are penetrating their brain through thought transmission and they are thinking exactly what you're thinking.

Give it a try, and let me know how it works for you. I look forward to seeing all of your success stories because I know that this is going to work. You are going to manifest that person.

Happy manifesting ❤️

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voltaicsnail · 2 days ago

Text

Valentine's Day !

I can talk about my OCxCANON ship right now !! I am ALMOST too late !

Crepusculeshipping (temporary name for now)

Ramzi is totally simping over Lysandre but in the AU where my ship happens , Lysandre doesn't go along with the fact that Xerosic just disobeyed his orders and activated the weapon. The weapon wasn't activated , Ramzi did have to "'fight" Lysandre to make him understand that he was being irrational , that he was taking things way to far and beyond the wish of "immortality" by wanting to nuke everyone and that he needed help more than anything.

Lysandre got arrested , almost willingly , and probably judged "criminally insane" at the time and a danger to himself as well.

Ramzi actually stood by his side and assured that he could heal properly and get back to a more stable state than the one he was in when he decided to save the world from impending doom by BEING the impending doom itself.

Ramzi didn't wanted to break Team Flare down suddenly but asked Lysandre if he could take the lead for a moment to try to undo all the wrongs they had done.

They both still suffer from huge amount of guilt about the past actions of Team Flare and Lysandre often is scared of letting himself get that intense and irrational about something.

The drawing however take place before the events I just mentionned as it was just Ramzi trying to be romantic during his first Valentine Day with Lysandre.

They are actually pretty romantic with each other because it's Kalos.

(yes i'm not fond of the ending of pokemon xy as i think it's wasted potential :( )

Orangesorbetshipping (found while brainstorming a bit with @williceunleashed (he said "something orange and cold ) soooooo...)

Pedro and Zinzolin started on a bad relationship , Zinzolin being an higher up , and Pedro being basically a bully , but they ended up bonding over black and white 2 timeline , to the point of getting together.

Pedro is a BAD person , evil to the core , so they fit together. They tend to insult each other all the time , to just be mutual bullies but they actually care a bit about each others.

However they should both be in jail , especially Pedro.

Redcarpetshipping !

Alexa was just doing her job , but she ended up bonding with one new rising star , Pia.

Pia was pretty happy to tell Alexa anything she wanted to know only because Pia is the kind of person to develop a crush in the span of one minute. But it's ok Pia , we understand you.

They actually became very close friend , and didn't get together until after Lysandre was arrested.

They really like physical affection and going to theaters and hanging in museum , but sometimes Alexa tries to impose her hobbies a bit more and they end up going on a hike to do a documentary on a weird rock on the top of a montain. Pia loves to see Alexa so in tune with her projects and would count all the peeble and film all the landscape in the world and even do a documentary on dust if it meant she could see Alexa thriving.

That's it for my current ships !

So , to put it simply :

Ramzi-Lysandre / Crepusculeshipping : They both need therapy for life

Pedro-Zinzolin / OrangeSorbetshipping : They both need jail for life , especially Pedro (I hate him and love him at the same time)

Pia-Alexa / RedCarpetshipping : green flag all over

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etherealily · 2 days ago

Text

𝕏𝕆𝕏𝕆, 𝔽𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕩.

this might be one of my favourite things i've written. hope you enjoy! happy v-day💌

Queued + not proofread!

Felix Catton + fem!reader. Warnings : Cussing. Drugs. Long.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You don't want to fix him, but you do, anyway.

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Okay, okay, so he beat someone up on campus, so fucking what?

It's called being a good fucking person. Look, you do not let some utter chav get away with cat-calling a girl in the middle of the dining hall, and then a frat party, where she might have been roofied if she'd have been dumber (thank god she wasn't), and in a fucking library, just because she couldn't cause a scene. Three strikes and he was out.

But apparently, so was Felix.

"No, Sir, I'm telling you, he was--'

"Professor Walker."

Professor. Asshole. "Professor. I apologise. Professor, I'm telling you, he was being absolutely dodgy!"

"Mr. Catton, I'd advise you to stay calm--"

His fist slammed on the table, the pens on this useless waste of a PhD's desk bouncing, seemingly in tune with Felix's blood pressure. "YOU are a philosophy professor, yeah? Don't bloody talk about practical shite to me, and don't tell me what to do about what happens in the real world, when your whole career is telling people to overthink everything and keep their heads in the clouds!"

Uh, whoops.

His adrenaline shot down as fast as it had shot up and all of a sudden, he was acutely aware of his ranking in this shithole.

Student.

He's lucky he wasn't expelled.

Because the philosophy 'professor' said "young minds often reject new ideas".

Figures.

He got let off with a warning, an extremely disappointed voicemail from his mother (Felix, dear, you know philosophy was my major, that was a horrid joke to make), to sit in on one month's worth of philosophy lectures - surprisingly, without charge - and a mandatory weekly anger management session for the rest of the academic year.

That last bit was what he was most chagrined about.

He did not need a bloody shrink. GOD. He was fine. He just couldn't handle the philosophy 'professor' telling him to 'stay calm' when he was perfectly calm. Maybe he knew that would set him off. Any class with Felix in it is sure to get more listeners. So maybe it was this Professor Walker mooching off his campus-wide popularity.

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Having to miss classes wasn't exactly on your bucket list, but your body was far less used to Oxford winters than you'd expected, and so the flu decided to scrape a week off your lectures. You made up for it, though, being a swot on your first free week of Uni, and not needing to catch up on much.

However, there was definitely no chance your professor took too kindly to your absence, seeing as psychology was your major, and she expected you to be there, rain, hail or shine. Star student, you were not, but the only one taking it seriously, you were.

So here you were, sitting in front of her as she regarded you. "You need extra credit."

"Yes, Professor."

"Your career path?"

"Uh... undecided."

"Career focus?"

"Psychology.' That, you knew.

She hummed, shaking a packet of sugar before ripping the corner. You watched the tiny, crystalline cubes get engulfed by the brown of her coffee.

"You should try going into therapy."

For a moment, you almost chewed her head off.

"As a career.", she clarified, almost snorting as she saw your expression. "You interact well with people, and you have a good grasp on the subject." Ah. Say that properly, bitch.

"Here's what I'll do.", she declared, taking a large sip of her coffee - you were almost 90% sure she'd made it Irish earlier - before sliding a small, stapled pile of papers over to you. "I'll give you all the tools you'll need. See if you can get them memorized and come back for a solo quiz later this week. Then, you can begin conducting."

Conducting?

You skimmed your eyes over the stack of paper. Weekly mandatory anger management sessions. Split second, and you thought it was for you, because maybe she had heard you mentally call her a bitch.

"An extremely hardworking and well-scoring student recently got into an altercation on campus, on grounds.", she explained, and you nodded, your eyes not leaving the stack of paper.

'Conducted by' : blank. You supposed that's where you were supposed to sign.

"Although we have a strict policy against harrasment and conflict, none of the three parties involved has openly stated discrimination. The only solid thing the university has got is a confession from the initiator and witnesses from the side of the victim. But given his clean record so far, we have resorted to only this. Sessions to contain any such future outbursts."

Who even was this kid, and why was he your form of extra credit? "But I'd be using him as a lab rat, basically."

"Come again?"

"I'm not qualified or licensed to conduct these sessions, so I don't think--"

She waved you off, the bint. "It's a mere formality, no need to put stock into it. That's not to say you can slack off, half-arse it, either, but he's had no history of violence and is known to be a relatively good-tempered student."

Then why the fuck?

"We figure he can be let off easy - we'd never take sides, so this is off the record, but he was justified - and you can get extra credit, and the victim can be appeased. Quiet and a win-win-win."

The coffee now completely drained, she watched you think it over while staring blankly at the space in which you needed to sign your name. Inhaling deeply, she leaned over, gently prying it from you and flipping the page. "This bit, very important. Sort of like an NDA. No, maybe... an ANS. Agreement Not to Sue. But less official."

"This looks more like summat he should be signing. Basically, since I'm not a licensed therapist, if he doesn't get better, or gets more fucked, the Uni isn't to blame?"

"You need to sign it, too. You'll have to record the sessions, as well."

"So you know I'm not 'half-arsing' it?"

"So we know he's coming to them. But yeah. That too.", she smiled, tilting her head. "You in?"

Well, yeah, you kind of had to be, seeing as she cut marks for your absences out of sheer fucking spite.

You nodded and so did she. "Brilliant! Sign here."

Scrawling your sign - that you came up with in the eighth grade instead of fucking having fun like a kid - on the blank spots her manicured nail hovered over, you bit the inside of your cheek. Was it weird that they weren't telling you who it was?

Was it weird that the sheet had been blank when it was brought to you, meaning whoever this bloke was, he had no clue what was coming?

Uh huh. Yeah.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

"A student?! A first year fucking student? I'm getting a kid-shrink?"

"It's a mere formality. Given your record, we're sure you don't even require these sessions--"

"Professor! Come on! Can't we just say I took them?"

It's quite interesting how chill a philosophy professor can actually be once you get to know them personally. And Walker was cool, as Felix had come to find out in the past couple days of knowing him.

"Afraid not. But I'm sure she's been adequately trained by the psychology in-charge to handle these sessions."

"Why can't the in-charge do it? Would actually do summat!"

"She's busy."

He scoffed as he was handed a stapled stack of papers. "What's this, then?"

"Read it."

He did, for a while, before looking up at him with raised eyebrows. "What is this, a Liability Waiver for if she bollockses my mental health by accident?"

"More or less."

Sweet lord. "Oh, fantastic, so I'm a scapegoat, a trial for this first year, am I? See if counselling is her 'thing'?"

"You know, a more positive attitude towards this, and you might not have to go the whole year.'

"What, sayin' she'll give up?"

Walker looked almost amused, snorting. "No. I'm saying you might actually get a solution for your rage issues."

"I don't have--'

"You could learn a thing or two, Felix. Learn to calm your temper - no matter how non-existent you claim it to be - and learn how to be happier."

"Brilliant. A first year is going to teach me about the joys of non-reactivity, then? Brilliant. We'll see her keep her temper when a girl's being near groped in front of her, hm?"

"We'll need to have you sign there and there and twice on the last page, please."

"She got this before me?", he muttered, glaring at the signatures already present on the pages. "So she got to decide whether she wants to deal with me, not the other way around!? Unbelievable."

