#i can already FEEL THE TRAGIC ROMANCE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saintobio · 3 months ago

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sincerely yours. (13)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+

tags/warnings. depression, mentions of cheating, trauma, implied suicide attempt, toxic relationships, illnesses

notes. 5k wc. please note that the last few sy chapters will be shorter than usual. but on another note, thank you for the kind comforting words on my last post. i’m very grateful for all of you.

series masterlist -> episode fourteen

“I’m pregnant,” you finally confessed, voice breaking as you watched the faint tears that slipped from Satoru’s eyes. “I don’t wanna have this baby.”

He should’ve known why. He should’ve seen it coming—should’ve expected the next words that would come out of your mouth after announcing your pregnancy.

Yet the admission, as firm as it sounded, still tore at your chest. And the silence that followed felt deafening. His gaze flickered to your stomach, then back to your face, searching for something—understanding, hope, or maybe a way to convince you otherwise. He also seemed to be struggling with the intense contradiction of his emotions, whether to celebrate your pregnancy or whether to be horrified by it.

That was why Satoru took a shaky breath as he reached out a hand. “Y/N,” he began, stepping closer to you, “Don’t say that. We… We can figure this out. Together. Please.”

Your whole body trembled at the irony of ending your own life soon as you announced the beginning of another. But at the moment, it felt right. That jumping into the vast space beyond you was the best choice—for him, for Sachiro, for the baby, and for yourself.

But seeing the father of your children at the verge of breaking down was shaking your resolve. All the guilt, the shame. You felt it all at once.

Satoru’s hands tightened around yours the moment he was able to reach you. And before you knew it, you were being pulled down, falling straight into him as he caught you perfectly in his arms. Like you were always meant to be there. “Y/N, please…” he whispered, his hands cupping your cheeks, ocean-blue eyes swimming with desperation. “I got you. Don’t do this. Don’t give up on this baby. Don’t give up on us.”

“I can’t, Satoru,” you choked out, shaking your head. “I can’t bring a child into this mess. What kind of life could I possibly give them? What kind of life could we give them? I don’t even deserve to live.”

“You don’t understand, Y/N. Having you here with me right now is already the greatest blessing in my life,” he said quickly, embracing you even tighter as if afraid you’d slip further away. “I swear, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll be there every step of the way. I’ll… I’ll be a good father. I know I’ve made mistakes, Y/N. I’ve hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. But this—this is something I can do right. Let me prove it to you.”

You turned your face away, sobbing quietly. No, Satoru. It’s too late. You had heard of these same promises before, and only a fool would let herself believe it twice.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he pleaded. “Please, just look at me. I love you. I love this baby. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I don’t care how hard it gets—I’ll be here. I’ll stay. I’ll be the man you need me to be. And the man that I should’ve always been.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, never once allowing you to breathe or call for his name. You were stuck underwater, fighting the strong current of emotions. Time and time again, and only Satoru Gojou was able to make you feel like this.

“I swear on everything, Y/N,” he whispered, “I’ll be better. I’ll fight for you, Sachi, and this baby every single day. Just… don’t make this decision now. Not like this.”

The vulnerability in his eyes and the sheer rawness of his plea made your heart ache. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you saw the Satoru you had once loved—the man who would have moved mountains for the woman he had vowed to cherish. The man who pulled everything he can just to bring happiness to the woman he adored.

Your chest tightened as the weight of your decision pressed down on you, and a shiver ran through your body as if you could feel your baby’s heartbeat. “Satoru…” you whispered, your voice trembling with the fragile thread of your emotions. “I’m…”

Before you could finish, the flood of guilt, sorrow, and exhaustion eventually overtook you. And his glistening blue eyes were the last thing you saw before the world blurred and you surrendered to the darkness.

— —

Satoru stood just outside the hospital room, leaning against the cold, white wall with his face buried in his hands. His heart was pounding and his thoughts were nothing but a chaotic mess. He had almost lost you—again. This time, in a way he hadn’t even anticipated.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and when he looked up, it was your older sister, Gen, who was walking toward him, her face a mix of concern and restrained anger. She stopped in front of him, crossing her arms and clearly displeased with his presence.

“She’s resting,” Gen informed him, her voice steady but sharp. “The doctor says she needs time. Physically, she’ll be fine, but mentally? I don’t know.”

Satoru nodded, his throat tightening. “I—I’m sorry, Gen. For everything.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her piercing gaze. “I know I’ve been the worst. Back then, now… I never meant to hurt her.”

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” she replied in a haste and brutally honest manner. “First, my nephew, and now, my sister? Both of them were hospitalized because of you. All you do is bring in a series of bad luck to our family. Have some shame.”

He knew she was right, and he was ashamed. But despite the hurtful truth, he accepted it all. He was a martyr ready to take all the pain away, if it meant taking it from you and your children. “I know I messed up, Gen. And I don’t deserve another chance. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love her. That I will love her until the day I die.” His eyes pooled with genuine tears. “I just want to be here for her. She’s my life.”

Gen sighed, her arms falling to her sides. “Satoru, you say you love her. You say you care about her. But look where we are. She’s always been the one paying the price for your mistakes. Always getting the short end of the stick.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes narrowed. “And now? There’s a rumor about her because of you. Do you even know what that’s doing to her?”

He clenched his fists, his head hanging low. “I know. I saw it. I—I’m already drafting a statement. It’ll be released soon. I’ll clear her name, Gen. I’ll take full responsibility. I won’t let anyone drag her through the mud because of me.”

Gen studied him carefully, her expression softening slightly, though her voice remained firm. “Words are one thing, Satoru. Actions are another. She’s given up so much for you. Do you even realize how much of herself she’s lost?”

“I do,” he said, his shaken voice barely audible. “I see it every time I look at her. I see the woman I fell in love with slipping away, and it’s my fault. But I swear to you, Gen, I’ll fix this. I’ll do everything I can to keep her, to keep our family together. I’ll be the man she deserves, the father our kids deserve.”

Gen’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away, her gaze distant. “Love isn’t just words, Satoru. It’s not just showing up when things get hard. It’s being there even when things are mundane, even when she doesn’t need saving. It’s about choosing her, every single day. And you haven’t done that.”

Her words cut deep, but he took them all, letting them sink into his bones. He had been selfish, careless with the one person who mattered the most. And now, he was paying the price.

“But you’re still here.” Gen’s voice eventually softened, as if this situation couldn’t be saved anymore. “And she’s still here. I don’t know why, after everything, my sister still loves you… but she does. I wouldn’t want you for her, frankly. I’d rather she’d be single her entire life than be stuck with you. But I know her stubborn heart all too well. And if you really mean what you say, if you’re truly ready to step up and be the man she deserves, then prove it. You’d better mean that, Satoru. Because if you break her again… I don’t think there’ll be any pieces left to put back together.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the muffled hum of the hospital. And in sincerity, Satoru nodded, tears welling in his eyes. This wasn’t exactly Gen forgiving him, this was her choosing what makes her sister happy. “I love her, Gen. I’ve always loved her. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

——

A dull beeping sound echoed in your ears, steady and rhythmic, as the world around you slowly came back into focus. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your nose, and the soft hum of distant voices murmured through the hospital walls. The fluorescent lights above were too bright, causing you to squint as you tried to take in your surroundings. White sheets, an IV drip, and the unmistakable cold of a hospital bed beneath your fingertips.

You were in the ER.

Memories of the day before hit you all at once—the weight of exhaustion, the way your body had given up on you mid-conversation, and Satoru’s voice calling your name just before everything faded to black.

A gentle warmth enveloped your hand. You turned your head slightly, heart skipping a beat when you saw Satoru sitting beside you. His snow-white hair was disheveled, his usually confident demeanor subdued. There were dark circles under his eyes suggesting how little he had rested.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. There was relief laced in his tone, but also something heavier. He reached out, brushing stray strands of hair from your face. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “How’s my… baby?”

For someone who said she wanted to get rid of her unborn child, your concern put a relief on Satoru’s face. “Baby’s okay,” he admitted, his thumb absently tracing circles on your belly. “You passed out, and they brought you here to monitor you. But you’re okay now. The doctor said you were just exhausted. You’re being discharged soon.”

Your mind was sluggish, still struggling to process everything. But then, the most important thought struck you.

“Sachiro,” you breathed, fear clawing its way up your throat. One after another. “His surgery—”

Satoru squeezed your hand gently, stopping you before your panic could take hold. “It was a success.” His lips curled into a small, tired smile. “While you were resting, everything went well. The doctors said it was a textbook procedure—no complications. He’s stable, recovering in the suite room now.”

“H-He’s okay?” Your voice broke on the last word, and Satoru nodded.

“He’s okay.”

A choked sob left your lips as you covered your face with your hands, overwhelmed. After everything, after all the sleepless nights and the heart-wrenching fear of losing your first born, he had made it through. At his young age, having to suffer such a complicated heart disease was something he didn’t deserve, but truly, he was a strong kid. And for that, you were grateful.

Satoru didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you, anchoring you. “Y/N,” he murmured, his lips ghosting against your temple. “Sachi’s strong. He got it from his mommy.”

You let yourself melt into him for a moment, closing your eyes and breathing him in. You didn’t know what this meant for the both of you—if anything had changed, if anything ever could. But for now, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was that Sachiro was waiting for you.

Satoru pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your arms. “Do you wanna go see him?”

You met his gaze, eyes still shining with unshed tears, and nodded. “Yeah.”

——

Down the pristine white halls, past nurses and doctors bustling about their duties, your feet carried you with a singular purpose while Satoru walked beside you, his pace matching yours.

And then—there.

Room 721.

You hesitated only for a second before pushing the door open, breath catching the moment your eyes landed on Sachiro. Your poor son. Your poor little boy lay in the hospital bed, looking small and fragile against the white sheets. Tubes and wires were attached to him, aside from the steady beeping of the monitors that signaled his heart’s vitals. A ventilator was also there to help him breathe, and his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm was a sight that both reassured and shattered you at the same time.

“Sachi,” you whispered sweetly, stepping closer. “Mommy’s here, baby.”

Your fingers trembled as you brushed his hair back, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment. He was still asleep, sedated for recovery, but his face was peaceful—far more peaceful than the nights you’d spent watching him struggle.

Behind you, Satoru stood motionless. His normally vibrant eyes were dulled with exhaustion, his face gaunt from two days without sleep. Yet, despite it all, he remained standing, his entire being focused on Sachiro.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Your family surrounded you, offering support, love, and quiet reassurances. Nurses came and went, checking on Sachiro’s vitals, updating you on his condition. The visiting hours brought waves of people—friends, colleagues, even some of Satoru’s acquaintances who had come to check on him.

But through it all, Satoru never moved.

While conversations hummed around him, while people embraced and whispered their worries, he remained by Sachiro’s bedside. His hand rested on his son’s small fingers, his thumb occasionally brushing against his skin.

He didn’t speak much. Didn’t react to the noise around him.

He just… watched.

Watched the slow rise and fall of his child’s chest. Watched the way the monitors flickered with steady readings. Watched the way his son fought to live.

And even as the hours stretched, as your family said their goodbyes, as the night deepened and visiting hours ended—Satoru remained.

His exhaustion was evident. The bags under his eyes had darkened, his shoulders heavy with weariness. But when a nurse suggested he get some rest, he merely shook his head.

“I’m not leaving him.”

And so, he stayed.

With red-rimmed eyes and a body begging for sleep, Satoru Gojou sat beside his son, never once looking away.

You could see the torment in his eyes as he looked at Sachiro, the helplessness of a father who could do nothing but watch. You just couldn’t bear the silence any longer, so you finally spoke. “Satoru… just go home.”

He froze at the sound of your voice, as if caught off guard, but quickly shook his head and wrapped your belly under a warm blanket. “Did I wake you up?”

“I can look after Sachi by myself,” you urged, disregarding his question. “You need to rest.”

But again, he refused. “No.”

“But—”

You opened your mouth to speak again, to reason with him, but before you could, Satoru’s voice cut through the air, breaking in a way you had never heard before. “Y/N, let me be a father to my kids… Please.” His voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling out as he looked at the ceiling with somber, tearful eyes. It was the heartbreak in his voice that made you realize that you were the only family Satoru had left. And it was the tremor in his hands that made you see through the trauma he had developed after he was led to believe for three years that his son had never existed. In a way, you felt responsible for the pain you had caused him, too. “Just please let me love you and our babies. Don’t take them away from me.”

For a moment, silence became your friend. Yet, the quiet that enveloped the room was more of a tender moment suspended in time as you let Satoru embrace you in his arms. You both remained there, connected by the warmth of his hand over yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He caressed your belly as if you were going to take his baby away—that if he closed his eyes, even for a second, he would wake up to see his unborn child gone.

But then, a soft knock on the door shattered the stillness.. Satoru’s grip on your hand loosened as the nurse poked her head into the room with an apologetic expression on display.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. and Mrs. Gojou,” she began, her voice quiet and gentle, “but you have a visitor.” Satoru’s brows furrowed slightly, but before he could ask, the nurse continued, “Her name is Ms. Akemi.”

At the mention of her name, he immediately sat up, his body tense as he instinctively prepared to stand. You felt the shift in his demeanor, the way his hand slipped from yours as he moved to the edge of the bed. You stayed still for a minute, processing the sudden change, and your heart sinking at the thought of yet another intrusion by her.

You took a deep breath as you began to pull away, already bracing yourself for what was to come, and for the inevitable exit he would make. Like always. Choosing another woman over you. Choosing another woman over his own child. Of course, that’s what he’s about to do, right? You started to gather the strength to let him go, to retreat back into your thoughts, until the nurse spoke again.

“Oh… Actually,” she said, her eyes flicking between you both, “Miss Akemi wants to see you, Ms. Y/N… not Mr. Gojou.”