"Sign, please, Felix."

He grumbled under his breath, attempting to recall whether he'd ever even heard your name before, as he messily signed something that was probably not his signature, on each page. He has no clue what his signature is. He figured he'd sort it out when he takes over the family estate (or business), or whatever.

"None of these look the same."

"Well, this is hardly official is it? 'S long as my name's there, it's not a problem, yeah?"

"You're gonna give me a migraine before my first week as your student advisor.", he muttered, accepting the sheets back anyway. "Okay, good. Sessions start Saturday."

Fucking spectacular, now this girl was taking his weekends away.

WEEK 1

Your pen twirled between your fingers and the inside of your cheek practically split open with how frequently you'd been resorting to chewing on it lately.

You'd passed the solo quiz that your professor had set up for you, and she'd declared you 'adequately trained' to take these sessions.

Okay? And? What, were you supposed to jump in joy?

Late. This arsehole, 'Felix Catton' was his name. You just... try as you might, you couldn't place a face to the familiar name. And that face was almost ten minutes late.

But one thing you would not do is get up and leave until the hour was up. Work ethic. Wait till the last moment. With any luck, he wouldn't show up at all, and you could complain, and get extra credit some other way--

The door exploded open, and shuffling, throwing-off of a coat and grumbled-settling-down was heard, as you looked up from your notes.

"You're the first year, then?"

Oh, THIS GUY?! Whoa, whoa, whoa, yeah, you remembered him!

You nodded. "Yes. Uh, just a second, Mr. Catton.", you muttered, angling the video camera right, ignoring the scoff it elicited from the junior.

"I'm two years older than you."

"What would you like me to call you?" That plug from the Christmas party who tried to overcharge me?

He watched you fiddling with the device for a bit before sitting up, one leg crossed over another as he huffed, playing with his rings. "Felix is fine."

"Felix it is, then.", you mumbled, finally getting the thing to work, before clearing your throat and sitting up. Here we go. "So, Felix.", you began, trying to smile off the awkwardness. "We're here to just go through these Uni-mandated sessions, so that you may have an insight into conflict resolution and--"

"Do you wanna know why I'm here in this bloody session?"

You glanced over to the camera for a second, feeling like you were in a fucking Office episode, before nodding, gesturing at him to continue. Fuck, if this shite went on the record and he said summat so unbelievably stupid you were at a loss for words, you could kiss your extra credit goodbye.

"I punched a lad. Hard, till his nose bled and he couldn't stand up without support."

You nodded, flicking through the file of information you'd received from some advisor of his, Professor Walker. Nice chap. "Yes, I see that. How does that make you feel? Did it make you feel powerful?"

"Mhm.", he hummed, nodding as he glared at you, a sort of smirk on his face, like he thought this would have you freaking out about his sadistic tendencies. It's funny he thought you cared.

"Happy?'

"Very."

"I see. But one thing that's conveniently missing from your file.", you replied, eyes flicking accusatorily to the camera before reaching his eyes once more. "Is why you did it.", you stated, your fingers intertwining as you looked at him with rapt attention.

This seemed to throw him for a loop, the self-satisfied grin fading for a moment.

"Why'd you want to know, sweetheart? So that you can record me confessing to the crime on tape?", he mused, gesturing at the camera before reclining back in his seat, his arms crossed. "Because I'm sorry to disappoint your wide-eyed, freshman dreams, but I've already said it, on the record."

You frowned, tilting your head softly for a moment. "No, I'm asking, because I truly don't know. They wouldn't give me your identity, let alone your case."

"Well, I hit a lad. For cat-calling a girl."

He observed your face almost twitch for a moment, and he figured you were about to throw the camera at him, but instead, you switched it off. "And they're punishing you for it?", you asked, leaning your forearms in front of him, basically whispering although the camera was off.

Huh. Whoa, maybe you were on his side.

"Yeah, isn't it mental?", he scoffed, leaning in, too. "I figured I should get some sort of medal, y'know? Maybe a commendation from the dean."

"I wouldn't go that far, but it's good, what you did.", you laughed, softly.

"Exactly!", he huffed, a genuine smile now on his face as he leaned back, rubbing his hands over his jaw. "Wow. I- sorry, love, but I didn't expect us to, like, agree."

"No, no, yeah, totally! I thought you were a hotheaded twat. I didn't expect...", you exclaimed, gesturing at him. "Reason."

"Right. Well, okay, great! Uh, phew, yeah?"

You nodded.

"So, yeah, this is cool. We'll just... you'll take care of it, won't ya? Thanks, you're a peach.", he grinned, standing up and not believing his bloody luck!

"Hey, hey, where are you going?"

Turning, he frowned. "Well, we agree. So you'll talk to your in-charge, and say I don't need it, yeah? Oh, oh, you want me to stay the hour so you can, like, log it in. Yeah, yeah, got it.", he mumbled, nodding eagerly.

"What? No." He was, uh... clearly not on the same page as you.

His smile faded slowly. "What?"

"We've got weeks left of this."

"Yeah, but. Wait, I thought you agreed with me."

"I do. It's bonkers to punish you, but, it's mandatory, so."

"'So'? So, go do summat about it, then!", he cried, gesturing at nothing in particular. "Tell 'em there's nothing to work on!"

"I'm not just going to--"

"WHY?!"

You almost flinched. God. Maybe he did have anger issues.

"WHAT'S IN IT FOR YOU?!"

Oh, oh-- uh oh. He didn't even know why you were doing it, and you were sure he'd blow five gaskets if he did.

"Just finish it, stop causing unecessary problems!"

"No, seriously! What's in it for you?"

"SIT DOWN!"

For some reason, that, he listened to.

He slumped down.

"Shut up and do what you were instructed to do." Lord knows where you'd got the balls to talk to a junior like that.

Reaching over to turn the camera back on, you began again. "What would you like me to call you?", you repeated.

"How about I call you something and we can workshop sm'n out for me later?", he grumbled under his breath.

"Sorry? You weren't audible. What was that?"

"Nothing. Felix."

"Felix.", you echoed, nodding. "We're here to just go through these Uni-mandated sessions, so that you may have an insight into conflict resolution and live an overall, controlled and more fulfilling life and have a more fruitful experience here at Oxford.", you read off the script, jaw clenched, mirroring his dirty look.

"Yes, I'm aware, thank you, freshie."

"I'd like it if you adressed me by my name. You already know it from the sign-up form for the sessions, but I am happy to repeat it if you wish.'

"Sign-up form?", he scoffed, looking directly at the camera. "Is that what they're calling it on the record?"

"That is what it is."

"Sweet Lord, it's a Liabil-- hey.", he grimaced, narrowing his eyes at you as you kneed him from under the table.

"Right. Y/N. Am I supposed to call you 'Doctor', too, freshie?"

"Just my name is fine."

He rolled his eyes, his hands fiddling with his rings. "Let's begin with your recount of the incident."

How many bloody times?! He was about to explode.

You ended the session at exactly one hour, because you couldn't take this moron anymore, for fuck's sake.

He didn't object.

Shutting off the camera, you wordlessly packed up your things, stuffing them into your bag.

"Are they payin' ya?"

You snorted, zipping up your bag before slinging it over your shoulder. "No."

"Fuckin' snake."

"How am I a snake, Felix?", you sighed, tapping an impatient foot on the floor.

"Pretending you're on my side and that. Was that just to get information for the therapy part of it? Because that was a bitch move."

"What? No, I genuinely think it's odd that they're punishing you for something like this."

"Then why?! What could they possibly offer a fresher? They wouldn't increase your scholarship for shite this petty, so-- wait. EXTRA CREDIT?!", he gasped, standing up startlingly quick. "You're doin' this for a couple points of extra credit ?! WHAT?!"

"So what if I am?", you asked, schooling your face and your voice to be the picture of calm. "Either way, these sessions are mandated if you don't want this to escalate. It'll be over before you know it."

"EXTRA CREDIT?!", he practically shrieked, as he followed you out the door. "How bloody pathetic! You're going against what you know is right for extra bloody credit?! Just fucking study!"

"It'll be over before you know it, Felix."

"For the rest of the academic year, I have to come to you every Saturday and listen to you blabbering on about how to 'take deep breaths and count to ten'.", he scoffed, incredulously, easily overtaking you and obstructing your path in more ways than one.

"Doesn't always have to be a Saturday."

Oh, he was about to actually get anger issues.

"This pisses you off, too! Come on, admit it, fresher! You don't like this any more than I do!", he declared, crossing his arms defiantly.

You sort of liked pissing him off. Gave you much more to work with, sadistically. Reaching into your bag, you handed him the tiny blue journal you'd bought. "Here."

"What is this?"

"It's for noting down your feelings. You will have to fill at least one page every day and bring it back to me during our sessions."

He gaped incredulously at you as you shouldered past him. You're giving him homework?!

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

WEEK 5

"You're not taking off your helmet?"

"No. Bothers you?"

You glanced at the camera for a second, before shaking your head, the corners of your lips turned down in feigned and exaggerated indifference. "No."

"Because I'll keep it on, mud and all. I fell on the way here."

"You fell?"

"Yeah. Helmet's now my coping mechanism. Calms me, y'know?" That made no bloody sense!

"So you're keeping it on."

'You wouldn't deny me my coping mechanism, would you, Y/N?"

You sucked on your teeth, shaking your head once more. Dirt on the desk, dirt on your laptop, dirt-- FUCK!

"No, it's alright."

He grinned slyly, nodding, before sliding the journal over to you. "I filled it."

"Entirely?" It's only Week 5, what the hell?

"Yes, actually. I'm an overachiever."

You raised a brow, taking it from him and placing it next to his file.

"So. How are we doing today?", you asked, once again intertwining your fingers and placing them on the desk as you leaned closer to the imbecile.

"You're not readin' it?"

Oh, please, like you had no clue what was in there. "No, actually, I've got to directly submit this to both your advisor and my in-charge."

"What?"

"Yeah, protocol. That's why I said to take it one week at a time so we can monitor progress, but it seems you're an 'overachiever' - your words, not mine."

"Can I have it back?" His tone was almost nervous, and you were now even more certain what he'd actually bloody written in there.

You almost smirked before you remembered the presence of the camera. "You want it back, Felix?"

"Yeah, I think I, uh, used a couple of profanities."

"That's alright, I'm sure they'll understand."

"Can I please have it back?"

You shrugged, holding it out for him to take, letting him tug on it for a moment before you released it from your grasp. "Would you like another one? Since you've filled this one?"

"I'll buy my own."

"Very well. I ask again, how are you doing today?"

He huffed, momentarily looking like he was actually prepared to answer honestly. "Great."

"Great.", you echoed, your pen twirling between your fingers. "And define 'great' to you."

"Not shite.", he said through gritted teeth.

"In more elaborate, less crude terms, please, Mr. Felix.'

"I am doing well today. Not bad.", he mumbled, playing with the buckle of the helmet he'd so adamantly kept on that was now seeming a bit too bloody tight. But he couldn't take it off. Not when it was clearly bothering you. "Nothing particularly terrible or triggering has occurred."

"And is that always the standard you measure your experiences on? 'Not bad'? If nothing 'terrible or triggering' has happened, it's a 'great' day?", you asked offhandedly, noting it down. 'Not shite'.

His eyes darted up to you. "What?"

"I said, is that always the stand--"

"No, I heard you. Just... isn't that what everyone does?"

"Do you think it is? Do you think it's what everyone does? Have any of your friends told you it is what they do?"

"What do you do?"

"Me?" Were you allowed to answer this? Is that against some therapist rule? You weren't sure, and you couldn't really ask your textbook right now, could you?

He nodded, mildly intrigued.

"Personally, for me to count a day as 'great', there should be an equal balance of absence of bad things and presence of good things."

"Well, then, I fell off my bike, but I did well on a test. Is that, in your books, a 'great' day?"

"Depends. Which do you weigh more? Is falling off a bike worse than getting a bad grade, or is getting a good grade better than staying upright on a bike?"

"Getting a good grade."

"Well, then, I suppose, there's your answer."

Huh. This was an odd perspective he's never exactly... heard before. Wait, no! This shite is not working, fuck off, fresher!

"Whatever."

"Whatever indeed.", you nodded. "You seem to have a better attitude this week, to the session." He did not. But it would piss him off if he thought that you thought this was working.

"I do not."

"Oh, well, then, pardon me, my mistake. So, tell me. Why do you think it is, that you're not particularly interested in these sessions?"

"Because I don't have anger issues. If a bloke catcalls a girl once, it's whatever - still bad - but whatever. Happens. But if he keeps doin' it, almost roofies her at a party and constantly tailing her, and then tryin' to score in a fucking library, just because she can't yell out at him, that's, like... creep behaviour!"

You nodded. "Yes, you mentioned this, in the first session, and also to your student advisor, it seems.", you replied, tapping the tip of your pen at the bit of the file that mirrored what he was saying.

"And you think that that's a therapy-worthy answer."

"Why do you not think you're going to get anything out of these sessions, Felix? Even without anger issues, per se, everyone could use some guidance in controlling their emotions and resolving conflict peacefully, wouldn't you agree?"

"No, I would not agree. I think that if you're being an absolute prick , then no amount of peaceful talking is going to do anything. You need to get physical. Teach a lesson."

"I see. And you know this works because...?"

"Because he's shut up, hasn't he?"

"Right, but maybe he's still doing it. Perhaps not to that particular girl, but how do you know for sure you've 'taught him a lesson'?"

"Because- well.", he muttered. Shut up, fresher! "He's not that daft! He wouldn't risk another beating!"

"If he's daft enough to do it three times even after she expressed disinterest, Felix, I'm sure he might be 'daft' enough to 'risk another beating'."

He tsked, taking off the bloody tight fucking helmet, and running his hands through his hair. You watched the brown spill through the gaps of his fingers, before your eyes came back to his face. "You're frustrated?"

"Yes, I'm frustrated."

"What do you usually do, when you're frustrated?"

"Certainly not sit in a room with a fresher and 'talk about it'!"

"Right, I suppose you don't.", you replied, smiling. "So what is it you do?"

"I dunno, smoke?"

"Smoke?", you asked, tilting your head, noting it down. "You smoke?"

"Yeah, I smoke. What, you going to turn this into a cancer-awareness session?"

"I'm simply trying to understand you, Felix."

"What is this, like a first date, you learn shite about me, and see if I'm worth anything in your eyes?", he scoffed.

"Would that make it easier to open up?"

"No! God! What high school did you go to? Idiot."

"Oh, so we are going with the first date thing?"

"No- I- you're so stupid! I don't actually care what high school you went to! It was rhetoric!"

His outburst, oddly, was not followed by a calm and infuriating retort, in fact, you just looked back at him, disappointed, it looked like. But that was impossible, because that would mean you gave a crap, which, you couldn't. You did this for extra credit like a fuckin' try-hard, right?

The silence almost devours him whole as he looks into your eyes - why were they so... he didn't even know, that look you were giving him just... freaked him out.

"Time's up. You can leave."

What?! No, no, no, he just got here.

"Already?"

He heard the video camera shut off. "Time flies when you're actually working with me, Felix, y'know?"

"Don't get used to it, I had a shit day.'

You chuckled softly, nodding. "I won't. Have a nice rest o' your weekend, Catton."

WEEK 10

"Hello again, Felix."

"Hi."

"You seem cheery today."

"Yes, actually. I went out last night. Downed a couple pints with the lads. It was fun."

"I'm glad you had fun."

He nodded, pursing his lips as he rocked back and forth, awkwardly.

"Yes, so. If you don't mind, I'd just like to go back to some things that were left unfinished in some of the previous sessions. Let's circle back to your mention of what you do when you're frustrated. Smoke. Anything else?"

He sighed, rubbing his temple as he looked up at you. 'No. Well, if you're talking about last night, uh, drink, yeah, sometimes, but never to change my mood or whatever."

"I see. So that's all you do, when frustrated?"

"Yeah. Smoke."

"How about this. Next time you feel frustrated, instead of picking up a pack of cigarettes, pick up a pen."

"What, write down my feelings like a thirteen year old girl?"

"No, draw. On paper, on a desk, on your hand, who cares? Draw."

"Draw?"

"Yeah. It's worked for me, and you seem to be responding slightly better when I give you real life examples of what's worked and not worked for me, so."

"What, the bike thing from Session 5?! Because I-- Oh, please, you're not that bloody smart! Anyone could've said that, doesn't mean I'm 'responding better' just because you said it worked for you, you're a fuckin' fresher, everything you read in your stupid little psych textbooks would work for you!", he snapped. He didn't even know what half of that meant. He just wanted to say something.

"See, it seems that this is more what you do when you're frustrated, Felix, per my observation. You're free to correct me if I'm wrong, but since our previous sessions, this sort of insulting defensiveness is what I feel you resort to."

"'M not defensive. I just think this is pointless."

"Yes, you've made that quite apparent."

"Well, then how about you just declare me fixed?"

"It's not about declaring you, alright, it's about finishing the minimum duration provided to us by the University."

"Fine."

Silence. "So. I ask again. Why not draw?"

"Fine, I'll draw."

"Alright. Thank you, Felix. Time's up."

"What?!"

"Just kidding. You've only been here five minutes. How about... and humour me here...", you muttered, reaching under the desk and groping around until you pull out two sketchbooks. "We draw right now?"

"What, and then you analyse how fucked I am in the head?"

"Or we just draw. We don't even have to talk.", you replied, handing him the sketchbook. God, this better work. You'd had to draw info from child psych books for this guy.

It took barely five minutes for him to begin talking again.

"What are these pencils?"

"Don't ask me, they're all Oxford-provided."

"What a joke. You know, when I was a fresher, I didn't even let myself think of borrowing anything from Uni, I got all my own shite, and even if I lost it, I'd ask it to be sent over from home."

"Really?" Fucking rich boy cunt.

"Mhm.", he hummed, the scratches of his incessant scribbling almost grating in the silent room, but also comfortable, somehow, blending in with the smooth swish sounds of your own, lazy strokes. "Only the best. Can't afford mistakes, can I?"

Can't afford? You'd researched him enough to know that little existed of the sort for him.

"I suppose you can't."

"Y'know, I fucking lost my shite third week of freshman year. How about you?"

"I'm handling it okay, thanks for asking." You were, in fact, not. Your assignments were all overdue by now, and you were having to pull all-nighters that bled steadily into mornings because of this new extra-credit task you'd taken on, and to top it all off, none of the other Professors seemed to care that the Uni was milking the two of you. Abusing your need to improve your grade - although you shouldn't fucking need it -and subjecting him to these sessions with none of his own volition.

"That's good to hear. How close are you to offing yourself, then?", he mused, raising a brow and licking the back of his molars as his eyes slowly reached yours. Fuck. He was onto you.

You tsked, reaching over and shutting off the camera. "You know I have better things to do than edit this to cut out your little quips, right? I really can't have you talking about offin' yourself."

"Oh, so you're also a drown-in-alcohol kind of person, I see."

What in the everloving fuck-- "God, get a fuckin' life, mate.", you muttered, reaching back up to switch the camera on after silently glaring and counting down from three.

"I'm handling it okay, thanks for asking.", you repeated.

"Huh. Really?"

"Yes. Why, is your school year not going okay?"

"No, it's going spectacular. My parents pay for an afternoon to go off once a week for a useless fresher to tell their son to meditate."

You chose not to respond to that, instead pursing your lips and continuing to draw. A flower, it seemed, your hands wished to create.

"Why do you even need extra credit?"

"I was sick, and I missed a couple classes."

"Oh, and you flunked the tests?", he asked, reaching over to grab your pencil out of your hands and use the eraser on the back of it, before tossing it back to you. Prick, and if that smirk was any indication, smug prick.

"No, actually, I'd already finished a good chunk of the syllabus content my first couple weeks so I did fine in my tests."

"So why?"

He looked genuinely curious. So genuinely curious, that you actually felt like this was a first date and he was an annoyingly inquisitive romantic candidate.

"She just didn't like the absences." Plus, everyone else just took Psych to slack off.

"That's not fair."

"Yeah, well, you beat up a creep for a girl and they're punishing you, so."

His eyes flicked over to the camera momentarily. "That's on the record."

"It should be."

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

Normalcy is hard to achieve because it's never truly been attained.

Now, this kind of knowledge is only acquired when you take a philosophy class - like you - but since Felix was a PolSci-stuck-up-arsehole, it really didn't strike him that the life he'd lived before you had neither been normal nor happy.