——

Two things about this moment caught you off guard. First, Satoru’s sudden overprotectiveness—firmly insisting to the nurse that Akemi had no right to call for you again and that you shouldn’t be meeting her just to “talk.” And second, the fact that Akemi actually wanted to see you.

What was the catch?

What was her motive?

You wondered if this was going to be another Sera moment.

And you knew, even if your mind told you that you owed Akemi nothing, you were still curious about what she had to say. Would she demand Satoru’s time that you were taking from her? Or was she about to make a scene and call you a homewrecker?

Strangely, of all the places, Akemi wanted to meet you at the hospital chapel.

She was already there when you came, sitting at the last row amongst the empty pews, staring at the altar as if her brown eyes were glued to the massive cross in the center. In her solitude, you silently slipped into the opposite side of the pew, not exchanging any eye-contact until she noticed your presence.

When she turned, she seemed startled to see you. “Y/N.”

You said nothing, only staring at the cross in front of you.

“I was just…” She trailed off, glancing toward the altar before looking back at you. “I was praying for Sachiro. I heard his surgery was a success.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, but your voice was steady. “It was.”

“I’m glad.” A small, genuine smile plastered over her lips. “I really am. He’s a strong boy… just like his mom.”

A scoff threatened to rise in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t here to fight. Not anymore. Not when you were far too grateful for Sachiro’s successful operation to still be holding grudges on others. But that didn’t mean you had to fake being happy next to Akemi. All you did was nod in appreciation.

But Akemi hesitated, then spoke again about what seemed to be her main concern of going here. “Has Satoru been here? I mean… all this time?”

“Yes.” A pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression, but your rigid expression appeared to have intimidated her. “If you’re here to ask him to go home with you, then—”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked. Of all the things you expected, an apology wasn’t one of them.

“For everything,” she continued. “For being with Satoru even when I knew who you were to him. For pretending I didn’t see the way he looked at you, the way he still loved you. I was selfish. I let my delusions get to me, thinking that he’s exactly who I needed in my life to feel whole again.” She then let out a bitter laugh, one that lacked amusement. “You don’t know this, but I used to envy you. Your life. Your place in his heart. The way you had people around you. The way he loved you… The way you have a beautiful son and an equally beautiful husband. I wanted that for myself. I thought if I tried hard enough, if I gave him everything, if I tried to be like you, maybe he’d love me the same way.” Her voice wavered. “But no matter how much time passed, it always felt like he was looking past me. Like he was imagining someone else by his side. And I knew. I always knew.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the edge of the pew. You weren’t expecting to hear all of those things from her. Not after everything that had happened.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Akemi admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But I needed to say this. Because I know you’re not happy that Satoru’s been visiting me, too. At least, until he ended things officially between us. And probably until he learned about your pregnancy… Is it true?”

Your breath hitched, but you remained still.

“The baby’s a blessing, Y/N.” She lifted her chin, meeting your eyes with quiet resignation. “It’s exactly what I had hoped for myself… but I’m sick. I’m critically ill. Stage three endometrial cancer, to be exact.”

For the first time, something shifted in you. Shock. Pity. Confusion. You ended up returning her gaze—her lachrymose brown eyes that seemed to envy your entire being.

“H-He feels bad for me,” she continued, her voice softer now. “That’s why he’s been coming back and forth. He doesn’t love me—not the way I wanted—but he can’t turn away from someone who’s suffering. That’s who he is.”

You looked away, pressing your lips together, not knowing how to navigate a conversation with the sick friend who betrayed you.

“I don’t expect anything from him anymore. And I don’t expect anything from you, either.” Akemi’s lips curved into a sad smile. “I just wanted you to know that… I’m letting go. Of him. Of the past. Of everything.”

You held your breath back.

“I hope, one day, you can forgive him. Maybe even me. I know I lost a good friendship because of my bad decisions.”

She turned towards you, reaching for your hand that she soon softly squeezed. In that millisecond, you caught a glimpse of Nanami standing by the door, seemingly waiting for Akemi to finish her last words with you.

“Take care of him, Y/N. And take care of yourself.”

——

When you returned to the room, Satoru was pacing back and forth, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw clenched in barely restrained nerves. The second he caught sight of you in the doorway, his shoulders sagged with relief, but his expression remained taut with worry.

“Y/N,” he exhaled, striding toward you in a rush. “What did she say? Was she rude to you? Did she—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Before he could spiral further, you grabbed him by the collar and silenced him with a firm kiss.

For a brief, stunned moment, he stiffened—his breath catching against your lips. Then, just as quickly, he melted into you, hands coming up to cradle your face as if you’d disappear if he let go. His lips moved over yours, not demanding, not desperate—just seeking, just holding.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still half-lidded with dazed confusion.

“Stop overthinking,” you murmured, fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck.

Satoru swallowed hard, searching your face for answers. “Y/N…”

But a soft noise from the hospital bed cut the moment short. Both your heads snapped toward Sachiro, who was stirring beneath the sheets, and his tiny fingers twitching as his eyelids fluttered open.

Satoru let out a shaky laugh, a watery grin spreading across his face as he rushed to his son’s side. “Hey, Sachi,” he choked out. “You’re awake.”

You moved closer, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes as Sachiro groggily turned to look at both of you. “My baby…”

“Mama…? Dada…?” His voice was weak, but the way he reached for both of you made your chest ache.

You took his small hand in yours, pressing it against your cheek as Satoru smoothed down his hair, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. “We’re here, baby,” you whispered. “We’re right here. How are you feeling, my sunshine?”

The nurses came shortly after, and then his doctor also took a visit. According to him, Sachiro showed good signs of recovery and ordered the medical staff to remove the devices attached to your son one by one as his progress looked promising. Soon enough, with the doctor’s advice, Sachiro could even start his rehab to be able to resume his normal activities. Everything you were hearing were positive outcomes, nothing but good news. You couldn’t help but feel as if things were too good to be true, and wondered if there was anything substantially bigger that’d come and wreck you.

The father of your child seemed to have noticed the moment you became silent, swallowed by the anxious thought of what was to come, and he came to wrap his arms around you, securing you in his embrace, and rubbing your belly from behind.

You could see the nurses noticing your little display of affection and so you tried to push Satoru off, but he didn’t budge. He only held you tighter and buried his face into your shoulder.

“Let me just recharge here for a bit,” he mumbled, as though you were the battery that was giving him energy. “Just let me hold you, please.”

——

You hadn’t addressed the elephant in the room yet, and the only real chance to do so came the following night, when Sachiro’s nanny took over in the suite. She kept you updated on his condition, while you—following your doctor’s advice—chose to finally get some proper rest at home.

But knowing your family, they’d bombard you with questions about Satoru the moment you walked through the door. Maybe that’s why you agreed to his suggestion—to stay the night at the penthouse. The same home you once shared as husband and wife.

Was it a rash decision? An impulsive one? Maybe exhaustion had driven you here, standing under the warm stream of his shower as he waited outside. It was strange how comforting this place still felt. How familiar, yet mind-warping it was. This was the same home where he had slept with Akemi. How could you feel both at ease and deeply unsettled?

By the time you stepped out, you stood in front of the vanity mirror, drying your hair as your gaze fell to your barely noticeable bump. You weren’t showing just yet, and knew that there was still time to decide. Did you want this baby? Keeping it meant Satoru would be even more tied to you. Letting it go meant sparing it from a toxic environment and the possibility of inheriting your heart condition.

Lost in thought, you barely heard Satoru’s knock before he entered, carrying your old pajamas. Without a word, he helped you into them with quiet care, his touch gentle but respectfully distant. He guided you like a loving husband would to his pregnant wife, up until you were settled under the warm duvet of your old bed, where he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Is there anything you want for breakfast?” he asked, “Anything you’re craving? Lemon bars? PB&J? I can run to the grocery store now if you want.”

His reminder of your old pregnancy cravings squeezed at your heart. It took you back to the days where you were immensely, unselfishly in love with him. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I’d do anything for you and baby.”

Maybe this was his way to consume you with guilt, knowing you still haven’t really decided if you wanted to keep the baby, yet here he was doing his everything just to show you how he wanted to care for his youngest. Would you be too cruel to ruin his fantasy?

“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he murmured when he didn’t get any answer. “Call me if you need me.”

“Wait.” You regretted your words the moment you opened your mouth. “Stay.”

Because why? Just why did you ask him to stay? Why did you want him beside you? Why did you enjoy his warmth and his presence and his love? This was the same man who wrecked you to shreds, to pieces. How could you betray yourself and still trust him?

You didn’t need the answer right now, all you needed was Satoru’s gentle gaze, his careful embrace, and the way he caressed your face as he joined you in bed. You could tell he wanted to try for a kiss, but decided not to cross any lines you weren’t comfortable with.

“I’m dreaming, am I?” he asked, seemingly musing at the thought.

You sighed. “I’d hope so.”

“Y/N.” His voice was soft as he said your name. “I love you.”

Closing your eyes, you replied, “Give me time.”

#series: sincerely yours #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru angst

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dollyswishingwell · 14 days ago

Note

Hiiii!! It's me again 🎀✨️...I suddenly got an idea. Like let's say Mc is watching a drama or reading a novel and the male lead is sooo good that she goes "omg..please become my husband" y'know fangirly mode. And how will the guys react to that! All that possessive jealousy and fluff..if you don't mind writing this. I feel like only you'd do this a justice 😭😭🎀

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Second husband

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

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, this is for allll the fangirling requests i got

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You fangirl over your fav male lead

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’re sprawled out on your velvet chaise in one of the sun-drenched sitting rooms of Rafayel’s estate, a sheer lace robe over your lacy lingerie, sipping something sparkly while flipping through a romance novel. It’s so dramatic, an aloof villain-turned-devoted-husband who’s rich, cruel to everyone else, but worships his wife like a queen. You’re giggling and kicking your feet like a true fangirl.

“Oh my god… Please become my husband,” you sigh, absolutely swept away, clutching your chest dramatically. “That’s it. I’m getting a second husband.”

And Raf, who’s been lounging on the opposite couch sketching a seashell-inspired frame for your new vanity mirror, freezes.

His pencil snaps in half.

“…Second what?”

His voice is so sweet and singsong, but that slight twitch in his smile is dangerous.

You blink innocently, teasing, “Well he’s just soooo charming, cold and powerful but secretly soft for her? That’s sooo my type. If he proposed I’d say yes right away—!”

You don’t even finish before he’s already on you. Drops his sketchpad to the floor with a thud, climbs over you like a wave crashing the shore. One long leg on either side of you, his arms trapping you as he leans down, eyes glittering like an angry sea under moonlight.

“Oh?” he whispers, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “So now I’m not enough for my precious housewife?”

You giggle and squirm but he’s already attacking, playful nips to your neck, fingers tickling down your sides, his cold rings trailing fire over your thigh. You’re squealing now.

“A second husband, huh? Should I call the movers again and have your whole wardrobe burned? Maybe he can buy you another. Or should I drown him instead?”

He’s so dramatic, so possessive, so pouty. You’re laughing but he’s growling like a feral cat, burying his face in your tummy like it personally betrayed him.

“You’re mine, pretty thing. Say it.”

You pout and whimper dramatically back, “I was joking Raffyyyy…he doesn’t even exist—!”

He just kisses your pout, deep and slow, like he’s trying to overwrite any memory of that fictional man.

“Then don’t say such cruel things again,” he mumbles against your lips, “or I’ll have to become even more fictional. Watch me rewrite your whole novel into just me.”

And from that moment forward, Every time you even glance at your novels, Raf’s there peeking over your shoulder like:

“Is he stronger than me? No. Prettier? No. A better husband? Hah. Let me know when he buys you a castle with hand-carved pearl bathtubs.”

And god forbid you giggle again. He’s instantly pulling you into his lap like:

“What did he say? Hm? Repeat it. Actually, don’t. I’m jealous enough already.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You’re curled up under a plush throw in Zayne’s private library, your tablet in hand and a steaming cup of tea beside you, courtesy of your ever-doting husband. He’s sitting across from you, going through patient charts, pristine in his dress shirt and slacks, glasses perched on his nose.

But you? You’re emotionally spiraling.

Because your favorite manhwa just updated.

And the male lead? A cold, overworked surgeon with a tragic past who’s secretly obsessed with the female lead. He just shielded her with his body during a building collapse, confessed with bloody lips, and called her his “only cure.” You let out a gasp so dramatic it actually makes Zayne look up.

“Are you alright?” he asks, clinically calm.

You clasp your chest with both hands. “Oh my god… please become my husband,” you whisper at the screen, eyes shimmering. Then louder, just to tease him:

“That’s it. I’m getting a second husband.”

Zayne blinks once. Then slowly sets his tablet down.

“…Excuse me?”

You peer up with a tiny smirk. “You wouldn’t understand, Dr Zayne. He’s just… so selfless and cold and obsessed and hot—”

He’s already standing.

Zayne walks over calmly and plucks the tablet right out of your hands. Doesn’t even look at the manhwa. Just sets it down and gently pushes you onto your back on the sofa, bracing himself above you with the quiet, unreadable expression he always has during surgeries.

“You want a second husband,” he repeats, tone flat. “Interesting.”

You can see the tiniest twitch in his jaw. Oh no. He’s jealous.

“You do realize,” he murmurs while running a slow hand up your thigh beneath the blanket, “if this fictional man really knew you, he’d see how easily you cry when you run out of syrup for pancakes. How you hum when you brush your hair. How you sneak cookies after dinner. You think he would handle you well?”

You’re already blushing and squirming but he’s so composed. So focused. His hazel-green eyes narrow, calculating.