Which is why when he found you and a couple of your friends hanging out by the lawn of a frat party, passing around a spliff, he just couldn't resist.

"Is this your coping mechanism, then?"

He reveled in the groan you replied with.

"Ladies, if you could excuse us?"

You rolled your eyes as all your mates nodded slyly before scrambling up. With hungry and suggestive looks at him and then you, they waved subtly. Spectacular. They already thought you were hooking up and now... fuck.

"Ah. I think we're gonna need that, if you will.", he called, winking as he grabbed the spliff from one of them, before settling down next to you. "See? I'm a celebrity. You should bring that up next time, see if you can't do anything with it."

"What?"

"Like, ask me about that. Incorporate it. 'How's it feel, Felix, being the life of the party, and the apple of everyone's eye?'"

"Incorp-- do you think this is a game? Like this is a play?!"

"Well, yeah. It's basicall--"

"GOD, you absolute prick! I'm here freakin' out about the syllabus, tests, and stayin' up to analyse and collate your bullshit and I have to submit it and study resources for it and--", you paused, catching your breath and glaring at him before taking a hit to calm your nerves. "And you think it's a story, like an improv session, where we add off each other.", you mumbled the last bit out.

"What are you, burnt-out from this shite?"

You didn't respond and he watched the smoke flow above the two of you. "God. You are. What sort of a freshman's burnt out by second term?"

"The kind that has to be a shrink to some anger-issued arsehole."

"Hey, c'mon, you-", he huffed, tilting his head at you. "You don't have to put too much effort into this, it's a formality."

"To you!", you yelled, sitting up in frustration, your elbow on your knee and your blunt in your fingers.

He sat up, too, sighing. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth."

"Worth nothing."

"Yeah, I can tell.", he muttered, hiding a scoff. "Gimme."

You rolled your eyes, but handed him the spliff nevertheless, which he grumbled as he took a drag of. Knees elevated to his chest, he exhaled the smoke. "This is good. Is it American?'

"How should I know?"

"You don't care what sort of weed you smoke? This actually is one of your coping methods?"

"For the love of-- lay off, man!"

"Whoa, whoa, it's a joke!"

"You're a joke!"

He almost laughed at that. Almost, because he'd had quite fucking enough of you. He didn't forget who he was just because you might have changed his perspective a little. He was still Felix motherfucking Catton, a motherfucking Upperclassman. And when he was a fresher, he had to treat his Upperclassmen with utmost respect- no, reverence - so he'll be damned if he's gonna let you sit here and call him a joke.

"Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up."

"Why?"

"NOW, FRESHER, NOW!" Okay, the startle in your body language made him feel the tiniest bit bad, but still, it was exactly what had been done to him, and he wasn't all whiny about it.

"Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up!", you mumbled, straightening out your shirt. "What?"

He had no clue what he wanted you to stand up for.

"So. The reason I had you shoot up..."

Think, Felix! Think!

"...Is actually quite simple, really. I'm sure you've already guessed."

"You want to get my mind off it or summat."

Sure. "Good. You're smart. And how will I be doing that?"

You shrugged. "Take me on a joyride on your stupid bicycle or summat.", you grumbled.

Sure. Let's go with that. Better than Felix's idea of making you do jumping jacks, like his seniors had done to him.

"Wow, maybe shrinks really can read minds. And at least you have one of your own.", he replied, flicking your forehead as he shepherded you over to the exit of the party. Yeah, he didn't think through how far you'd have to walk before you actually reached his bike. Oh, well. Better for him.

"So.", he began, arms swinging exaggeratedly at his side. "Have you heard anything from your in-charge yet? Walker won't tell me anything."

You shook your head. "It's all the same. 'Received tapes. Good work. Keep going.' Like I'm bloody angling for a gold star."

"Well, you're angling for the college equivalent of a gold star, which is a smidge of extra credit."

Shrugging, you seemed to agree. It was a pleasant sort of... stoned sort of quiet for the rest of the walk until his bike came into view. "There it is."

"That's the bike you fell off of after you aced your test?"

"Yeah."

"How?", you scoffed, buckling up the little helmet he offered you "Thing looks brand new."

"What, you were expecting some post-war, ancient bike?", he snorted, clambering onto the seat.

"Yeah, I thought it'd be some rusty, squeaky, rickety thing. How's this supposed to work? Where do I sit?"

"On your own bike's seat.", he replied, gesturing to the rest of the bicycle lot.

"I don't have a bloody bicycle! I'm normal! I walk to classes!"

"How close is your dorm?!"

"Quite."

"Well...", he huffed, taking off his helmet. 'Well, okay, so, just... take one."

"Take one?"

"Like... a random one. Borrow an unlocked one."

"Steal, you mean."

"Semantics."

"I'm not stealing."

He groaned. He had way too much of a heart to punish you like his seniors did.

═════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ═══════════════════════

"Could you slow down?!"

He watched you grumble before you slowed down, allowing him to jog up next to you. "I'm going to hold onto the handlebar because I wouldn't put it past you to steal my bike and then ask me 'how did that make you feel?' in the next session."

You actually had to stop the bike to laugh for that one.

"Oh, she acts human.", he remarked, crossing his arms across his chest as he regarded you. "Alright, it's not... that funny."

But you just didn't stop laughing.

Well, until you started crying.

Maybe that weed was laced. Yeah, he was feelin' a bit off, himself. Shit.

"I mean, fuck, Felix, mate, you- you know I don't think you should be antagonized like this, yeah? You're... you, you're good, you- you helped a girl, and your anger issues are good!"

Okay, clearly the laced weed was hitting you both at the same time, somehow. Either it was causing him to mishear some sympathy from your end or causing you to express sympathy. Either way, somehow, you were both oddly on the same page.

"I don't have anger-bloody-issues.", he gritted out, tapping his fingers impatiently on the handlebar.

"No, mate, you do, but, like, they're good, you don't have to get all touchy about it. I like it, personally. Think it's good. You're stickin' it to the man and all that."

He scoffed as he shifted closer, flicking your - well, his - helmet back a bit. "You're on thin ice, 'mate'! I told you, I don't have anger iss--"

"You're yellin' at me right now!"

"I'm NOT--", he cut himself off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're pissin' me off."

"Everything pisses you off! That's why they're called anger issues!', you retorted, and he swore he was close to pushing you off the bike and seeing how many minutes of meditation you'd employ not to uppercut him.

"I don't need your shrink bullshit, and you can't do it anyway! I don't get how you're burnt out, y'know? You half-arse everything!"

He barely knew you outside of these sessions. He was straight up lying, but he wanted to prove that it wasn't that easy to keep your calm when provoked. Especially not by some smart aleck swot-freshman who thinks her psych major means she can read his mind and give him lip.

Ow ow, ow. Fuck. He needed to sit. down. The 'weed' was definitely about to make him pop a blood vessel, because did he just see three stars in the sky run down in front of him? No. Can't be, yeah?

"D'you think...?", you groaned, hastily removing the helmet. "D'you think there was summat in the punch?"

"Think it was the weed."

"Weed doesn't-- oh."

He nodded, gently steering the bicycle to the nearest bench, which was barely a hundred paces away, observing your feet elevated and the pedals rotating on their own as he tugged it along.

Grunting lowly as he sat, he held out a hand for you after you leant the bicycle against a nearby streetlamp. You slumped down next to him. "This is why I don't take Donna's weed, but she swore it was clean."

"Some friend she is."

"Hey."

"Oh, please, come on. She lies to you, gives you laced weed because, what, she thought she knew best on what would calm you down? That's not what a friend does."

"What does a friend do? Take you on bicycle rides across campus?"

"I mean, sure. Why not?", he asked, gesturing around. "It's fresh air, yeah? We had some talkin' happening, as well, sorted out our differences and that, yeah?"

You chuckled, softly, shaking (and lightly clutching) your head. "And what did we sort out?"

"That you're a bit of a cunt. And I'm a twat."

"Second one is accurate."

"That statement just proved the first one.", he retorted, before scoffing and breaking into a fit of breathy giggles. "Fuck."

You watched the world spin for a while, a dizzying amalgamation of shapes and stars and colours and suddenly you were aware of the clothes on your body, the wind in your hair, the saliva on your tongue, the beat of your heart.

And that's when you did it. You weren't sure what you expected or why you did it, but you just ended up kissing him like it was summat you were meant to do next, like a script. Like clockwork.

He, to say the least, was surpised it was you who initiated it. Honestly. He'd always been a very daft person when it came to... well, boundaries, for one. Sane actions, for the other. However, there was something less daft and more... crazed about this drug-induced haze you were clouded in that rendered his self-awareness moot.

And so he kissed back.

Ravenously.

This, it seemed, according to the faux marijuana, was all he ever fucking needed. Poof, no anger issues. And for you? Poof, no stress.

It was wrong, to say the least. Not due to anything besides the fact that there was no logical person who'd put you two together. He groaned softly, almost reverently, as he gripped a couple locks of your hair, a wordless direction for you to get your idiotic arse over here. And you did. The kiss didn't break. You guys should get an award for that impressive feat.

But the real award should be for your desperate, bruising grip to sobriety, the one that eventually led to you pulling yourself away from his lips, breathlessly.

"I know what you're doing."

He wasn't one for biting his lip, so he bit down on yours, instead. "Yeah? What's that, babe?", he asked, fiddling with the button of your jeans.

"You're tryin' to get off the hook of these sessions by claiming conflict of interest 'cause of this."

Oh, fuck, he hadn't even thought of that. Would've been so fuckin' smart, and plus, he'd have got a lay out of it. But he didn't exactly feel like giving a premature end to these sessions that he'd - never fucking admit - grown sort of fond of.

"Or maybe, I'm trying to get off, period.", he whispered, kissing at your cheek.

"Yeah, right."

"Trust issues much?", he murmured, his hand gently sliding into the front of your jeans. "Maybe next session, we should work on that, sweetheart."

Fuck.

════════════════════════ ⋆⋅💙⋅⋆ ════════════════════════

No one ever tells you this - lest you experience some form of joy in life - but waking up to good smells rather than any form of sound is heaps better, calmer, lovelier.

And you woke up, not to the sound of your alarm, but to the smell of goddamn butter and toast. Like, fuck, okay. Damn. This is what life should feel like, then?

You groaned, almost ready to scream at how at peace you were, before getting out of bed, rubbing your face. You shot right back in, though. Right. You were starkers.

"Felix?!"

God, you hoped it was actually him and you hadn't had some sort of adventure after him last night.

He practically left skid marks, the way he rushed to the bedroom doorway. "Uh huh?"

"Where the fuck are my clothes?"

"Oh, I put them in the wash."

"Felix--"

"Just kidding. They're in that drawer, there." Across the room.

"Could you get them for me?"

He smirked. 'Yeah."

"'Yeah' as in you will, or 'yeah' as in you could, but you won't?"

His smirk dissolved into an almost fond simper. "You know me so well."

"I'm not walkin' out naked."

"See, what is it with you girls, gosh! As if I didn't see everything last night, now you're suddenly all coy?", he teased, yanking the drawer open and tossing you your clothes, rolling his eyes before turning around so you could change. "Last night count as a breach of, uh, what is it...?"

"Not breach. But Conflict of Interest. Yeah. So, I'm guessing you're free, now. No more sessions."

"Mm. Shame, that. I had some really interesting things written in there.", he replied, pointing to a blue notebook on the bedside table.

"Like what?"

"Like... me realising I'm falling in love with you.", he whispered, softly, hand on his heart. He paused long enough for you to begin to question whether this was dedication to his joke or an actual, sincere fuckin' confession.

"Fuck! Wow! Gullible much? I'm joking, obviously! What, you think I'd have some, like, ten lines written every day, like 'Oh, my love, oh, my love, XOXO, Felix!', or summat?"

"Well, I don't bloody know! Your'e scarily good at the poker face, y'know?"

"Why, thank you, thank you very much.", he preened, tipping an invisible hat in your direction.

"Makin' French Toast. You vegetarian? Or vegan? Nah, I don't care, you're eatin' this."

Groaning, you got up, took his offer of an unused toothbrush, and let him escort you to the bathroom. "These rich-kid-dorm-suites, I swear--"

"Jealous much?"

"I swear to fucking god, you better stop saying 'much' after everything and thinkin' it's funny!"

"Anger issues much?"

"Arsehole much?!"

He giggled, waving at you before scrambling over to the kitchen to make sure his French toast was stil intact. Not before he grabbed your imaginary 'flipping-off' from the air and brought it to his heart, as if you'd blown him a kiss, instead.

Fucking hell. You had to now spend a. money, on Ibuprofen, b. time on coming up with an explanation as to how this happened and why you still deserve than extra credit, and c. energy on having to deal with this Felix Catton guy who you'd apparently come to be relatively fond of.

Spitting out your paste and gargling the remnants out, you walked out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where Felix had laid out the toast on crappy paper plates. "Left over from a party, figured I'd use 'em."

"Thanks.", you nodded, sitting down and biting a bit off one. "It's good."

"Thanks.", he parroted, dropping the last onto his plate before turning off the stove and sitting opposite you. "So, it just violates it all? Just 'cause we shagged, you can't 'fix me' anymore?", he asked, gulping down a sip of orange juice.

"Yeah, summat like that. I might, like, be more inclined to let you off the hook or whatever."

"Mm. What about your extra credit, then? Why don't you just act like this never happened?"

"Couldn't. In good conscience."

"But then you'll be extremely stressed. Might go back to Donna and her laced weed.", he pointed out, taking a bite. "Over the summer, you'll have to catch up on your missing assignments, yeah?"

"Yeah. Fuck. Oh, yeah, I do.", you whined, your forehead on the heel of your palm.

"Come to Saltburn, then."

"What?" What was he talking about?

"My family estate. Come to Saltburn. It's a change of scenery, and it works wonders, I swear. You'll finish everything by first week of summer vacation, and the next month or so, it's all just you-time."

"Why would I come to Saltburn?"

"I just told you."

You sighed. Logically, yes, it did make sense for a change of view. But. You didn't exactly want to get dragged into whatever a normal day for Felix Catton (and Farleigh Start - his cousin, apparently!) looked like.

"It's full of old shite, though, like, ancient stuff. Cobwebs, dusty, grimy, stuffy-- hey! Stuffy and boring. You'll fit right in.", he grinned cheekily, winking as he continued to chew.

Well, fuck.

"Suspicious much?"

'Much'. You were going to strangle this guy in his own mansion, you're sure.

"Seriously, think about it, just us, ice-cream, the sea, summer. Who knows, you could go in a loser and come out with a boyfriend. Moi."

"Oh, please.", you snickered, and he followed suit.

"I just might tell you what's in that diary. XOXO, Felix, yeah, but what'd I write before it? A confession of my love? A death threat? A riddle? Poetry? Secrets?", he mused, waggling his fingers as if to spook you. "Ooh."

You scoffed, shaking your head in amusement as you took a sip of the orange juice.

"Come on. Come to Saltburn. Worth your while, I promise."

Well, fuck.

41 notes · View notes

floofyroro · 2 days ago

Text

A Blooming Ruse

Pairing: Crosshair/f!reader

Words: 7533

Tags/warnings: fake dating, forced proximity, island life on Pabu, gardener!reader, gardener!crosshair, grandparent OCs, Pabuan OCs, narcissism (reader's relative), slight NSFW (making out)

Summary: When Crosshair surprises you with an enticing proposition, your world turns upside down. Despite the uncharted waters, you accept. If it means avoiding your grandmother's incessant meddling, you'll do anything.

A/N: My entry for Pabu's Festival of Love celebration by @tbb-appreciation-week. I've had this drafted since last Spring so I'm happy to dust it off for this lovely event.

Read on AO3

If a higher being exists, Crosshair wouldn’t know.

Having witnessed firsthand the horrors of war and carrying out the Empire’s will on top of that, he errs on the side of agnostic. He does know, however, that something, whether it be the Force or the Maker or whatever, has it out for him because he’s a magnet for awkward, anxiety-inducing social situations.

Right now, he wishes he could leave the vicinity and sleep for ten rotations straight.

As it is, the universe has other plans for him.

“Well?”

The older lady continues to peer down at him as she stands across the plot of tomatoes. Her expression reads as expectant, mingled with curiosity and… Something else.

Crosshair has never been good with civilians. He once preferred his solidarity up in the rafters, keeping a close eye on every movement, every variation through a narrow scope. Hunter was primarily responsible with handling the civvies if the mission ever required it anyway.

But lately the need for high ground is no longer pressing nor relevant. He hasn’t had a reason to dust off Firepuncher in months. It currently sits in its case, untouched in the corner of his bedroom.

So now, he rolls the toothpick to a corner of his mouth before sighing through the nose. The afternoon sun beats down on his back as he swiftly plucks one last weed from the vegetable bed. Crosshair attempts to remain cordial when he responds:

“No. I’m not… seeing anyone at the moment.”

It feels asinine, this conversation with Eira. He’s aware she has an affinity for digging into other people’s business but he’s never been on the receiving end of it before. He’d seen it with you, her granddaughter, but he’d never thought twice that her penchant for gossip would soon be directed towards him.

It must be his lucky day.

As he slips off his gardening gloves, Eira’s eyes dip down once to his mechanical prosthetic before locking back onto his gaze.

“Are all of your brothers single?”

Crosshair wants to inhale the toothpick into his mouth and swallow it. He wonders what would happen if he did.

Would he choke?

“No,” he replies, grabbing his gloves and weeding tool before coming to a stand. They’re shoved into his belted caddy as he surveys the freshly turned dirt mounding around the staked plants before him. It took most of the afternoon to weed every bed, which is something he surprisingly doesn’t mind, given how meditative the task is itself when he’s alone.

He had felt your absence this afternoon, unused to not having someone who’d delegate other projects onto him. This prompted Crosshair to imagine a smaller frame, acting as a constant shadow who would point out which plots needed to be watered, which stalks were ready for harvest, or which insects were considered pests or allies.

A weird development for him but whatever.

When Eira clears her throat, he realizes he’s gone silent again. He mulls over his words as he reaches a hand to massage his right forearm.

“My brother Tech has Phee.”

“Ah,” she says with a nod, understanding plain in her features. He figured she’d be familiar with Phee. Daily life on Pabu isn’t exactly conducive to privacy, as everyone seems to know everyone, and if they don’t, they’ll make a point to invite the newcomers over in attempts to dig their dirty little paws into other people’s business.

The Batch would know. When they had permanently become residents, it seemed like the island wouldn’t stop celebrating with picnics and evening barbecues. This is apparently paramount to the inhabitants, a tradition that’s grown over the last few months whenever new residents settle in.

Which is often. The intentions are always kind, of course, despite how uncomfortable it makes Crosshair feel. At this point, he thinks he’s met the entire population but can only recall a handful of names, if at that.

“A good man. He must have his priorities straight.”

The toothpick swivels as he chews on it.

Are Tech’s priorities straight because he’s with Phee? Or is it merely because he is pursuing someone romantically which then makes him superior in Eira’s eyes?

Her wrinkled hands are no longer resting on her hips, a positive sign that Crosshair has come to know as appeasement.

She shifts from one leg to the other and says, “I know a young lady who lives just down the street. She’s the carpenter’s daughter. Maker, what was her name? Mildred? Millie? I can’t recall but she’s sprightly girl who always smiles when we cross paths—”

He tunes her out. Crosshair doesn’t know if he’s interested in… whatever it is that Eira’s so adamant about all the time.

He’s heard her rant to you on many occasions about potential… partners? Boyfriends? He isn’t exactly sure. It’s not his business to begin with, but he’s often within earshot when Eira drills you about your previous dates.

It was fine. But I don’t want any commitments right now, is what you tell her time and time again.

Presently, Crosshair lets Eira continue her stream of consciousness as she toddles behind him on the dirt path leading into the old equipment shed. The air is humid, an aspect of island life for which Crosshair feels nothing but apathy.

Sweating means he’s outside. Being outside means he’s not inside, isolating himself in his room from his siblings. Can’t have that happening anymore.

His kelpcotton shirt clings to his torso as he unbuckles his caddy and deposits it onto his designated shelf space. His hands rearrange the tools into a neat and orderly pile and then dusts off his gloves before discarding them on top of everything else.

“—so what do you think?”

His prosthetic hand halts midair as he reaches to take off his bucket hat.

Kriff. What was she saying?