“He wouldn’t know how to keep your iron levels up or how to ease your migraines. He wouldn’t know your skin’s exact sensitivity or the cadence of your breathing when you’re overwhelmed.”

Zayne’s voice drops lower, surgical smooth.

“But I do. I know everything about you. And if you ever ‘joke’ like that again…”

He kisses your cheek once, so gently. Then leans to whisper in your ear:

“I’ll prescribe you a month of tech detox. No manhwa. No tablet. Only me.”

You squeak and immediately start apologizing, hugging his neck and whining that you were kidding, and he hums with a smug little smile.

“That’s what I thought. You don’t need a second husband, sweetheart. You need to hydrate, and keep your hands off delusional fantasies.”

But the next day? He’s mysteriously started wearing black gloves and an open white coat at home. Like the manhwa ML.

And when you ask if he’s copying the character you liked so much?

He adjusts his glasses coolly and says:

“No. He’s clearly imitating me.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You’re wrapped in a mountain of silken blankets on the oversized bed in your penthouse, the air dim and cozy with the faint smell of candles and tea. Xavier is curled up beside you, half-asleep with his face buried against your shoulder, his breathing soft and even.

But you?

You’re kicking your feet and squealing because you’re rewatching your favorite historical drama, the one with the stoic general who sacrifices everything for the princess he loves. He’s got blood on his armor and tears in his eyes and he just said:

“Even if I must burn the heavens and betray the throne, I will protect you.”

You clutch your chest, eyes wide and glossy. “Oh my god… please become my husband.”

You gasp and press your face into your pillow dramatically. “I’ll marry you in every timeline. That’s it—I’m getting a second husband.”

You hear the soft rustle of sheets behind you.

And then—

“You’re already married in every timeline.”

Xavier’s voice is quiet, almost sleepy, but his arms are already tightening around your waist, dragging you back into his embrace like you belong there. His silver hair tickles your neck as he nuzzles close, no trace of emotion on his face, but you can feel the pout in his grip.

“Why would you want another husband?” he mumbles, as if you’ve just wounded him deeply. “Do you want a sword next time? Or a war horse? I can bring one.”

You giggle and try to turn back to the screen, but he rolls with you, pinning you beneath him with lazy, catlike precision.

“No,” he says simply. “No more watching.”

You gasp, “Xavi! It’s the final battle—!”

But he rests his head on your chest and closes his eyes again. “It doesn’t matter. He dies. I read the synopsis.”

You blink. “You what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter.

“He’s fictional. I’m not. And I don’t need a palace or a title or a horse to ruin the world for you. Say you’ll only have me.”

You pout, playing along. “Even if a general prince confesses with blood on his lips?”

He opens one blue eye.

“Even if a god kneels in gold, you are mine.”

You squeal and kiss his forehead, and he hums happily like you’ve given him all the reassurance he’ll ever need.

But after that, Xavier becomes very aware of every historical drama you start.

“Is he stoic again?” he murmurs one night, kissing down your collarbone. “Cold and devoted? I can do that too. I’ll rewrite history if I have to.”

Possessive Xavier doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scold. He just clings. Sleeps wrapped around you tighter. Kisses your hands like you’re his queen in exile.

And casually says things like:

“If I were born then, I’d be the one hiding a blade in your hairpin. I’d bury empires for you.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You’re lounging in your marble soaking tub, bubbles up to your shoulders, wearing that expensive silk headband Sylus bought just to keep your hair out of your eyes. Your tablet is propped up on a gilded stand, and you’re deep in your reread of your absolute favorite manhwa, the one with the cold, terrifying Duke who rules the north, never smiles, murders nobles with his bare hands… and then turns into a love-crazed fool for his sweet wife.

And this chapter?

He just broke off an engagement, kicked in a ballroom door, and declared in front of the entire empire:

“She belongs to me. Touch her, and I’ll erase your bloodline.”

You slap the water. “OH MY GOD. PLEASE become my husband—”

And then you giggle, teasing under your breath like a brat, “Honestly… I should just get a second husband. A Duke, like him.”

You hear it. That sound.

A slow, deliberate click of a door opening.

You peek up over the rim of the tub.

Sylus is standing in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp from the rain outside. His eyes glow that eerie crimson and he tilts his head as he speaks, voice low and silken:

“What was that, princess?”

You blink. “Oh. Um. Nothing.”

He’s already stepping closer, loosening his cufflinks as he watches you with that quietly unhinged little smirk.

“You were comparing me to a fictional man again, weren’t you?”

You shrink a little. “Well, he’s cold and terrifying and secretly romantic—”

He drops to a crouch beside the tub, hand dipping into the water as he cups your jaw and makes you look at him.

“And what exactly do you think I am, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Gulp.

Sylus chuckles darkly and kisses your cheek gently, mockingly.

“I have twelve armories. A fleet of assassins. I bought a continent last week. And you’re fantasizing about a duke in a cape? What did he do, raise his voice once?”

“You want me to play your little story? Fine. You’re now the duchess of my empire, and I’m the cruel tyrant who locks you in his estate to keep you safe from the nobles who ‘want a taste.’”

You blink rapidly. “…That actually sounds kinda hot—”

He grins wide. “Thought so.”

He snaps his fingers and calls one of his aides into the room just to say:

“Prepare a red ballgown. She’s attending the council meeting with me tomorrow as my ‘obsessive’ wife. I want her sitting on my lap while I execute a traitor.”

You: “SYLUS—!”

But he’s already pressing a kiss to your wrist, eyes glinting with dark glee.

“You don’t need a second husband, pretty girl. Just tell me the fantasy and I’ll make it real. Even if I have to burn a country down.”

The next time you open that manhwa?

Sylus scoffs. “He’s not even holding her neck right. Amateur.”

And you’re squealing and blushing as he flips the tablet off and declares:

“You want to be ruined by a cold duke? Get over here and let me show you how it’s actually done.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

It’s a lazy Skyhaven afternoon, and you’re cuddled up on the oversized cloud couch in Caleb’s penthouse, dressed in one of his big Farspace Academy shirts. Your hair’s in a messy bun, snacks within reach, tablet on your lap, and your favorite K-drama blaring: “Doctor of the Moonlight.”

The male lead?

A gorgeous, cold trauma surgeon with a tragic childhood and silky hair that always falls into his eyes. He saves lives with one hand, shatters hearts with the other. But the moment he gently tucks the heroine’s hair behind her ear after she sprains her ankle on a rainy rooftop?

You clutch a pillow to your chest, starry-eyed.

“Please become my husband,” you sigh dreamily. “That’s it. I’m getting a second husband. One with a PhD and arm veins.”

And somewhere behind you… there’s a pause. Then:

“Excuse me?”

You turn and see Caleb, still in his black officer uniform, leaning against the kitchen counter, a glass of water forgotten in his hand. His purple eyes are narrowed. His jaw ticks.

“A second husband?” he echoes, voice low and dangerously calm. “You want some pretty-boy drama doctor who cries over surgeries to take you away?”

You blink. “It’s just a show, he’s so gentle and calm and—”

He’s already stalking toward you.

Drops onto the couch like a panther and pulls you onto his lap without another word. His arms wrap tightly around your waist as he leans in, nose brushing your cheek.

“I flew into an asteroid field for you,” he growls softly. “I’ve bled, killed, and retired an entire fleet just to make sure you never lift a finger again.”

You pout playfully. “But does he look good in scrubs?”

Caleb grins, slow and dangerous. “pips, I look good in my colonel uniform”

Then he flips the tablet shut and tosses it onto the table with military precision.

“You want a doctor? Fine. I’ll be your doctor.”

He adjusts his grip, one hand slipping under your thighs to carry you like you weigh nothing.

“Mandatory health check. Right now. Can’t have my wife fantasizing about other men while she’s clearly suffering from a short-term memory issue.”

You squeal and cling to him, whining that you were joking, but he’s already carrying you off, kissing your cheek and murmuring:

“Don’t need a second husband, sweetheart. You need to be reminded who your first—and only—one is.”

Later, when you’re curled up on his chest, pouting and saying the drama doctor was still cute, Caleb just hums and strokes your hair lazily.

“Tell you what,” he whispers. “Next time I’m deployed, I’ll film myself dragging a soldier out of an exploding ship with one arm. You can have your little K-drama moment then.”

You whine, “That’s not romantic!”

And he just kisses your nose, utterly smug.

“You married a colonel, not a drama actor. But if I ever catch you giggling at him again…”

He pulls you closer, voice dropping.

“I’ll ground you.”

516 notes · View notes

oopsiedaisydeer · 16 days ago

Text

romantic shit

fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, denial of feelings, slow burn, kissing, love letter, lots of romantic gestures:)

word count - 6k

“Ugh,” she groaned, dragging the last syllable out like a sigh from her bones. “Can some romantic shit happen to me, please?”

She collapsed, face-first, into the middle of her best friend’s bed like a girl in a rom-com… but she wasn’t acting. It was dramatic, yes, but there was a truth to it, heavy and childlike, something in the way her shoulders sank.

Matt looked up from his phone, blinking curiously like he’d only just remembered she was there. “You alright?”

She rolled over with a groan and flopped an arm over her eyes. “Not even a little bit.”

“What happened?” he asked, pushing himself up on one elbow. His tone was light, amused. “You fall in love with another stranger on the train?”

She peeled one eye open to glare at him. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Okay, sorry. What is it then?”

She groaned again. “It’s just… I’m almost in my twenties, Matt. Like fully, completely, no-going-back. And I still haven’t been swept off my feet. Not even gently nudged. Not even… breezed past. I want something. Just a little bit of affection, y’know?”

Matt tried not to smile too much, but it tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You are so dramatic.”

She sat up and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t mock me. It’s tragic. I should have been someone’s girlfriend, or, or something by now!”

“You’re definitely something,” he muttered, still smiling.

She huffed and fell back again, arms flung wide. “When does the romance start, Matt? When do I get flowers? Or lazy kisses? Or some idiot making me a playlist that’s just, like, seven of the same song in a row and then pretending they didn’t mean anything by it?”

Matt snorted. “Maybe you’re scaring it away. Romance. With all this pressure.”

She turned her head to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Do I look scary to you?”

“A little bit,” he said, but softer this time. He was still watching her, the flushed cheeks, hair slipping loose, the curve of her lip when she tried not to smile back.

She didn’t say anything after that, just blinked up at the ceiling. The kind of silence that only existed between people who were already used to each other’s company.

Matt glanced at her again, more carefully this time.

It was the way she said it. Like she was joking, but not really. Like it was something she’d been carrying for a long time and finally let slip.

No one had ever made her feel that way?

No one?

He didn’t say anything then.

But he remembered.

He tried to forget about it. He really did.

But the thought kept curling into the corners of his mind, soft and persistent like waves under a dock.

She said it so simply. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like of course she’d never been given flowers or walked home in the rain or had someone write her a love letter. As if she’d made peace with that.

But Matt hadn’t.

He lay in bed that night, the blue glow of his phone lighting up the ceiling, scrolling through shit he didn’t care about. But his mind kept circling back to her face, scrunched in frustration, and the way her voice caught just a little when she said, Not even nudged.

It wasn’t just because he liked her… although he did, obviously, desperately, quietly. Ever since he’d known her. It was because she deserved more. And not in the way people say that casually. She really, really did.

And he knew it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried, that she’d stayed up late to write beautiful words for people who didn’t care as much as her, told him wistfully about guys she thought were “really cute” and “kinda sweet”, and found comfort in the hope that someone would kiss her, one day, after she stared at them with that look in her eye that had never, not once, been directed at him. And that was okay.

Because she deserved the kind of love that was thoughtful and sweet and awkward and real. Not grand gestures or fake charm. Just the kind of love that paid attention.

And if no one else was going to give it to her, then he would.

He’d do all of it. The flowers, the hand holding, the little moments she always joked about or cringed at but secretly craved. Even if she never saw him that way. Even if she never knew. Because that wasn’t the point.

The point was she deserved to have a little bit of romance in her life. To know what romantic shit felt like.

And Matt? Matt would be the one to show her.

Even if it broke him a little in the process.

The flower shop was an impulsive stop.

He was on his way to pick her up for their usual late-night food run, fries and hot fudge sundaes from McDonalds and people-watching in the Target parking lot, when he saw the corner stall with the striped awning and the buckets of blooms out front.

He didn’t think about it. He just parked, got out, and stared at the rows of color like an idiot who had no idea what he was doing.

“Can I help you with anything?” the florist’s voice startled Matt, almost jumping back as the lady from behind the counter smiled kindly at him.

He hesitates before asking, “What kind of flowers are best for a girl that I’m best friends with that I don’t want to ruin my friendship with but also I want to do something romantic for her?” he rambles, slightly breathless by the time he’s done.

She blinked. “That’s very specific.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

She walked around the shop, gathering several kinds of flowers, constructing a bunch that she gathered with ribbon and brown paper, before handing him the small bouquet. It was perfect, and Matt gazed down at it, lips slightly apart, admiring it. Soft yellow daisies, baby’s breath, and something with blue petals he couldn’t name.

“They look like her,” he breathed, and the florist smiled again.

Matt didn’t know how to thank the lady, but he bought them anyway, tipping generously.

When he showed up at her house ten minutes later, she opened the door in an oversized hoodie and socks that didn’t match, and blinked down at the flowers like he was holding a live raccoon.

“What... is this?”

He shoved the bouquet forward awkwardly. “They reminded me of you. I figured, you know. Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “I know you’ve never gotten flowers before. So.”

She stared at them. Then at him. Then back at the flowers like they might explode. There was a tight feeling in her chest again, one that curved up towards her head and down towards her toes.

“Thanks?” she finally said.

He pushed them towards her again, and she took them gently, staring down at them, head slightly tilted.

“Matt.”