Fragments of her monologue float around in his head but it isn’t much. Something about dinner and a girl…

Messy, short curls fall across his forehead as he removes his hat. He runs a hand through them out of habit, making a mental note to ask Omega for a trim when he returns home. The hat, courtesy of you when you realized he didn’t own any sort of sun protection, is plopped on top of his other work essentials. It’s a worn article, something he uses daily, but part of Crosshair secretly relishes in the fact that it used to smell nice.

Maybe he should take it home and wash it.

When he looks over, Eira’s features are twisted into an expression reminiscent of Wrecker’s shit-eating grin after winning a game of sabacc.

“Uh,” he says, because he’s unable to muster anything coherent at the moment. He curses the Kaminoans for the umpteenth time, wondering why, out of all of the genetically engineered qualities within him, words fail him more often than not lately.

This could also be due to the fact that he’s attempting to cut back on the snark for Omega’s sake. Less snark equals more awkward silences.

“Perfect! I’ll ask her tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll say yes, she’s a sharp one—”

A flare of panic flickers in his chest. How did this old woman interpret his lack of response as an affirmative? It’s a bit of a reach, even for her. He tries to come up with an excuse but every reply would garner an earful from Omega, if she were to hear him.

How should he handle this?

He lets himself imagine for a moment that he did say ‘yes’ to Eira.

A faceless woman appears in his mind. She’s sitting at a table, the surroundings similar to his preferred caf shop in the upper levels of the island. Having never been on a date before, he isn’t certain how he would feel. More likely than not, he assumes he would feel scrutinized, as if this lady is trying to gauge whether he’s worthy of her time and attention.

But that’s not what gives him pause.

No, it’s the fact that as he tries to imagine this woman and give her more prominent characteristics, she starts resembling…

Hmm.

He chews harder on the toothpick.

On second thought, Crosshair decides he doesn't like the idea of going on a date with a stranger.

Before he’s able to muster a polite ‘no,’ the old woman cuts him off with a surprised croak.

“Ah, there she is!”

Eira is already out of the shed and waddling over to the gate entrance when Crosshair hears your voice before he sees you. Some of the tension coiling in his chest starts to unwind.

You’re beaming, hauling a basket of overflowing floral bouquets as you swing the garden center gates open and approach, excitement palpable with each of your steps. The color of the day is green, judging by your bandana. The small fabric somehow manages to tame the wild locks of hair that he’s only ever seen pulled back by whatever weaving techniques you’ve mastered.

Crosshair doesn’t consider himself overly perceptive to such benign things like appearance but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t noticed your apparent collection of colorful head scarves and hats. They suit you, in a way. Maybe they’re endearing because it reminds him of Hunter and Omega.

“Shep said yes to featuring our flowers!”

Eira grabs the basket from you and places it down before wrapping you into a fierce hug. “I had no doubt that he would, dear. That was a brilliant idea,” she coos, loosening her hold to pat the sides of your arms, “you suggesting we offer our blooms for the Festival of Love event.”

Your bright eyes turn shy, the corners of your mouth pulling into a small grin as you peer away from your grandmother to Crosshair, who stands outside the shed with his hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t recall your eyes ever dulling. If anything, they seem to sparkle whenever your attention is on him.

Not that he’s noticed, of course.

“Well, I can’t take all of the credit. Crosshair is sick of tending to the dahlias. And can we blame him? Those tubers are rather cumbersome as you well know.”

Crosshair sighs once for dramatic effect, the corners of his mouth betraying his mirth. “One can only pick so many snails off the stocks, Eira. Not to mention the staking… and the constant watering.”

You shoot your grandmother a grin. “To translate; he’s ready to lay the blooms to rest.”

Eira rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation. “Yes, well, those tubers are older than the both of you combined. I’d rather pass a painful and slow death than let them go to waste.”

She softens marginally. “I suppose you’ll both have your work cut out for you, arranging all of those bouquets together. The Festival is in less than a week so time is of the essence! But for now, I think we ought to call it a day. Crosshair,” she suddenly interjects his name like it’s almost a curse, “don’t you forget to grab a bucket or two of those bloomberries. We’re overflowing in the storage room as it is and we shouldn’t let them waste.”

Crosshair mutters something along the lines of ‘no need to tell me twice,’ and nods to both you and your grandmother before heading back to the Center to bring what he’ll suspect will make Omega’s day. No doubt will her eyes grow big when she sees the fruit. He’s sure it’ll be another puzzle for Wrecker to solve in the kitchen as they figure out ways to preserve the fruit or make the most use out of baking with it.

The tart-sweetness of the fruit coats his tongue as he pops one between his lips. The cobblestones that lead him home are brimming with other islanders, the top of the hour prime time for early evening commutes back to their families. After tomorrow, it’ll be a market day for the Center. He technically has the day off, but he’ll probably show up to the greenhouse and find you among cut flowers and messy foliage as you attempt to meet the demands of Shep’s requests for the Festival.

After that, he supposes he could help Tech out in the workshop by being his brother’s lackey for the latest technological pursuit for the sake of the island. It’s not like Crosshair has anything else planned—

It dawns on him suddenly; he forgot to tell Eira ‘no’ about the carpenter’s daughter.

Kriff.

He peers up at the cloudless sky and sighs.

Shoving Crosshair into the supply closet was not on the afternoon agenda.

While it may not be your best idea, you’re running on a volatile mix of adrenaline and horror, all because you saw your grandmother hobbling towards the gardens with a familiar short man in tow.

Bronson.

Thirty-five and divorced with two kids, he runs the fish shop by the docks. While everyone regards him as the happy-go-lucky fisherman, you get the heebie jeebies whenever you look at his bearded face. He normally sports a jacket that reeks of alcohol as well. It’s a low blow to your pride for Eira to even suggest him as a potential romantic partner.

The first time she’d mentioned him, you had no qualms in giving her an earful. However, your efforts proved fruitless. Trying to reason with her is like trying to convince an Imperial officer that they’re a terrorist. She usually proceeds to scold you and in Bronson’s case, she retorted that ‘it’s bad luck to judge others by their past and appearance.’

“I don’t give a tooka’s ass about bad luck, especially considering how his wife left him because he prioritizes fishing above everything else.”

“Stability, granddaughter. What he offers is stability.”

You’d been furious at her insinuation. It’s not like you haven’t fought tooth and nail to get the Garden Center running at full efficiency. Writing grant proposals, dedicating your weekends to the farmers markets, having to be your own hiring manager on top of it all. Stability is your middle name, for crying out loud.

But It’s grown to be a lot of responsibility. It’s nearly time to consolidate your workload, having recently added more hands to the team and buying new harvest droids. All of this is in the name of streamlining the process so that you can separate all of the work from your personal life.

Which, coincidentally, hardly exists. You can blame your poor work-life balance on your grandma. She’s proving to grow trickier as the years pass.

Bronson still hasn’t spotted you yet. You drop the watering hose into the garden bed, discard your gloves, all of which prompts Crosshair to pause his pruning of the plume shrubs.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t hear him. You stare ahead and map out all possible exits, trying to figure out how you could escape without being seen or causing a scene. They’re nearly to the gate, and you think that if you can sneak off to the—

“Hey,” Crosshair’s tone is firmer now. Suddenly, the flight kicks in.

You’ve never run into the Garden Center like your life depended on it before but there’s a first for everything. Heart pounding, you survey the main room and debate hiding behind the old leather couch. Unreliable, considering Grandma will probably give Bronson a full-fledged Center tour, which should only be for employees or volunteers.

Not that she cares.

The door behind slings open and the rational part of you knows it has to be Crosshair but you still startle and make for the first logical solution to your predicament; hiding in the supply closet.

“What,” he says from behind you, “are you doing?”

You swing open the closet and quickly shoot a furtive glance through the entrance windows to see that the emerging figures are still far away enough for you to pull this off.

Crosshair follows your line of sight, his eyebrows furrowing as he stares. Not a moment later, his scrutiny relaxes.

“Another one of Eira’s ploys?”

“Yeah,” you say, unable to explain just how embarrassed and frustrated you truly feel. You run a hand across the back of your neck, slick skin coating your palm with sweat. Your chest tightens and it’s enough to encourage you to pull the door closed, yearning for privacy.

Except that Crosshair wraps a hand around the frame of it and pries it back open.

“Cross—”

“Do I need to talk to him?”

HIs words are abrupt. He peers back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. The lines of his tattoo shifts as his expression darkens.

“I said,” he directs his gaze back to you, “do I need to talk to him? Or do I tell your grandma that you’re feeling ill—”

The prospect of Crosshair speaking on your behalf sounds downright mortifying. You should be able to confront her yourself. In a perfect world, you’d have the gall to do it. But alas, here you are, fleeing like a coward.

“No! Noo, no, no, just—”

Your hands act on their own accord, reaching out to grasp Crosshair by the neckline of his shirt and pulling hard. He releases a surprised grunt before stumbling into the cramped space next to you. As you reach for the doorknob behind him, he’s pushed against the shelving in order to make room for your efforts.

The door slams closed with a forceful tug and then it’s pitch black.

Which is Makersent, because you’re practically embracing Crosshair in this position.

“Hit the light,” he says, his voice betraying no indication of what he’s feeling.

You pull back before his words register but then you have to press into him once again to find purchase for the switch—

“For Force sake,” he mutters and okay, his mouth is right next to your ear. Has he always sounded like that? He’s unmoving against you but you can feel, based off the way his torso presses against your chest, just how built he actually is—

He turns abruptly in an attempt to give you more leeway but it proves to be the wrong move. Your balance is thrown off kilter and with no sight to aid you in regaining any semblance of equilibrium, you’re about to faceplant because… why not?

Let’s add to your piling mortification.

An arm snakes around your midsection, catching you mid-plummet, and you think you hear him grunt as he rights your balance with surprising precision.

(You shouldn’t kid yourself. This man has been precise since day one. You’ve seen the way he stakes the tomatoes.)

A cold metal palm presses against the skin of your exposed lower back, your shirt evidently deciding to ride up without your consent. It’s his mechanical hand, holding you up. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

Which is another mistake because a waft of tilled earth, sweat, and something distinctly minty hits your nose, reminding you of the herb beds situated at the front of the center. You risk another deep inhale, daring to inch closer. The light still isn’t on and you will yourself to relax, despite being hyper aware of the close proximity and of every point of contact where you both touch.

Each of your breaths brushes against his own. Which, you aren’t complaining since his scent is a welcome reprieve against the damp smell that is signature to this old closet.