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, already walking back towards the car.

She closed the door slowly behind him, then turned to look at the bouquet in her hands again, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

She didn’t mention the flowers again.

But he saw her put them in a tall jar and set them by her bed later that night, and that was more than enough.

A few weeks go by, and Matt is stuck. He keeps thinking about what else he can do for her, how else he can be romantic, without stepping over the line, making her uncomfortable. It turns out planning romantic gestures whilst trying to maintain platonic boundaries isn’t the easiest thing in the world.

That’s why he just says it.

“Do you want to go out sometime?”

Just like that. Like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t known each other, been best friends, for years.

She’s picking popcorn off her hoodie sleeve when he says it, and she laughs, mouth full, thinking he's joking. But then she glances up.

And he’s not.

“Like…” she pauses, the bowl still in her hand. “Go out go out?”

Matt shrugs. His voice is casual but his leg starts bouncing, just a little. “Only if you want. Doesn’t have to be… like that.”

She feels her heart skip something. A beat. A thought. A warning.

“I don’t get it,” she says, a little too quiet. “How would it not be like that?”

He leans back against the couch, the space between them suddenly loud. “I dunno. I just figured… it’d be fun. We already hang out all the time anyway. Might be fun to just… go to a fancy restaurant, get dressed up, eat, talk, you know.”

Matt’s voice is gentle, but he places his hand on his knee, hoping she doesn’t notice how they’re shaking.

She hates how his words keep making her chest ache lately. How easy he makes it sound. Like it’s a joke. Like he could take it back.

She tries to keep her voice light, teasing. “Is this a pity date?”

Matt’s eyes shoot to hers. “What? No.”

She forces a laugh. “You’re just doing this because I said that stuff about no one’s ever done anything romantic for me. And now you’re asking if you can take me out. You gotta admit, it feels kinda… charity case-y.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Serious. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “It’s not like that.”

“You sure?” she asks, voice slightly small. “Because I don’t want it to be, like… fake. My first date. Ever.”

She pauses before continuing, “I’d like it to be real.”

There’s another pause that drifts into several minutes of charged silence, the both of them next to each other, not quite sure what else to say.

Matt scoffs at one point, but it’s not mean, laughing at himself more than anything. “You don’t think… that I, like, smell or something, do you?”

The line cuts through the tension. She can’t help it. She laughs, this breathy little noise that makes his shoulders drop. He smiles then. Small and hopeful.

“No, Matt,” she says, looking at him and smiling softly. “You don’t smell.”

He watches her carefully, gently. She looks away first, overwhelmed.

“Look,” he says, softer now, “I’m not trying to freak you out. I just… thought it’d be nice. That’s all. Just us. As friends. Doing something fun. If you want.”

She blinks a few times too fast. She hates how her throat tightens.

“I don’t wanna say yes and then things get messed up,” she admits.

Matt frowns. “You couldn’t mess me up.”

“Yeah?” she says, trying to joke but her voice catches anyway. “Watch me.”

He laughs a little as she wiggles her eyebrows at him. Leans back again. There’s still a bit of space between them, but it doesn’t feel so loud anymore.

“Okay,” he says, nudging her knee with his. “How about this. If I promise it’s completely platonic, zero pressure, no weirdness, will you let me take you to dinner?”

She looks at him. Really look at him. His stupidly soft eyes. How blue they are. The way he’s being so insistent, pretending not to care about any of this, even though he must, there’s no way any of this is careless.

“Fine,” she says. “But if you try anything weird you’re being replaced as my best friend with your brother.”

Matt laughs at that, a smile etched into his stubble covered cheeks, “Which one?”

She pretends to consider this, stroking her chin with her finger, “Not sure yet. But still. Best behaviour.”

“Deal,” he grins, holding out a pinky. “Scout’s honor.”

She hooks hers with his, and she feels it all the way down to her ribs.

He doesn’t let go right away. And neither does she.

She’s never felt more overdressed for a not-date.

Which is stupid, because she’s not even dressed up. Just jeans, a top she forgot she liked, mascara that’s smudged a little because her hand shook while putting it on. But it feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

She tells herself not to expect anything. That it’s just dinner. That he’s just being nice. That he’s only doing this because she said no one ever had. Complained about it.

Still, she sits on the edge of her bed for ten minutes before he arrives, reapplying lip gloss and second-guessing her outfit. What’s the dress code here? What kind of clothes do you put on? Do you dress for the restaurant? Or the person? It wasn’t like she liked Matt, well she did. But not in that way. Not in the way where you yearn and pine and can’t even believe you’re going out with them. Which she did, in a way. Just not in a romantic way.

Yet, when her phone buzzes with the word here at the same time that she hears the car horn, her stomach twists.

She texts him:

come to the door like a normal person 🙄

He does.

When she opens it, Matt’s standing there in a jacket that’s almost too nice to be his, holding another small bouquet. They’re a little lopsided. Wrapped in a paper towel and tinfoil. They’re perfect.

“I, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck. “Got you these. Last minute. No pressure or anything. You can throw them out if they suck.”

She blinks. Look at the flowers, then at him.

“I thought this wasn’t a date.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “I didn’t say they were date flowers.”

She laughs, even though her chest’s gone tight.

“…You really didn’t have to. I wasn’t expecting… this.”

He stops halfway to the car, turning around. “Yeah. So?”

“So… more flowers?”

He tilts his head. “Friends can get friends flowers.”

She narrows her eyes. “Matt.”

“Okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I won’t do the cheesy thing where I say ‘you deserve pretty things’ or whatever. But also? You do. Plus like it’s still kind of a date, so I figured, I should just…”

She interrupts him, smiling, “Thank you, Matt.”

He smiles so softly it hurts, holding the car door open for her.

The drive is short, soft, golden.

Matt taps his fingers on the steering wheel along to the music, and she can tell he made a playlist, songs she’d shown him, or that he’d shown her. Some she forgot about. Some that make her want to cry a little, for no real reason.

She looks out the window, letting the wind rush over her face.

He sings a little under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear it.

She reminds herself this doesn’t mean anything. He’s just… recreating something romantic because she said no one ever had. That’s what good friends do, right?

He just wants her to have it. Not because he means it. She doesn’t let herself imagine otherwise.

He opens the door for her. Pulls out her chair when she walks in. Doesn’t make a joke out of it, doesn’t even draw attention to it.

She notices anyway.

“So,” he says, once they’re both seated. “What’s the verdict? Am I killing it or what?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re really milking the whole ‘just friends’ thing, huh.”

“I’m being a good friend!” he says, mouth full of garlic bread. “I’m literally spoiling you.”

“Exactly.”

He swallows. Shrugs. “You deserve it.”

She goes quiet.

And he lets her. Just looks at her for a second longer than necessary before changing the subject.

Matt pretends not to notice when her voice shakes ordering her food, or when she gets too excited about the seasoning on the fries.

It’s her favourite place, her place, and he remembered that. Without her having to say it.

He doesn’t say much while they eat. Just listens. Smiles at her dumb jokes. Picks the tomato off her plate without asking and swaps her half the rest of his bread without saying anything.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels safe. Like he’s memorising this.

And that’s the part that hurts a little. Because it’s starting to feel like a memory already. Like something she’ll look back on when she’s older and say yeah, someone did that for me once.

Not because it was real. Just because it was kind.

In the car after dinner, Matt takes the long way back.

She doesn’t ask him to.

She’s quiet for most of it, her fingers playing with the sleeve of her jacket. She wants to say something light, something funny. But it’s sitting heavy in her chest. All of it.

So she asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Matt glances at her. “Doing what?”

“All of… this,” she gestures half-heartedly.

He frowns. “Because I want to?”

She laughs once, soft and unsure. “You don’t have to pretend it’s real, you know. I’m not, like, expecting you to… I just don’t want things to get confused.”

“What if I’m trying to make it very confusing,” he says, chuckling lightly. The words are teasing. Falling out of his mouth too fast. Like he didn’t mean to say them out loud.

She glances over, but he’s back to watching the road, mouth pressed in a line, fingers tapping against the wheel, other hand resting on his thigh.

She doesn’t know what to do with that. What he means. What she’s allowed to believe.

So she doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t push it.

She gets out of the car with her heart beating somewhere in her throat. She lingers by the door, looking at him through the open window.

“I really did have fun,” she says.

“Good,” he replies. “Let’s do it again.”

She smiles. “Yeah. Sure. As friends, right?”

Something in his jaw twitches as he smiles.

“Of course,” he says.

Back in her room, she places the flowers on her bedside table. She leaves the window cracked so she can smell them when the wind blows.

She falls asleep thinking about his voice, singing softly to the open road.

Another couple of weeks go by, and then she’s meeting Matt at the aquarium entrance and smiling before she can stop herself.

He’s leaning against the railing, plastic bag in one hand, sun in his hair, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like always. He straightens up when he sees her.

“That’s mine,” he says, gesturing to the hoodie she’d “borrowed” a few weeks ago. It’s oversized on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

She tugs it self-consciously. “It was cold.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

Inside, it’s cooler, dimly lit. The aquarium is all soft glass reflections and low murmurs. She could spend hours here.

Matt lets her lead the way.

He doesn’t rush. He pauses every time she pauses, nods along when she excitedly rambles about the stingrays, buys her a keychain shaped like a turtle when she’s not looking.

She holds it up with mock offense.

“You’re spoiling me.”

“So what? You deserve it,” he says too quickly. Then clears his throat. “I mean, you like turtles.”

She blinks again. Smile. Let it slide. She’s used to his kindness by now. She just… never expected it to mean anything more.

The jellyfish room is her favorite.

Always has been.

The room glows a low, otherworldly purple. The tank in front of her pulses with jellyfish like little cosmoses orbiting one another

She presses her forehead to the glass.

“They don’t even have brains,” she murmurs.

Matt stands beside her, smiling softly. “Lucky bastards.”

She laughs, and glances at him.

For a second, Matt thinks he sees that look in her eye. Her chin’s titled ever so lightly, eyelashes fluttering like the butterflies in his stomach. But then she looks away, and mutters something about the “fishy smell” in the room.

Later, she’s walking along the pier beside him, with soft-serve in hand, her shoes tied by the laces and slung over her shoulder. The air smells like sugar and sea salt. Matt insisted on paying for both cones. She tried to argue, but he just gave her a look.

He nudges her as they walk.

“You always get the same flavor,” he teases.

“You always steal mine.”

“You like it when I do.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

Maybe she is too. Because this is starting to feel like another date, but… it can’t be. It’s just Matt. Just her best friend. Just someone who knows her, her favourite exhibit at the aquarium, her favourite flavour of ice cream.

Just someone who holds her heart without meaning to.

Right?

The beach is nearly empty when they get there.

They sit in the sand and she stretches her legs, toes curling into the cool grains. The sun is sinking, golden and syrupy and slow. Her shoulder brushes his. She doesn’t move.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

Matt’s quiet. Then, “You always say that.”

“Well, sunsets always are.”

“I know.”

He glances over at her. She’s looking out at the sea, totally lost in it. He watches her.

She doesn’t notice.

“I wish this could last forever,” she murmurs.

And she means the sunset. But he doesn’t.

“Me too,” he says.

She smiles. “Thanks for today, Matt. You’re seriously the best.”

She leans her head briefly on his shoulder. Just for a second. Just enough to miss the way he closes his eyes when she does.

He doesn’t say anything back.

But he doesn’t move, either.

There’s a tower of Lego bricks between her and Matt, both of them sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor. She’s built a vaguely pirate-shaped ship, two crooked houses, and what was meant to be a cat but now just looks… haunted.

“It’s abstract,” Matt says diplomatically, chewing the cap of a red brick, trying to separate it.

She points at it. “You said you were gonna make my cat.”

“I did. This is a perfect representation of Karma’s weird little legs.”

She gasps. “How dare you.”

He grins, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You love when I make fun of her.”

“No, I don’t. I endure it.”

There’s music playing from his speaker, something dreamy and acoustic, Matt’s go-to playlist when she hangs out at his place. She knows half the lyrics by heart now. She’s already leaning back on her palms, more in his space than hers.

It feels like home. It always has.

They put on a movie after that. One of the dumb comedies they both love, the kind with inside jokes baked into it. They’re curled up on the couch, blanket pooled around them, a bowl of popcorn between them.

He shifts closer during the opening scene. And when his arm moves behind her, it’s so slow she almost thinks she imagined it. Just a brush of his hoodie against her shoulder. A second later, his hand settles lightly on her upper arm, not quite pulling her in, but not not doing that either.

She goes still.

And then she keeps eating popcorn, pretending her heart isn’t racing.

This is fine. This is normal. Just her best friend with his arm around her like this isn’t a stereotypical, textbook, romantic moment.

She doesn’t lean in.

She doesn’t pull away.

She just sits there, caught somewhere in the middle.

Fuck this romantic shit.

October creeps in with its cold mornings and whispering trees. She tells Matt that she’s not going to the Halloween party unless he is.

He looks up from the couch. “I thought you said it’d be lame.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, hiding her smile. “You’re my ride.”

He eyes her. “Is that the only reason?”

“Obviously.”

He doesn’t believe her.

She doesn’t believe herself either.

The night of the party, she opens the door to find Matt with a tie on and some fur ears, freckles drawn on and a little nose too, smiling weakly

She bursts into laughter.

“No way.”

He grins. “You said Fantastic Mr. Fox was your comfort movie. I figured I’d commit.”

She’s wearing a yellow sundress and matching makeup, complete with a set of fur ears . She didn’t think he’d actually go through with the duo costume. She didn’t think he remembered.

But of course he did.

He notices her hesitation, the way she fiddles with her ears, the nervous smile. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s just for fun.”

She nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “Right. For fun.”

Just a costume. Just a theme. Just a party.

They end up leaving the party early. Too many people. Too loud. They joke about why they even bothered going, they’re both not party people.

He walks her home.

The streets are quiet, leaves rustling. There’s something soft about the silence between them, it’s nice.

They brush shoulders once. Then again.

Then, his hand finds hers.

Not all at once. Just a graze. A slow, unsure slip of fingers. She pauses in her steps as he leads her across the street.

The kitchen smells like sugar and vanilla. The windows are fogged with late-afternoon light. She’s standing over a bowl of batter, wooden spoon in hand, apron slightly askew.

Matt is beside her, licking icing off his finger like it’s no big deal.

“Stop eating it,” she scolds, bumping her hip into his. “You’re ruining the ratio.”

“You’re just mad because I made better frosting than you.”

“You didn’t even make it. You opened a tub.”

He grins. “And still, mine tastes better.”

She sticks her finger into his tub and smears a line across his cheek. “Take that back.”

He goes still for a second. Then grins wider.

“Oh, you’ve declared war.”

He retaliates with a streak across her nose. She yelps. He starts laughing. She lunges at him with floured hands, and suddenly they’re both doubled over with giggles, clothes dusted white, hair sticky with sugar.

Eventually, they’re back to baking. Elbows bumping. Shoulders brushing. Matt taps flour off her nose with the gentlest knuckle, and she pretends it doesn’t make her stomach flutter.

They put the cookies in the oven and collapse onto the couch.

Matt disappears into his room for a second. When he comes back, he’s holding something behind his back.

She raises an eyebrow. “What are you hiding?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Close your eyes.”

“Matt—”

“Just do it.”

She obeys — only half reluctantly. She feels the couch shift beside her, the soft brush of his hand on her wrist. Then, something cold and delicate against her neck.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Open.”

She blinks her eyes open slowly. Her fingers move instinctively to her chest.

It’s a necklace. A tiny silver locket, the shape of a heart.

“I saw it at that market last weekend,” he says quickly, watching her reaction. “I thought you might like it.”

She runs her thumb over it, heart skittering.

Inside is a tiny photo. It’s grainy, barely an inch wide. But it’s the two of them — from a beach trip last summer, both of them mid-laugh, sunburnt and stupidly happy.

She blinks. Swallows. Tries desperately to speak.

But the words get tangled up with all the feelings she’s tried not to name all this time. The pushing down, the denial of what he’s been doing.

“Matt,” she says quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugs again, softer this time. “I wanted to.”

That’s what makes it worse.

Because suddenly it’s too much, the cookies, the hand-holding, the Halloween costume, the flowers, the way he always remembers the little things.

She’s been telling herself he’s just a really good friend. That he just wants her to feel special. To experience some romantic shit, without any of the romance.

But this…

This doesn’t feel platonic anymore.

“You really shouldn’t have,” she says again, and Matt looks at her, confused.

And the worst part?

She liked it. She let herself like it.

Her chest goes tight. Her thoughts spiral.

“I think I need some air,” she mumbles, already standing.

“Hey— wait, what’s wrong?” Matt’s voice is laced with concern, already reaching for her.

But she steps back.

“I’m sorry, I just— I can’t—” She shakes her head. “I think, I think this is unfair on you. I’ve been unfair. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

His expression crumples. “What are you talking about?”

“I let you do all this. And I acted like it didn’t mean anything, but it did. I just didn’t want to admit it. And now I— I don’t know what you want from me, but, I just, I, I can’t.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, standing now too, jaw tense. “I just wanted to give you something real. Something good. You deserve that.”

She stares at him, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry, Matt, I think, I think I’m going to go. Thank you for the necklace,” she takes a step away as she says each word.

“Wait, don’t go, I’m sorry, let’s, let’s just talk about this. Please.” Matt says, reaching for her.

She doesn’t mean to flinch but she does, muttering apologies as she picks up her shoes and her bags and practically runs to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

When she gets home, she curls up on the couch. Then she stands up, walks around the living room, goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, closes it and goes back to the couch.

That’s when she hears it. The metal clank of her letter plate opening and shutting, and the smooth shuffle of an envelope sliding across the wooden floorboards. She gets up from the couch, and walks over, picking it up.

Her name is scrawled in Matt’s messy handwriting. She tears at the fold, being careful of the inside contents, where she finds a letter. A love letter.

As she unfolds the paper, her eyes scan over the words he’s written. The paper looks older in her hands, and the creases are faded into the paper, like it’s been folded and refolded several times. Matt doesn’t say I love you in the letter, not exactly. But it’s there — in every line, every memory, every gentle word.

“If all I ever get is being your best friend, then I’ll still be the luckiest guy alive. But if there’s even a small part of you that wants more — I just need you to know: I’m here. I’ve been here.”

She sits on her bed, fingers grasping at the locket still around her neck, the letter in her lap. Big fat tears drip down from her eyes then, landing on the paper. It’s not like she’s sad, but… maybe just realised how wrong she was. About everything.

She doesn’t knock.

She should — she meant to — but when he opens the door and sees her standing there with her shoulders hunched and his letter clutched in her hand like it’s a lifeline, all the rehearsed hellos scatter like ash.

He looks tired.

Not messy-tired, not just-woke-up tired. But something else. The kind that settles in your bones when you’ve been waiting too long for something that might never come.

He steps aside to let her in.

The room smells like him. Clean cotton, a hint of cedar. Familiar. Warm. She sits down on the edge of his bed, and he doesn’t ask why she came. He just sits next to her and waits. She turns the envelope over in her hands. Folds it, unfolds it. She opens her mouth to speak before she’s ready, just like always.

“I read it.”

Matt nods. “Yeah?”

She nods too. Then there’s silence again. It stretches. Suspended like breath.

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” she says finally. It comes out too soft.

He gives her a look — one of those crooked, exhausted half-smiles. “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”

“You were,” she admits. “That’s the worst part. I just kept pretending you weren’t. Like if I didn’t look too closely at any of it, I wouldn’t have to figure out what it meant.”

Matt stares down at his hands.

“And now?” he asks.

She breathes in and out, slowly, through her mouth and nose. Then she says, “Now I know it was real.”

He blinks. Looks at her, really looks. “And is that a good thing?”

She pauses, the truth rattling in her throat, finally coming free. “I think I got scared,” she admits. “Because no one’s ever done all that stuff for me before. No one’s ever tried to make me feel special like that. And I didn’t know how to accept it without feeling like I owed you something.”

His voice is quiet. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she says. And she means it now. But she reaches for his hand, threading her fingers through his. His palm is warm. Familiar.

“I just… I need you to know,” she whispers, “It was very romantic. And I loved every second of it.”

His gaze softens, and Matt finally lets himself believe that all of this might not end in heartbreak.

He shifts to face her. “So you’ll let me try?”

She nods. “Obviously.”

He laughs, not big or loud, just a soft exhale of disbelief, like it’s all too good to be real.

Like maybe they’ve both been walking toward this moment for years, and finally, finally, their feet have stopped moving.

The sun’s rising now, golden and syrupy. It spills across the windows of his room where they sit, socks mismatched, a shared blanket over their knees. Her head drops to his shoulder, and he leans into it, a quiet sort of surrender.

“Remember when you said you wanted something romantic to happen to you?” he murmurs.

She looks up. His eyes are close. Closer than usual.

“Yeah?”

He taps her chin. “Think this counts?”

She shrugs, playing dumb. “Dunno. Haven’t dipped me and kissed me yet.”

Matt raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

She grins. “C’mon, lover boy. Let’s see some drama.”

And he groans, “You’re gonna make me regret everything,” but he’s standing already, reaching for her hands, tugging her up and into his arms.

“Wait! What if you drop me?” she squeaks.

“Trust me,” he says, holding her waist, palm pressed flat against her spine. “I’ve had you this whole time.”

And then he dips her.

Not perfectly — it’s clumsy and probably too fast, and her hair’s in her face — but his hand is firm and his smile is real and her breath catches because it’s happening.

Then, slowly, he pulls her upright. His hands don’t leave her waist, and he closes the distance until they’re chest-to-chest, barely any space between them. She blinks up at him and he stares back.

“…What,” she whispers, smiling, a little incredulous.

“What,” he echoes, like a breath.

And then he kisses her.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not a movie score swelling in the background. It’s better. Because it’s him — his hand on her cheek, thumb grazing the corner of her mouth, the taste of mint and something unspoken. And her, clutching the fabric of his hoodie like she’s afraid she’ll float away if she doesn’t hold onto something.

He pulls back first, barely. “Okay?” he says.

She nods. “I think you’re gonna have to do that again.”

He smiles. “Good,” he says. “I was planning on it.”

“How romantic,” she smiles in his embrace.

Matt smiles, teasing, “Only if you’ll have me.”

“No one’s ever had me. Not like you, Matt.”

dividers by @diviniyae ꨄ

a/n: i spent sooo long writing this fic hehe. it's not my best work, i do really like the beginning but i couldn't quite get the second half to work as well as i wanted it to i think :> i think part of the reason for that is i haven't really much experience with romantic stuff in my life, and that's partly why i wrote this fic!! because even though i might not be the most experienced, i can certainly say i've spent a good portion of my life daydreaming about romantic shit :) anyways, sorry for yapping a bit, hope u all like this fic!!

thanks so much for reading!!!!! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated 😇

410 notes · View notes

thedilfdiaries · 4 months ago

Text

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe."

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker.

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.”

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in—eyes dark, hands already reaching.

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt.

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

#clint freaky tales x reader #clint x f!reader #clint freaky tales #pedro pascal characters

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

Note

hellooo ^_^ can u do bllk characters x s/o who doesn't get jealous? like they would be getting flirted with by some random and she would be like "woah.. that was really cute" with rin, kaiser, isagi and karasu pleasee

“𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥”

a/n: i made two separate scenarios for each guy because i just love how funny this idea is (i also have this urge to spoil you)

ft. itoshi rin, kaiser michael, isagi yoichi, karasu tabito

itoshi rin

SCENARIO #1

rin is used to girls flirting with him but not used to you being completely unfazed by it.

you’re sitting next to him at a café when a girl leans over and says he’s cute and asks for his number.

you sip your drink and go, “not gonna lie, she has good taste. if i didn’t get to you first, i probably would’ve hit on you too.”

rin.exe has stopped working.

“why are you saying that? she just flirted with me in front of you.”

“and? you look hot. i get it.”

he’s annoyed but his ears are red. like he doesn’t want you to get jealous, but he also doesn't know what to do with your casual approval.

glares at the girl until she walks away.

he’ll mumble a quiet “you’re the only one i want anyway” later, with his hand gripping yours tightly under the table.

SCENARIO #2

rin is not used to public affection or public flirting.

so when a girl at the gym gives him a bottle of electrolyte water and goes “you’re really attractive,” he just stiffens up and stares at it like she handed him a live grenade.

you, watching from the treadmill, go: “damn, that was smooth. she even picked the lemon-lime flavor. she’s good.”

rin: blinking rapidly like an npc mid-dialogue load “why are you complimenting her?”

“because if i were her, i’d be doing the same thing. look at you, hot and sweaty. peak romance anime moment.”

he turns so red you almost feel bad. almost.

“do you want me to be mad or something?” he asks.

“no. i want you to be hydrated and adored.”

proceeds to drink the water angrily while looking at you like this is a trap.

later, he corners you like, “you know i’m only interested in you, right?”

you smirk and say, “i mean… she might’ve had a chance if i died tragically or something.”

he walks away muttering “i hate you” but his ears are crimson.

kaiser michael

SCENARIO #1

oh he lives for jealousy so when you don’t give it to him? chaos.

someone’s flirting with him after a match and you just nudge him with a grin like, “yo, she was cute. go get her number.”

“... are you serious?”

you nod. “what? it’d be a waste if no one appreciated your face.”

“okay, but i want you to appreciate my face. where’s your rage? your heartbreak? the drama?”

you raise a brow. “damn, you want me to cry over you? you’re so needy.”

he pouts. actually pouts. and sulks.

spends the whole day clinging to you like, “you’re supposed to be obsessed with me. why are you so chill. i don’t like this.”

but he secretly loves how confident and secure you are. it drives him insane in the best way.

still flirts harder with you just to win your attention back.

SCENARIO #2

he thrives on attention, especially when it makes you a little jealous.

but you? you are too powerful.

some reporter touches his arm, giggles, and calls him charming.

you, from the side: “honestly? that giggle was cute. i’d flirt with you too if i didn’t already have you locked down.”

kaiser: 👁️👄👁️ “… pardon?”

“like, she’s not even wrong. your jawline has range.”

“okay but aren’t you supposed to threaten her with violence or something? like a normal girlfriend?”

“nah, i’d probably ask for her skincare routine first. girl’s glowing.”

he goes into a full existential crisis.

next time a girl flirts, he interrupts her mid-sentence like, “i have a girlfriend and she will not fight you, but i will cry.”

gets aggressively affectionate just to make you flustered.

“if i start making out with you in front of people, will you finally get jealous?”

“nah but go ahead. show 'em why i brag about you.”

kaiser’s jaw drops. he’s never been so emotionally outplayed in his life.

isagi yoichi

SCENARIO #1

he’s too nice to brush people off harshly, so when someone flirts with him, he just laughs nervously.

you catch the whole thing and casually say, “she’s not wrong though. your smile is unfair.”

he turns bright red.

“wait, you’re not mad?”

“mad? i was admiring you too. you looked like a commercial boyfriend just now.”

he starts sweating. “what does that mean???”

the kind of guy who would start spiraling like “do i seem like i don’t care about you? do i not give you enough attention?”

you reassure him by throwing yourself on him dramatically like, “you’re my hot striker boyfriend. don’t worry.”