At this point, maybe confronting Bronson would be less daunting than whatever this is. Sharing close quarters with your favorite employee (you’d never admit as much to him) isn’t exactly ideal.

But then that slippery, bearded smile flashes once in your mind and that’s enough to tell you otherwise.

You also really don’t want to see Crosshair’s expression right now.

“That bad, huh?”

Maybe it’s just because his face must be inches away from yours but his voice seems to reverberate through you, trailing all the way to your toes. You’re struck with the odd thought that despite how gravelly it sounds, it’s… nice.

“Yeah,” you croak, a bead of sweat trailing down the back of your neck. “She’s relentless. I’m… starting to get sick of it.”

You feel a huff of air across your face.

“I don’t blame you.”

Definitely mint. He must’ve eaten a few leaves from the herb garden. Now that you think about it, he’s almost always chewing on something.

After a moment, he releases his hold on you and a silence blankets you both. The air feels stuffy against your exposed skin, mingling with the humidity of outside. This building could really use a functional cooling system. Soon enough, that’ll change; you’d spent the last week pouring over crude plans and trying to figure which upgrade to take first. Grandma certainly made her two credits clear on what she would do, but not without making you feel guilty.

“Update that sign first. You should consider changing the Center name to honor your grandpa.”

“I think aesthetics are the last thing on my mind, grandma. I’d rather focus on functionality first.”

She didn’t take it well. You apologized over coffee the next morning. You’re trying to take the reins on this and view it as your passion project but to no avail. Though you’ve yet to establish that boundary, it can wait, given what other things are currently taking precedence.

“I’m… about to pry.”

He takes a deep breath.

“With this… ‘seeing people’ thing,” he says and you wonder if he’s gesturing because you hear his arms drop to his sides, “have you told her to just… stop?”

You pick at your nails.

Telling Eira ‘no’ is like driving a boat headfirst into a summer thunderstorm. You’ve dropped hints here and there. You had mentioned many times that you aren’t looking to commit to anyone. Dating isn’t a priority right now, especially with the promise of what’s to come for the island gardens. But Eira, stubborn as she is, dismisses each attempt you’ve made, waving a hand in your face or clicking with her tongue before saying that you’re well into your twenties and that it’s time to consider your options.

“Which are limited,” she always reminds you. One of the many quirks of living on a small island is that she’s right; there aren’t many eligible bachelors to choose from, so in her eyes, ‘one should pick soon before it’s too late.’

“I have,” you finally tell Crosshair, keeping your head down. “She’s not very good at listening.”

Another huff. He probably detects the euphemism.

Oddly enough, you feel yourself getting defensive on her behalf because despite how troublesome she is, she’s still family. At the end of the day, her opinion holds weight. Probably more weight than it should, to be honest.

Regardless, this translates as a bite in your tone when you ask, “Why?”

He stills. Now that you think about it, this is probably the first time he’s ever inquired about your personal life. In the past, he’s taken your rambling in stride but it’s all usually work-related. He never pries and instead listens intently or offers advice when prompted. It’s the exact opposite of how Eira functions.

That’s probably why you’ve inadvertently started to gravitate towards him.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth as you wait for him to answer. It’s not like you asked for his advice this time. But then again, Crosshair doesn’t talk unless it’s warranted, usually opting to stay quiet as you assign new projects to him or rant to him about the dangers of felucian stag-beetles infesting the crops.

A humorous part of you thinks that maybe this is his round-about way of trying to make you feel better.

“I—”

He’s interrupted by the sound of the Center entrance swinging open with a light chime of a bell.

Your fidgeting hands drop to clenched fists.

“—she must’ve ran home for a midday meal. Sorry ‘bout that, Bronson.”

“It’s no problem. I see her at the marketstands on occasion so perhaps I’ll chat with her next time she’s around. You said she’s interested?”

You blanch.

You said she’s interested?

A flicker of heat floods your cheeks at the prospect of Grandma lying. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; you’ve witnessed her half-truths before but had opted to brush them off, not giving them too much stock. This, however, stings more than you care to admit.

Your eyes start to smart as you conjure a scenario where Bronson makes a move. You could give him the cold shoulder. Make up a lie that you’re already seeing someone. The latter thought makes you pause because he’d ask who it is and you can’t really make up a person in a tight-knit community.

Maybe you could even scream in his face. That would get your point across, right? But then everyone would witness it and if there’s anything you’ve learned about living on Pabu over the last four years, it’s that the island's affinity for gossip spreads like wildfire.

No thanks. You send a silent prayer to the universe that Bronson forgets. Or finds someone else to focus his sleazy energy on.

Actually, no, you wouldn’t wish his advances upon anyone.

Eira’s giving him a tour around the facility, veering from the breakroom to the greenroom where the new seedlings are sowed. Another door clicks closed.

“You’re trembling,” comes that familiar drawl.

Large palms jar you out of your thoughts, resting on the sides of your shoulders. His fingers wrap gently around your exposed skin and it causes your spine to straighten. One palm is cold, while the other is warm. You’ve wondered about his prosthetic before. On occasion, you’ll catch him massaging the muscle of his forearm attached to the mechanical workings.

Eira’s voice echoes through the building again, though it’s more distant as you release your breath.

“I don’t know how to tell her off. How to make her stop.” You don’t appreciate how feeble your voice sounds.

“She and Grandpa… are my only family. The war was tough on us all. I just don’t want to lose anyone else.”

His thumbs begin to brush in an up and down motion. It’s oddly… gentle of him. Your shoulders gradually sink down with each second that passes, his touch easing away the tension.

Crosshair considers for a moment before asking, “What if… you already had someone?”

You squint up at Crosshair but the darkness serves to be disappointing. You suddenly yearn for bright, clinical lights to shine directly onto him so you could see exactly which emotion is present across that profile of his.

“Uh,” you clear your throat, “You’re gonna need to, uh, spell that one out for me. I’m not following.”

His thumbs still.

What if you already had someone?

You turn the words over and over in your mind, trying to parse his meaning until his touch leaves you.

“We pretend,” he says, as if this proposition is as easy as commenting on the weather.

We?

A million questions swirl in your head as you gauge the possibilities; pretending to what, exactly?

Be a couple? You and him?

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t considered Crosshair before. He and his brothers stick out like sore thumbs whenever they’re in public and that’s primarily due to the fact that they’re extremely popular with everyone, including introverted Crosshair. You could chalk it up to their efforts to keep Pabu safe, or their military training, or something else. But the reality is that they’re not only talented individuals, but they’re also all very attractive.

What would pretending with Crosshair even entail? Holding hands while you walk alongside the garden beds? A kiss on the cheek in front of Grandma to appease her desires?

Despite the absurdity of the situation, your gut isn’t lurching. It’s… a solid idea, one that could grant you a momentary break from Eira’s nagging so that you can allocate more time with the Center expansion. Knowing Crosshair, he wouldn’t nag. You’re certain there would be no expectations from him.

But It would have to be temporary. That’s the only stipulation; it can’t last forever, because first of all, you don’t want to put Crosshair through that and second of all…

Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

To make matters simpler, Crosshair is easy on the eyes. That’s not something you’ve entertained for long because again, you have other things to worry about. But you’ve watched him haul overgrown squash to the market plaza with no signs of physical strain. He once fended off a garden viper, sparing you a slightly amused smirk after seeing how it made you jump out of your own skin.

That was the first time he made your face flush.

His gruff demeanor aside, you trust that he means well because he’s never led you astray before, his work ethic proof enough since he always shows up day after day and carries out each task without complaint. Never once has he indicated that he minds working alongside you.

That particular thought alone makes your stomach flip.

Presently, you don’t see him shift from one foot to the other as much as feel him do so.

“We pretend,” you echo. In the distant background, Bronson releases a dry laugh and it causes you to tense up.

“Yes,” he whispers, keeping his voice low. “It would… help us both catch a break. From Eira.”

It dawns on you then. A familiar blonde flashes in your mind.

“What about Millie?”

“Who?”

This isn’t lining up. Grandma said Crosshair agreed to a date with Millie—

Ah.

“You actually didn’t agree to meet with her, did you? The carpenter’s daughter?”

Irritation taints his sigh. “No, I never did. Eira mistook my silence as confirmation.”

By the Maker.

Hot emotion washes over you again because this time, someone else is suffering at the brunt of her agenda. “I’m sorry,” you say, not realizing how loud your voice is growing, “but Grandma needs to get a kriffing grip—”

A hand clamps over your mouth. You startle against the firmness of his skin against your lips, pressing a gasp into his palm when he leans in and murmurs, “Quiet.”

His hand isn’t bruising. It slots over your mouth, bringing a waft of dirt to your nose. The stillness of your body contrasts against the turmoil rolling in your mind like night and day. As you're held against Crosshair, that telltale honeyed-voice hits your ears, loud and too close for comfort. You must’ve been too focused on what Crosshair proposed to notice that they’d left the greenroom.

“—that was probably a moon-yo nearby. You’ve heard that they can parrot human words back occasionally, right? Odd little creatures but bright nonetheless. I’ll walk you out to the door, Bronson, I appreciate you coming—”

The bell chimes as the door closes with thud and the relief is overwhelming enough that you momentarily forget the hand cupping your lips. You sigh, unthinking as you practically slink against Crosshair’s palm, the exhale from your nose trickling against his skin. He withdraws his touch and suddenly the embarrassment of his actions to quiet you is now at the forefront of your mind.

If you felt weird earlier, it’s incomparable to how you feel now. ‘We pretend ‘ is an internal echo that will inevitably nestle its way into your head for the next foreseeable future and you aren’t sure what to make of it. He’s made his own motivations clear for proposing the idea but it still strikes you as odd. The anomaly that is Crosshair and his reserved nature around you doesn’t quite fit this proposition.

And yet, a quiet part of you is growing fond of the idea.

“Okay,” you break the silence, gripping tightly for the remaining stores of courage that are somehow responsible for what you’re about to say, “I think we should give it a shot. Let’s… Pretend. I’ll do anything at this point to get her off my ass.”

You try to keep your tone light. This isn’t a terribly serious matter anyway, right? It’s good to keep in mind that Crosshair has been a soldier all of his life and you can only imagine how many covert missions he’s carried out so it would make sense that he would handle this in a similar manner.

Yes, because you’re so infamous for being stealthy. Said no one ever.

Your own faults aside, you pray that you can pull this off.