10/10 flustered, but now walks away from flirty girls faster because he wants compliments from you only.

SCENARIO #2

poor sweet isagi. he’s just trying to live his life.

a girl at the grocery store compliments his biceps and he goes “haha… thank you…” in his polite baby deer voice.

you peek over and go, “hey, i saw that. she’s brave. i respect it.”

he turns so fast like “wait what? you’re not mad?”

“no? did you see the way she looked at you? she was fighting for her life.”

he gets so flustered and sad he drops the bag of apples he was holding.

“do i… not give you enough attention? is that why you’re not mad? are you bored of me?”

now you’re confused like, “yoichi, it’s not that deep, you’re just hot.”

starts overcompensating with compliments for the next 3 days straight.

“you’re so beautiful. i love you. i only want you. you look so pretty today –”

“love. it was just one girl. calm down.”

“i just need you to know. i’m loyal like a golden retriever.”

poor guy is suffering. you laugh every time someone flirts with him now just to see him spiral.

karasu tabito

SCENARIO #1

he thinks you’re just joking at first.

like some girl flirts with him and you go, “yo, she’s bold. i kinda ship it.”

karasu: 😐 “hello? i have a girlfriend?? that’s you???”

you shrug. “and i have eyes. you’re hot. can’t blame her.”

karasu is now trying to flirt with you just to get your attention back.

“well, if you’re not jealous… maybe i’ll start flirting back.”

“cool, i’ll rate it out of 10.”

“STOP???”

he’s so used to being the confident, teasing one but you flip the script so fast he short circuits.

gets clingier every time someone flirts with him. won’t let you sit more than an inch away.

tells people: “my girlfriend is too supportive, it’s terrifying.”

SCENARIO #2

thought it’d be funny when girls flirted with him in front of you.

keyword: thought.

some girl at the pool party gives him the old “if you ever get tired of her, call me.”

you snort and go, “girl you’re bold. 10/10. i respect the hustle.”

karasu, blinking: “HUH???”

“i mean you are walking around shirtless. she shot her shot.”

“do you want me to put a shirt on? you’re just gonna LET her say that?”

“what do you want me to do, bite her? she’s not wrong.”

man is spiraling.

“okay but you like me, right? like, you think i’m cute?”

“duh. i call you my sexy bird boy in my head all the time.”

“… i– okay. okay yeah, that’s valid.”

after that, whenever someone flirts, he just turns to you and waits for your reaction like “what’s the score? how’d she do?”

one time you say “that was weak. i’d rate it a 6.”

he gets so smug like, “damn right. only my girlfriend gets to flirt with me properly.”

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #kaiser michael x reader #michael kaiser x reader #karasu tabito x reader #tabito karasu x reader #blue lock headcanons #just a chill girl

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moonselune · 2 months ago

Note

Some of the chars (Wyll, Minthara, Lae'zel, Astarion, Halsin) watching the char sleep beside them, in their tents, and realizing that, no matter the circumstances of how, they want them to be their for the rest of both of their lives. Astarion grappling with the fact that, they *probably* won't be. (I romanced him as a Druid, bc Druid's can unlock eternal life at a certain level. I like to think they'd do that for him. Maybe have Astarion see research for it? Idk or not-)

OOoooOOooo I adore this prompt thank you so much for sending it in!

Minthara:

The Underdark was far behind you now, replaced by the open hush of a moonlit glade. Crickets sang softly beyond the sheltering trees, and a breeze stirred the leaves like whispered secrets. The campfire had long since dimmed to embers, its glow casting flickers of warm orange across the canvas of your tent, painting slow-moving shadows against the fabric.

You were already asleep beside her, your breathing steady, your face relaxed in a way she rarely saw when the world wasn’t quiet. And gods, she was watching you again. She always did when the night fell silent and there were no battles to fight, no enemies to anticipate — only time. Time and you.

Minthara lay on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other hovering uncertainly close to yours. Her eyes tracked the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck, the faintest smile pulling at your lips — had you dreamed of her?

She hoped so.

She hated how soft her heart had become in your presence. No, not soft. That word was weakness, and she had carved herself from stronger stone than that. She was still the same Minthara who had once knelt before Lolth’s altar and cast blood for power. Still the same commander who had crossed blades with gods and monsters alike.

But you… you had undone her with no blade, no magic. Just kindness. Patience. That maddening smile that made her feel like she belonged in a world that didn’t spit on her for existing.

She breathed in slowly, careful not to wake you. A part of her wanted to run. That part always did — that instinct, ancient and feral, that told her this kind of peace was a trap. That it couldn’t last. That loving you like this — completely, devastatingly — would only end in ruin. In loss.

But another part of her, the one that dared to believe in after, in tomorrow, clung to the way your hand had found hers even in sleep. How you’d whispered, once, after a particularly bloody day: "Let’s find somewhere quiet when this is over. Just us. No gods. No war."

She hadn’t answered you then. She’d pretended she didn’t hear.

Now, watching you sleep in a tent far removed from war camps and strategy tables, that silence gnawed at her. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to build a life in the sunlight — or under it, if you preferred. She’d plant things with you, although she claimed to hate dirt under her nails. She’d ride spiders again if you asked, and maybe, just maybe, she’d learn to laugh without biting her tongue first.

Minthara reached forward, slow, reverent, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. You murmured something unintelligible in your sleep and shifted closer.

“I am hopeless,” she whispered into the hush. Her voice barely made a sound. “Utterly, tragically in love with you.”

The words tasted strange. Not sour, but unfamiliar, like wine she hadn’t dared sample until now.

“I would give up the Underdark,” she said, her lips near your ear now, barely touching skin. “The politics, the power, the fear. I would give it all up, if it meant I could wake beside you like this until I am dust and shadow.”

You stirred again, brow furrowing faintly. She stilled, waiting — but you only sighed, eyes never opening, and turned into her warmth.

Minthara closed her eyes then, finally letting herself press close. Your bodies aligned easily, like they’d done this a thousand times. She tucked her forehead against your shoulder, one hand splaying across your chest.

She would never say those things aloud while you were awake — not yet. But tonight, she let herself pretend.

Let herself want.

Let herself love.

Lae'zel:

Night had fallen over the camp, and silence blanketed the world. The kind of quiet that was neither tense nor dead, but peaceful — a rarity in your shared journey across this unforgiving land. The fire outside crackled low, casting a warm flickering glow through the thin fabric of the tent. The night was cool, but not cold, and your steady breathing beside her was a soft lullaby Lae’zel had come to rely on far more than she’d ever admit aloud.

She lay on her back, still, eyes fixed on the shadowy ceiling of the tent. You were tucked in beside her, your head nestled into the crook of her shoulder, one arm lazily thrown across her abdomen. The rhythm of your breath, the heat of your body — it all felt impossibly natural now. So natural, in fact, that it frightened her in ways that not even the most grotesque of battlefield horrors ever had.

You, mortal and soft in ways Gith would call weak, had become the only constant in her life. And she had no idea what to do with that.

Lae’zel had been raised to reject sentiment, to crush it under heel like so much ash. Love was weakness. Attachment? A tether. And yet here you were — anchor, thorn, salvation. You had seen her through blood and fire and fury. You had watched her scream, rage, break — and never once flinched. You challenged her. You softened her, when she didn’t want to be softened. You taught her, in small, infuriating ways, that not all strength comes from pain.

And now, you slept against her like it meant nothing. Like it was just something you did. As if this — your head rising and falling with her every breath — hadn’t become the only truth she wanted to cling to.

Her gaze dropped down to you. Moonlight painted a faint silver over your features. You looked peaceful. Unburdened. There was something almost infuriating about how easy it seemed for you. She had faced death without blinking. Had slain mind flayers, fought impossible odds, and yet this — this quiet, vulnerable feeling of wanting to stay by your side forever — was the thing that made her heart race.

Her arm curled instinctively around your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer. You shifted in your sleep, nestling deeper into her with a contented hum that made something twist inside her.

“I should not want this,” she whispered, low and sharp, more to herself than to you. “I should not want you.”

And yet she did. Fiercely. Without logic or apology.

It wasn’t just desire — that she had felt before. It wasn’t even comfort, though you gave her that in ways she never expected. It was need. A longing not born of weakness, but of revelation. She didn’t want to conquer you. She didn’t want to possess you. She wanted to stand beside you. To be chosen by you, again and again, long after this war was over and the skies had cleared.

She wanted to wake like this a thousand times — ten thousand — until her bones turned to dust.

Lae’zel closed her eyes, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, light and reverent. Her voice was barely a breath:

“I would fight every star in the sky to keep this. To keep you.”

You stirred slightly, murmuring her name — a mumble from the depths of dreaming — and her breath caught.

She was hopelessly in love with you.

And for once, she didn’t want to run from it.

Astarion:

The moonlight filtered through the trees in thin silvery slats, pooling over your sleeping form with a kind of reverence that made Astarion still.

You lay curled toward him, one arm tucked under your cheek, the other resting where your hand had found his in sleep. Your fingers were lightly wrapped around his, warm and gentle, and it made something in his chest ache — something vast and unfamiliar.

Astarion hadn’t moved in hours.

He didn’t need to, of course — stillness came easily to a creature like him. But this time, it wasn’t necessity that kept him motionless. It was fear. Wonder. Love.

Gods, that word still felt ridiculous in his head. Like some girlish fantasy whispered behind fans at noble dinner parties. Love — for him — had always been a lie. A tool. A performance. But here, in this quiet moment, with the night wrapping around you both like a secret — he felt it. Truly, deeply. Bone-deep.

He watched the way your brow furrowed slightly as you dreamed, how your lashes fluttered with whatever stories played behind your closed eyes. You trusted him — implicitly, foolishly, completely. Even now, so vulnerable, you were wrapped around him like he was home. Like he was safe.

He was not safe. He had never been safe. But you made him want to be.

Astarion tilted his head slightly, studying your face with a sort of gentle desperation. You were mortal. So tragically, cruelly, heartbreakingly mortal. Time would carve lines into your face. Grey your hair. Still your breath. One day — gods, the thought made his throat tighten — one day, you would be gone.

And he? He would remain.

He had scoffed at the notion of forever before. What was eternity but a gilded cage without power? But now… now he wanted it. Not just the eternity, but you in it. The thought of centuries without you beside him — without your warmth, your touch, your infuriating stubbornness and your breathtaking kindness — was unbearable.

Maybe… maybe it didn’t have to be that way.

His eyes drifted to the soft pulse at your throat. The blood beneath. The life. He could give you forever. It would be different, yes. A darker path. But a path you could walk together. If anyone could do it, if anyone could make something good and whole out of the monstrous… it was you.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, and your hand tightened around his fingers. Astarion exhaled — sharp and silent — and brought your joined hands up to his lips. He kissed your knuckles with a reverence he didn’t know he possessed.

“You are the cruelest thing the gods have ever given me,” he murmured against your skin. “And I love you for it.”

There it was. Said aloud. No masks. No coyness. Just truth.

He loved you.

He wanted you — for the next sunrise, and every one after. For the glittering eternity ahead. Not because he needed to survive. But because, against all odds, you made eternity something worth wanting.

And maybe, someday, you'd want it too.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he would hold your hand. Watch you breathe. Press a kiss to your temple and whisper into the dark:

“I’ll find a way to keep you. Always.”

Wyll:

The fire outside the tent had long since dwindled to glowing embers, casting only the faintest warmth into the night air. In the stillness of the camp, with the soft hum of crickets just beyond the canvas walls and the distant rustle of wind through trees, Wyll lay wide awake. You were curled beside him, breathing softly, one arm draped across his chest like it had always belonged there.

He hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. Not because he couldn’t — his limbs were warm and restless beneath your touch — but because he wouldn’t. He didn’t dare.

There was a certain kind of magic in this moment. Not the kind found in spellbooks or arcane circles, but something quieter, more dangerous in its subtlety. The kind of magic that made a man believe he could belong to someone, that he could be seen and still chosen.

You made him feel like Wyll again — not the Blade of Frontiers, not the devil’s bargain, not the smiling folk hero of ballads and embellished tales. Just him. And that was terrifying in a way demons never could be.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the dim firelight. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, your breath warm against his skin. Every so often, your fingers twitched where they lay, as if dreaming of some far-off adventure.

He exhaled slowly. Controlled. Careful. But inside, his thoughts were unraveling.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered to no one, or perhaps to the gods, or the stars, or himself.

He hadn't meant to fall this deeply. Not with everything else. Not with the weight of his past decisions shadowing every step, not with his future still tangled in uncertain paths. But love had never asked permission. It had crept in like dawn breaking over a battlefield — steady, radiant, impossible to ignore.

It was in the way you argued with him when you thought he was being too noble. The way you held him when the nightmares clawed into his sleep. The way you looked at him — not like he was a legend or a burden or a mistake — but like he was yours.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let his hand rest gently over yours on his chest. Your heartbeat was a soft rhythm against him, grounding him more than any sword in hand ever had.

“I’d give up the sword,” he murmured quietly. “I’d give up the name, the stories, the flame and fury… if it meant waking beside you like this every morning for the rest of my life.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. It was a truth too heavy to carry and too beautiful to leave unspoken.

But you didn’t stir. You didn’t hear him. Maybe it was better that way — maybe the words were just for tonight. Just for him. Or maybe one day he would find the courage to say them while you were awake. He hoped so.

Because under any circumstance, under any curse, bargain, title, or battle, he knew it now: you were the only thing he would choose again and again, without hesitation.

Wyll tightened his arm around you, ever so slightly, and pressed a gentle kiss into your hair.

“I’m yours,” he whispered. “For however long you’ll have me.”

And with that, he finally allowed himself to close his eyes — heart full, soul quiet — as the world outside held its breath.