“Fine by me,” he finally says. Silence lapses between you both again. You take a moment to listen outwards. The Center is seemingly empty with the lack of toddling old ladies and middle-aged men. The constant hum from the energy generator is the only noise. Now would be the opportune time to leave before Grandma returns, but…

It suddenly feels daunting, leaving this closet. You’d be stepping out into reality again, but this time with a fake boyfriend in tow.

You’re wondering if he feels as uncomfortable as you are when he adds, “Just… Don’t take anything I say personally, alright?”

Before you’re able to discern his meaning, the bell rings again and you let out an inaudible curse.

Her gait is uneven and purposeful. As each of her steps draws closer, so does your mounting anxiety. She knows, you worry. She knows about the lie already and she’s about to draw the proverbial curtain away to expose you and strip away any shred of dignity that remains.

Crosshair hisses your name, the sound foreign against your ears. Despite how gentle his hand is, the cold metal stings against your hot cheek, your head jerking away before he firmly slides up his durasteel hand across your skin to cradle the side of your head.

“You’ll have to follow me,” he says, the words too fast for you to process.

“Follow you?” Your mouth is suddenly dry, the words sticking like cotton.

“My lead,” he stresses.

Before you’re able to divine his meaning, his other hand wraps around your waist to pull your body against him.

Time slows as his mouth slots against yours.

It’s nonsensical, the way your lips part in surprise. Your heart is hammering loud enough to drown out everything else. All you feel is him; his looming figure that seems to wrap around you with ease, his legs tangling with your own, his hand on your face, his mouth against yours. A chill runs down your spine when his grip tightens but then his lips, warm and surprisingly supple, begin to move.

He tastes like mint leaves, you think deliriously. What’s more is how you respond in a split second of impulsivity, meeting his movements with brushes of your own, pressing firmly against him. A low sound reverberates from his chest, making your skin bloom with gooseflesh as you reach to wrap your arms around his shoulders, coming up to your toes. He meets you halfway, lowering himself to ease your efforts. A fog settles over you, your fingers tangling into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck. It prompts him to do the same, except instead of only grasping at your hair, he gently tugs, inadvertently coaxing your mouth open to moan.

His tongue brushes across your lower lip once and when you tilt your head back more to grant him better access, Crosshair seizes the opportunity; his soft, hot muscle licks and twists, but he welcomes your own advances against him with unpracticed, eager effort. You feel as though you’ve dissolved completely into a puddle, your belly simmering with dizzying want.

But it’s fleeting, as all good things are, because the door slams open.

The sound alone makes your eyes fly open as you straighten in Crosshair’s embrace, breaking the kiss. If you weren’t so close to his face, you would’ve completely missed his startled expression. Despite the onslaught of blinding light, he gently continues to hold you, and to your surprise, he closes his eyes and bends down to rest his forehead against yours.

“We’re a bit busy here,” he says, his words lacking any real bite with how his chest heaves lightly. He lifts away from you and casts a glare towards Eira. You risk a glance, uncertain as to what you’ll find, but judging by the hanging mouth and wide eyes…

She’s beside herself.

“Clearly,” Eira finally says, the word nearly as airy as you are. She clears her throat, her movements awkward as she coughs once into a closed fist. “Well. I was right then.”

You scrunch your nose slightly in confusion. “You knew?”

If she notices the patchiness in your voice, Eira doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she crosses her arms and purses those thin lips with a hum. “Saved you the embarrassment, I did. Could’ve walked straight up to the door and gave Bronson a run for his money.”

Uh huh, sure. More like you saved yourself from the embarrassment, you thought sourly. You detect her behavior for what it is, an out for her mistake, but you nod despite yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, closing her eyes as she says, “Whatever you two were doing is between you and the Maker. My question is,” she shoots a disapproving look at Crosshair, who meets her with a cool, indifferent stare, “why didn’t you act on this sooner, mister?”

Curious, you raise your gaze back to Crosshair and the gravity of what you just exchanged with him presses against you with unprecedented force. The nerves reemerge, making your palms clammy as you steal a glance at his lips. You… kissed him.

To be fair, he kissed you. But you’d reciprocated, almost eager as you explored this new dynamic with him. How will this change things between you both? What happens when you call the ruse off? Most likely he’d want to find work somewhere else, which makes perfect sense.

But it doesn’t explain the pang in your sternum at the thought of him leaving. It’s only because he’s valuable to the Center; his dedication to show up early and leave late has you worrying more often than not, but he claims to have nothing better to do and enjoys the hands-on labor. There’s a handful of other volunteers who show up occasionally but they’re not nearly as driven as Crosshair is.

Regardless, you decide then and there that you don’t want things to change between you both when this all ends. You’d hate to lose him.

“Who says I didn’t?”

He still has an arm loosely wrapped around your back, but his touch trails down until finding the curve of your waist. His hand stills, resting casually against your hip as if it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made.

Eira coughs again. “Well then.” She continues to stare, her eyes flickering between you both in some sort of silent contemplation. It’s alarming then, when she breaks into a wide grin.

“It all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Maybe I should’ve brought Bronson sooner. All you two needed was a small push—”

“Grandma,” you interrupt, not hiding the exasperation in your voice because of course she would try to take credit for this. Of all the conclusions, she thought Bronson was the catalyst for you ending up in a supply closet with Crosshair.

…Technically she’s not wrong.

She raises her hands in mock defense, bowing her head slightly. “Alright, alright. Enough from me. Believe it or not, I’ve had enough excitement for one day so I think I’ll head home.”

You take a deep, steadying breath, nodding encouragingly despite how dizzy you still feel. “Yeah, that’s… That’s a good idea.”

Eira stares at you for a moment longer, almost calculatingly before her eyes dip down to the Crosshair’s hand on your waist. She turns, muttering something about ‘under the Center roof too’ and makes her way towards the entryway to grab her bag and leave.

It’s agonizing to wait. Every second spent within the confines of the closet with Crosshair proves to be a test of patience, but Eira seems to be in no rush, slowly shifting through her bag for her shawl. Once it’s wrapped around her hunched shoulders, she reaches for the door handle but then pauses.

“You best be walking her home every night. You hear?”

It’s cold when Crosshair finally lets go of you. He shifts from one foot to the other, bringing a hand to rub across his five o’clock shadow.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, his voice tired but confident.

She leaves without another word. You feel as though you can finally breathe, like the sky has cleared and the wind has died. But then…

It’s just you and Crosshair again.

The moment stretches. Uncertainty prods at you, a fickle thing that makes you sheepishly tuck a strand of hair behind one ear before peering up at the former soldier.

His gaze is downward with brows drawn into contemplation, as if his boots are the most interesting spectacle to behold. You quietly study him amidst the thickening tension, noticing for the first time that his exposed arms are speckled with patches of dirt. Along the expanse of his arms, you spy veins that cord around the lean muscle of his forearms, trailing all the way up to the lower half of his biceps until fabric meets flesh.

Crosshair is normally pragmatic with his clothing; variety doesn’t seem to be a priority with how he cycles between the same set of tops and pants every week. The normal jacket he sports is absent, you realize for the first time. He must’ve shed it outside before following you. You figure it’s his military background that’s kept him routine and content with simple clothing, a factor still very much prevalent despite being retired.

When your eyes slink from his shoulders to his neck, you catch a subtle change in your peripherals, causing you to meet his gaze.

Half of his mouth is upturned into a small smirk. He remains silent, however, and reaches a hand behind to slink something out of his back trouser pocket.

A small box is procured. With practised movements, it’s already lodged back into his pants before you realize that he’s placed a toothpick into his mouth.

Your mind seems to short circuit when you realize that his lips have reddened ever so slightly.

You aren’t sure how to breach the obvious bantha in the room. Do you talk about what just happened? Is that… fine? It might make him uncomfortable. Maybe this is part of the ‘pretending’ agreement; there’s no use in discussing what happened because what’s done is done and reminding him of what he had to endure to save your ass would surely leave a sour taste in his mouth.

Unless he liked it just as much as you did. The thought seems far-fetched; it’s unlikely that he’s interested in pursuing a romantic partner, given how much he works and how he spends any of his free time with his own brothers and sister.

“So, um… Back to it, then?”

It’s definitely not your best work, you’ll admit. But being out in the gardens seems far less suffocating than whatever this is. In fact, you’re certain one of the beds is overflowing with water because you forgot to turn the spigot off during your frenzy to evade the confrontation from earlier.

It makes sense then that you don’t wait for his response and make for the door.

He clears throat. “Was that… fine?”

You halt, halfway across the breakroom. He must be asking if he had accidentally crossed a line already.

The thought is oddly considerate and makes your cheeks warm. Part of yourself thinks that it was a solid strategic move on his part. It certainly did the job of convincing Eira. And deep down, you didn’t mind the spontaneity of it all.

It was more than fine. But instead of saying as much, you flounder. “Uh, yeah!” Your voice is a bit more high-pitched than you’d like so you cough once and play it off. “I mean, yeah, that was fine.”

It’s mortifying, feeling this vulnerable in front of him. You need fresh air now.

“Yeah,” you say again, waving a hand at him, “don’t worry about it. I’d say we did our future selves a favor. Now there won’t be any more meddling on grandma’s part. So… this is a win. I think.”

He starts to approach with his usual purposeful steps, which makes you turn towards the door. His long legs make it easy to catch up and before you even have a hand on the handle, the door swings open.

Crosshair is… holding it open for you.

You mutter your thanks, hoping the warmth in your cheeks isn’t as blatant to him as it feels to you. You duck under his arm and step back into the thrush of the outdoor beds. The fresh air clears your head as you trod to the watering system near the shed.

It’ll be a long afternoon, you think. A droid is activated with its tell-tale beeps and whirring, indicating that Crosshair has turned on a harvesting droid.

But at least he won’t have to go on a date with the carpenter’s daughter anymore.

I'm not entirely happy with this :') But I might write more parts in the future if I get around to it. I have 8 chapters outlined so far. If I decide to follow through with a longfic, I'll be needing a beta reader. Please reach out if this would interest you!

Masterlist

#jillianwrites #pabu's festival of love 2025 #PFoL 2025 #crosshair/reader #crosshair/you #tbb crosshair/you #tbb crosshair/reader #tbb fanfiction #tbb #tbb crosshair #the bad batch #the bad batch crosshair #bad batch crosshair #star wars fanfiction #star wars fake dating

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