Halsin:

The forest around the camp was still. Not dead — never dead — but settled, at peace. The nocturnal song of crickets hummed low, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth through the air. A few embers from the campfire still flickered, their glow reaching faintly into the tent where the two of you lay together. The world had quieted, and yet Halsin could not sleep.

You were pressed against him, your face buried against his bare chest, one leg slung lazily over his hip. His arms were wrapped around you in a loose but protective hold, as if even now some part of him feared you might slip away. Your skin was warm against his, your breathing steady and soft — a rhythm that soothed him like the pulse of the wild heart of the world.

But there was no peace in his own.

Halsin had known many things in his long life. He had loved before, in fleeting ways — the kind that flicker briefly and are then reclaimed by time and change. He had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, felt the breath of centuries pass like seasons. He had found solace in solitude, strength in service to nature, and purpose in healing what others broke.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

He stared at the tent ceiling, brow furrowed in thought, the warmth of your body beneath his hands grounding him more than any root or tree ever had. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest, the slight sound you made when you exhaled, the way your fingers would occasionally twitch in dreams. Every little detail — your scent, the feel of your hair against his collarbone, the subtle ways you leaned into him even in sleep — was seared into him. Permanently.

You had come into his life like spring after a long and bitter winter. Slowly at first. Gently. But now that you were here, he couldn’t remember how the world felt without you in it. You had taught him laughter again — not the kind he shared with comrades or companions, but something deep and simple and sacred. You had taught him patience, and longing, and quiet joy.

And it terrified him.

Because the truth settled in him like a mountain root — steady, unmovable, impossible to deny.

He loved you.

Not in the fleeting, passing way of desire or companionship. He loved you like the forest loves the sun — essential and eternal. He loved you in the way trees bend toward the light without understanding why. Instinctively. Irrevocably.

“Nature will take what it will,” he whispered to himself, voice hushed and low. “But still I would defy it, if it meant keeping you.”

He tightened his grip around you slightly, burying his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of you made his chest ache. He had lived so long in balance with the natural world, following its flow, surrendering to its whims. But for the first time in his life, he felt the pull of something that made him want to dig in his heels. To fight fate. To hold onto something selfishly.

You murmured his name in your sleep, barely audible. A sound filled with trust, soft and safe.

It undid him.

“I would give it all up,” he whispered. “The title. The grove. The calling. If it meant I could stay by your side when the leaves fall and the earth grows cold.”

The wind shifted outside, rustling the leaves in soft, conspiratorial laughter. But inside the tent, he was still — a man rooted not to the land, but to you.

You stirred, blinking sleepily, and looked up at him. Your voice was thick with drowsiness as you murmured, “Halsin? You’re still awake?”

He smiled — gently, achingly — and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“Yes,” he said, voice deep and low. “Just watching the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”

Omg this is just what I needed after a shitty day at work, this makes me feel nice and warm inside. Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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guilty-ff · 2 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞

After walking out mid-argument, Dante ends up with Enzo, bad advice, and demon-grade alcohol. The goal? Forget everything. But what good is drinking your feelings away when your body won't even let the alcohol stick?

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Oneshot, romance, hurt comfort, mild Angst, Fluff!

Warnings: language, Emotional miscommunication, Mild alcohol use, Mentions of past trauma/abandonment issues

Authors comment: This idea hit me while rewatching the 2007 anime. Dante was drinking and I thought, if he can even get drunk with his regeneration?? Wouldn’t it be fun (and a kinda tragic) seeing Dante all frustrated, trying to get wasted but his demon healing just won’t let him?

It didn't start with a fight.

It started with quiet tension. A half-answer here. A missed call there. The kind of things that build in the background, until one day, something stupid stirring up the tension.

Tonight, it was the dishes.

Not the end of the world, right? Not even a big deal. Just a small, silent irritation. The sink was full. Again. You'd come home late to that same damn pile, untouched, like a monument of Dante's laziness.

"Seriously?" you asked, not even raising your voice at first. "You said you'd clean the kitchen."

Dante, lounging on the couch with his boots up and one arm slung behind his head, barely turned his head. "I will."

"When?"

He yawned. "Eventually."

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched at your sides. "You live here too."

"Yeah," he said, stretching, "and I kill demons for a living. One of us is clearly more exhausted."

That did it.

"Oh, you're exhausted? Try coming home after twelve hours of dealing with people who actually communicate, only to realize I'm dating a guy who thinks emotional labor is a side quest."

He sat up a little at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't show up, Dante. Not for the little stuff. Not when it matters."

He stood now, slowly, arms crossed, like you'd just challenged him to a duel instead of a conversation. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically? Sure. Emotionally? No. I have to dig to get anything out of you. You dodge every serious talk with a joke. You ghost me for hours after missions. You don't answer texts. You act like I should be grateful you're even around."

He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. "You think I don't care?"

"I think you're scared to."

Silence.

For a second, the world shrank. There was no sound, only tension in the air. His mouth opened. Then closed.

You took a breath. "You treat this like it's temporary. Like you're just waiting for me to leave. You act like I'm disposable, like everyone else who's hurt you. That's not love, that's defense"

His voice was too quiet when it came. "Everyone leaves."

"And that gives you permission to push me away first?" you snapped. "To be cold and dismissive and act like you don't need anyone?"

His eyes flashed. "I never said I didn't need you."

"Then act like it, Dante!"

He flinched. Not visibly. Not in a way most people would notice. But you knew him. You saw it, in the small drop of his shoulders, in the tight line of his mouth.

He looked at you like you'd touched a bruise he didn't know was still sore.

Then, without a word, he turned and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your anger slipping away. “Don’t walk away. Not again.”

But he was already at the door, and then gone.

He didn’t take his phone, didn’t say a word, didn’t shout, just the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

And then, silence.

You paced the apartment, every minute ticking louder than the last. You called once. Twice. Ten times. Nothing.

And when he finally walked back through the door two hours later?

He was dragging a crate of alcohol like it was his soul in a box.

Earlier...

Dante sat in Enzo's crusty kitchen, arms crossed, sulking like a kid who'd lost his lunch money.

"I dunno, man," he muttered. "She said I treat her like she's disposable."

Enzo was already halfway through a beer and nodding slowly. "Well, do ya?"

Dante squinted. "No."

"Then it's simple: she's wrong."

"She's not wrong," Dante admitted.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Enzo tried again, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Maybe she's just being... emotional. Women, y'know. Feelings and all."

Dante stared blankly. "You've been divorced three times."

"Exactly. I know things."

Dante dragged a hand down his face. "I shut down. That's the problem. I don't know how to talk about any of it: The nightmares, the constant fear that everything's gonna go to hell again, so I don't."

Enzo blinked.

"Jesus Christ."

Dante laughed bitterly. "I never learned how to let people stay. Mother died. Vergil left. Everyone I ever cared about either died or disappeared. She gets close and it's like... my brain starts screaming. Like she'll vanish if I breathe wrong."

"Alright, alright," Enzo said, waving his beer. "Enough of that. You're spiralin'. That's girl therapy talk."

"It's called trauma, Enzo."

"Whatever. You don't need therapy. You need alcohol."

Dante looked up slowly. "What?"

"Alcohol! Fixes everything. You drink, you talk, or maybe you don't, and then she feels bad for you and bam, makeup sex."

"That's... not how people work."

"Worked for my second wife. For a week."

"You're an emotional hypocrite," Dante muttered.

“Exactly. Look,” Enzo said, searching through his stash like it was some kind of treasure chest. “I’ve got the good stuff. Demon-proof, Hellfire brand. This stuff would probably knock Cerberus out cold.”

Dante barely registered the words. His mind kept going back to the mission, the one he screwed up. He took down Cerberus, got paid, and then… nothing. No text, no call, no follow-up. He promised he wouldn’t do this again, but here he was, pulling the same bullshit.

Enzo, oblivious to the storm rising in Dante’s head, kept on his monologue. “You know what’s crazy? You take down Cerberus like it’s a walk in the park, get a fat paycheck, and still can’t pick up the damn phone? What happened, Dante? You don’t even have the decency to say ‘Hey, I didn’t die fighting a three-headed mutt. I’m fine.’” Enzo scoffed.

Dante’s frustration bubbled over. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Enzo interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s tough, man. That damn Cerberus battle really took it out of you. Big, bad demon, yada yada… but here’s the thing, you still can’t handle texting her? You get all emotional, come back looking like a damn mess, and then ghost her? That’s cold, bro.”

Dante felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wasn’t just mad at Enzo for talking about it like it was some kind of joke. He was mad at himself. He promised his lover, he really did, but once again, he failed. He couldn’t get out of his own way.

Enzo kept going, still not realizing how much he was digging in deeper. “Look, you’re so good at demon slaying, but when it comes to basic human interaction? You’re trash. And I don’t even mean like ‘rookie-level’ trash, I mean pro-level trash. You can take down an ancient demon, but you can’t pick up the phone? Dude, even I managed not to screw things up like this in my old relationships, and I’m a disaster. Like, seriously, I’m the disaster.”

Dante slammed his head against the counter. The guilt was suffocating.

Enzo, not noticing a thing, just kept yapping. “It’s not that hard. You show up at her place, look tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically. That’s the secret. Women love that tortured crap. Hell, I love it, and I’ve been through some shit.” He smirked, clearly thinking he was dropping wisdom. “Why do you think I’m always pulling in these tragic, mysterious vibes? I sell it, man. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Dante groaned, rubbing his face. “This is not helping. That sounds manipulative."”

Enzo didn’t even notice. “You’re telling me it’s manipulative? No, no, no. It’s drama. It’s called drama, son. We’re in the business of devil hunting and trauma bonding. You think any of the girls I’ve been with cared about me picking up the phone? Nah. It’s all about the act.”

Dante looked at the Hellfire bottle in Enzo’s hand, then back at Enzo’s grinning face, and sighed heavily. “I can’t get drunk anymore.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Dante’s crisis. “Not with that attitude."

Dante raised a brow.

"Look," Enzo said, now dragging a wooden crate out like it was treasure. "You show up at her place, looking tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically."

Dante looked at the crate, then at Enzo, then sighed like the broken man he was.

"You're a disaster."

"And you're takin' the box as the next paycheck, so shut up."

Back in the apartment, Dante wordlessly slammed the box on the counter and uncorked a bottle like it owed him money.

You stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching this demon-slaying idiot fumble with the strongest liquor in the realm.

"Are you... drinking?"

He didn't look up. "Enzo said it would help."

"Oh no."

You stepped closer. "Dante. Tell me you didn't just trauma-dump on Enzo."

He swallowed a third of the bottle and winced. "Kinda."

"You told the greasiest man alive that you're emotionally shut down?"

"Yep."

"And he said drink through it?"

Dante slammed the bottle down. "He said it would either make me cry or pass out. So far it's just making me thirsty."

You deadpan blinked. "You're half-demon. Your liver literally regenerates."

"I KNOW."

You sat down at the table, chin in your hand. "You thought you could drink away emotional repression?"

He gestured at the second bottle like a broken man. "This one has a skull on it. Maybe it'll work."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

"By what? Hiding from the consequences of emotional negligence?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, shoulders slumped. "I know how to kill and destroy things. But I don't know how to stay."

Silence. Just the ticking clock. His hand tightened on the glass.

"I figured... maybe if I just felt something strong enough, I could finally say it."

You blinked at him.

"...So your genius plan was to outdrink your own trauma?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It made sense at the time."

"You're a disaster," you said flatly, but your voice cracked at the edges, not from anger now, but from relief.

He finally looked at you, eyes tired, haunted, and young in a way that made your chest hurt.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, quieter. "I wasn't trying to disappear, I just... I don't know how to do this. When you got mad, it felt like- like it was already over. So I figured if I could just feel something... anything loud enough, maybe the words would follow."

You stared at him, then exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"That's the dumbest emotional strategy I've ever heard."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by stepping in and kissing him. Fast, warm, and full of everything you were still too exhausted to say.

He froze, then breathed out through his nose, leaning into it like something in him had just... let go.

When you pulled back, you raised an eyebrow.

"You still owe me a full conversation, idiot."

He gave a half-smile. "Can I be drunk for it?"

"You are very sober."

"Unfortunately."

He gave the ghost of a grin.

"Honestly? When you started yelling, I flashed back to the one time my old man raised his voice at me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sparda yelled at you?"

"Once. Real quiet. Real disappointed. Genuinely horrifying." He held up a finger. "But you? You're way scarier. Banshee-level scary."

You tried not to smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be," he muttered.

"Also," you added, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label, "this says 'Do Not Consume If Mortal.'"

He groaned. "Enzo's gonna kill me."

"No," you said, placing the bottle on the counter. "I'm gonna kill the both of you."

Later, as he lay half-curled on the couch, shirt half-off, a bottle abandoned at his side, he mumbled just loud enough to betray himself:

"Damn it... Enzo's advice almost worked. Makeup sex counts for emotional healing, right?"

You, brushing your teeth in the next room, spit into the sink and yelled,

"You really are allergic to accountability."

Next morning:

It took exactly one full day before you marched Dante back into Enzo's trashfire excuse for an office.

You didn't knock.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the coat rack and knock over a stack of demon-hunting magazines from 1998.

Enzo, chewing a meatball like it was his final meal, froze with sauce halfway to his chin.

"Well, well, if it ain't my two favorite lovebirds-"

"You gave him poison in a bottle!" you snapped.

"Technically it's concentrated hellbrew-"

"HE TRIED TO DRINK THROUGH HIS FEELINGS."

Enzo raised his hands in mock innocence. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't tell him to turn into a drunk cowboy in your kitchen. I offered an alternative path to emotional growth. Through liquor."

Dante stood awkwardly behind you, very much regretting his life.

"You," you pointed, turning to him. "You listened to him."

"In my defense," Dante muttered, "he said it was demon-proof and emotionally numbing. I panicked."

You folded your arms. "So your brain went: 'Hmm. I have unresolved abandonment issues... Better drown them in demonic Everclear and hope for the best.'"

He gave a sheepish shrug.

"And it almost worked," he added.

You slapped his arm. "It didn't."

"Okay, but technically we-"

"It didn't."

Enzo was now watching with the same face he made when demon entrails exploded in his car: morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.

"Look, sweetheart," Enzo said, "not everyone's good at feelings. The kid's got a sword twice his body weight and the emotional range of a wet sponge."

"Hey-!" Dante frowned. "I tried to talk about my issues."

"You tried to mainline whiskey and stare into a mirror."

"Same thing!"

You glared at both of them. "You're not off the hook either," you snapped at Enzo. "He doesn't need alcohol, he needs a therapist."

Enzo scoffed. "I've been a therapist for years."

"You once told Dante to 'punch grief in the face.'"

"And he did! It was very liberating."

You sighed, hard enough to summon storms.

Dante reached up behind his head and mumbled, "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm bad at this."

"No," you said. "You're terrible at this."

"...But I still wanna try."

Your anger melted just a little.

He stepped closer, rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how to fix everything in here," he said, tapping his chest. "But I don't wanna lose you just because I never learned how to talk."

You held his gaze.

"You're lucky you're hot," you muttered.

He smirked. "Jackpot."

You groaned.

Enzo stood up, wiping his hands on a suspiciously oil-stained towel. "Alright, lovebirds. Get outta my office before you start trauma-bonding on my furniture."

Dante turned to leave, and Enzo pulled him aside at the last second.

"Hey," Enzo whispered, voice oddly serious. "Next time she yells, listen. And don't try to drown it out. You'll screw it up worse."

Dante nodded.

"Also..." Enzo handed him a sealed bottle with a wink. "Save this one for after you make up. You'll thank me."

You grabbed it and dropped it in the nearest trash bin.

"No, he won't."

As the bottle clattered into the trash, Dante groaned into his hands.

“She’s gonna kill me."

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championari · 5 months ago

Text

So I’m constantly thinking about Charles and how he could eventually meet Edwin with his feelings.

Here’s something I realized: Charles, despite constantly talking about things he miss, things he wants, he actually has a complicated relationship with desire as a concept.

How I would put it is by taking Supernatural as an example. There’s an episode in Season 5 where the boys meet Famine, a horseman of the apocalypse. However, Dean is not at all affected by him. It’s because due to being the older brother, and a Hunter, Dean was never allowed to consider acting on or even having desire for anything.

You can see where I’m going with this. Charles, like Dean, doesn’t actually believe he should want anything, due to “not being good enough”.

This is something actually touched on subtly in the show through the acting. When Niko says, “I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.” Edwin directly looks at The Cat King’s bracelet, while Charles stares off into space. When Tragic Mick describes Angie’s light as enforcing a sense of yearning, Edwin looks at Charles, while again, Charles looks off blankly (can’t access screenshots right now). Edwin knows what he wants but is scared of it, while Charles doesn’t know what he wants because he can’t allow himself to consider it. This gives an entirely new meaning to Charles’ hatred of the Cat King. A supernatural entity who describes his kingdom as being about “want and pleasure”. Thomas is the encapsulation of everything Charles was never allowed to have. Charles chases after things that he knows he can’t have, romancing a living girl despite knowing she will eventually leave. Charles can’t consider returning Edwin’s feelings because that would mean he’s been running away from what’s been in front of him the whole time. That what he wanted was always there, at his lowest point, when he thought he deserved it least.

Returning Edwin’s feelings means he was already enough. And Charles can’t imagine that yet.

While I would obviously adore an interaction between Charles and Desire of The Endless, ultimately I don’t think it would do anything. Like Dean, Charles might be completely unaffected by them because he’s spent most of his existence building walls around his desires. Edwin was completely blindsided by Thomas because he never even considered having to think about Desire due to having no attraction to women and that being the dominant narrative of his time. Charles pursues Crystal because he still wants to feel like he has a chance at “normal life” (which as I said is self-punishment by throwing himself at something he knows he can’t have). To accept that he’s in love with Edwin would mean no longer pursuing a living person. Edwin would be it for him, which he kind of already gets but it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. Just like his death

There's also this exchange that drives me nuts:

"You gave up tranquil eternity…for your friend?" "Does that sound like someone who belongs in Hell?"

THIS. MAKES. ME. INSANE. Because Charles, like he always does when confronted with his own wants, completely avoids it. He doesn't respond to The Night Nurse's obvious confusion as to why he ran from Death, and instead turns the conversation back to Edwin. He makes it all about what Edwin deserves, not what Charles saw in Edwin that led him to make that choice. You could say this is practical as time is of the essence, but I think that's the point. Charles throws away the chance to explain his viewpoint on their first meeting, the consequences of his choice to run from Death with a boy he just met and knew for a few hours, and instead remains single-minded on Edwin's safety. Like when Edwin reasonably questioned, "Why are you getting angry?" when he began freaking out over Thomas getting close to Edwin, he says nothing.

There's just so much happening in that head that I can't stop thinking about.

#text #meta writing #dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin payne #payneland #my baby boy just needs to realize he is loved #regardless of what he does and does not get right

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heartsiebyul · 28 days ago

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Hiii 😁😁😁, are your requests open? If it is, can I request all characters of TWST x Famous Author of many genres reader? Reader is a girl in this, she's famous but she's shy whenever some of her fans come up to her in public, but she tries to be confident. The TWST characters are big fans of her books. If you can't do all the characters, it's okay! You can just choose whoever character you want. Thank you beh! 🥳

જ⁀➴ Twisted Wonderland x reader!

Twisted Wonderland characters paired with a Famous Multi-Genre Author Reader who is renowned for writing across genres like fantasy, horror, romance, and mystery. Each character is a genuine fan of your work and has their own unique reactions.

featuring — Rook : Idia : Azul : Leona : Vil : Jamil : Riddle.

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Rook Hunt

Rook had always believed that beauty could be found in all things, and your words were his latest obsession. He'd devoured your fantasy novels, lingered over your tragic romance, and even praised your horror stories for how they stirred his "âme artistique." When he spotted you at a cafe, casually flipping through a gardening magazine, his gasp of delight drew the attention of half the store. “Auteur extraordinaire!” he cried, approaching you with such dramatic flair that you nearly dropped your coffee. You tried to put on a cool smile, but your flushed cheeks betrayed your nerves. Rook, of course, found it "ravissant."

When you stammered through your thanks and tried to regain composure, Rook leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “You do not need to pretend with me, monsieur auteur. I have seen your soul on paper—it is bold, honest, and magnifique!” You were so startled by his sincerity that you laughed awkwardly, covering your face. Rook simply beamed, already pulling out a copy of your latest thriller for you to sign. “May I request a personalized dedication for the hunter of beauty?” he asked, and despite your embarrassment, you wrote a message that made his heart flutter more than any poem.

Idia Shroud

Idia had known about you before you were famous. He’d followed your early blog posts, your serialized horror chapters on underground forums, and even coded a private fan wiki dedicated to analyzing your worldbuilding. When your romantic sci-fi series became mainstream, he nearly combusted with conflicting emotions: pride that his favorite author was getting the attention you deserved, and terror that other people might talk to you in public. He never dreamed he’d actually see you at a game launch event, let alone find himself standing next to you in line.

You didn’t notice him at first—too busy shrinking into your hoodie as fans approached for autographs. But then Idia blurted out a line from one of your darker fantasy books—a line only a real fan would know—and your eyes lit up. “You… read that one?” you asked, visibly surprised. Idia nearly short-circuited, mumbling something about being a long-time supporter. When you offered him a signed copy of your newest book, he hesitated, then pulled out a dog-eared, annotated edition of your debut novel. "This one… means a lot," he said quietly. You smiled warmly, and it took every ounce of his will not to scream.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul was first drawn to your books because of the meticulous structure of your mysteries. As a tactician and businessman, he admired how you constructed plots like deals—layered, calculated, and sharp. When he hosted a private reading club at Mostro Lounge, he made sure your work was always on the menu. He finally met you after sponsoring a literary charity event, where you were a guest speaker. You arrived looking nervous despite your fame, eyes flickering with panic when cameras flashed. Azul, ever the gentleman, offered you his arm and led you inside with a charming smile.

“Confidence is like ink, isn’t it?” he said smoothly once you were seated. “Even if you feel like you're running out, you can always dip the pen again.” You laughed shakily, clearly trying to hold it together as another group of fans approached. Azul shooed them away politely, giving you a moment to breathe. “I must confess,” he added, “I keep a signed copy of The Merchant’s Veil in my office. That negotiation scene? Inspirational.” His praise was so earnest that you couldn’t help but grin, blush and all. He offered to collaborate on a new themed drink menu for your next fantasy release—and how could you say no?

Leona Kingscholar

Leona wasn’t a reader—not until one of your high fantasy books was left in the lounge and he picked it up out of boredom. One chapter in, and he was hooked. The warring kingdoms, the morally gray antiheroes, the sharp political intrigue? It reminded him of home. Now, he secretly waits for every new installment, claiming he’s “too lazy” to get excited but tearing through your books in one sitting. When he caught sight of you at a rare book fair in Sunset Savannah, trying to sign autographs while avoiding the crowd’s full attention, he raised a brow and approached with his usual swagger.

“You don’t look like the confident genius your books make you out to be,” he drawled, slouching next to your table. You chuckled nervously, muttering that you weren’t good with people. “That so?” he smirked. “Could’ve fooled me. Your war scenes feel like you’ve lived ’em.” You blushed, trying to downplay it, but he just leaned closer. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the hyenas swarm you. Just sign my copy and you can hide behind me for the next hour.” You laughed in relief, and Leona shrugged. “Least I can do. You got me hooked on reading, after all.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil was skeptical at first. A celebrity author writing romance and fantasy? He assumed it was another trend-rider. But when he read Silver Ash and Crimson Vows, he was stunned by your elegant prose, your nuanced characters, and your themes of self-worth beneath fame’s glittering surface. He became a devoted reader—though he’d never fangirl publicly. When he met you backstage at a charity fashion gala, you looked lost and overwhelmed by the attention, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Vil noticed instantly, striding over with composed grace.

“Deep breaths,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “They admire your brilliance, but don’t let them drown your voice.” You recognized him immediately and fumbled a compliment, flustered. Vil only smiled. “You don’t need to perform for me. I know authenticity when I see it—on stage and on paper.” He asked you thoughtful questions about character symbolism in your romance books, subtly shielding you from cameras with his poise. “Art deserves to be nurtured,” he added, and you realized that behind his perfectionism was a kindred spirit who truly respected your work.

Jamil Viper

Jamil grew up craving escape—so when he discovered your stories, he devoured them in secret. Your psychological thrillers and complex protagonists spoke to him in ways he couldn’t voice. He hid your books under his mattress, annotating them late at night while pretending to sleep. One day, while chaperoning Kalim to a public festival, he spotted you trying to deflect a swarm of fans with an obviously forced smile. Jamil, sighing, pushed Kalim away and approached you with a calm, protective presence.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured, handing you a cold drink without asking. “I’ve read your interviews. You hate crowds.” You blinked at him in surprise, touched by his quiet perceptiveness. He didn’t gush or ask for a photo. He just said, “Your words helped me breathe when I couldn’t. Thanks for that.” You nodded, too moved to reply. Before leaving, he offered you a worn paperback of your earliest novel—scarred with years of re-reading. “This one? It saved me more than once.”

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle discovered your work through your historical fantasy novel, The Hollow Prince, and was immediately enthralled by the richly layered themes of legacy, loyalty, and rebellion against unjust systems. It mirrored his own personal journey so closely that he read it three times over and annotated every page. He admired your sharp prose and the way your protagonists questioned traditions without discarding honor. So when he heard you were attending a literary symposium, he made immediate arrangements to attend—under the guise of “academic enrichment.”

You were visibly flustered in the crowded hall, trying to smile for fans while glancing longingly toward the exit. Riddle, noticing your discomfort, approached with precise steps and an empathetic gaze. “You don’t have to force a brave face,” he said gently, offering you a glass of water. “Your books already show your strength. You don’t need to prove it in front of strangers.” You blinked, stunned by his unexpected kindness. When he pulled out his well-worn copy of The Hollow Prince, marked with color-coded tabs and notes in elegant script, your smile turned genuine. “You helped me understand myself better,” he said quietly, cheeks tinged pink. “So let me return the favor by making this moment easier for you.”

📚 Books Credited to Original Authors (Pretending Reader Wrote Them):

1. The Hollow Prince (inspired by “The Bear and the Nightingale” by Katherine Arden)

2. Silver Ash and Crimson Vows (inspired by “The Cruel Prince” by Holly Black)

3. The Merchant’s Veil (inspired by “Six of Crows” by Leigh Bardugo)

4. The Kingdom’s Debt (inspired by “A Song of Ice and Fire” by George R.R. Martin)

5. Whispers in the Fog (inspired by “Rebecca” by Daphne du Maurier)

6. Starcrossed in Dystopia (inspired by “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins)

7. Fractured Wings (inspired by “If We Were Villains” by M.L. Rio)

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

#twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst disney #twst fluff #twisted wonderland x reader #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #azul ashengrotto #rook hunt #idia shroud

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limerlove · 9 months ago

Text

≛ LONELY IS THE MUSE!

❝ ABBY!CENTRIC ONE SHOT ❞

feat. bodyguard!abby x famous actor!reader

warnings. eighteen+, suggestive nsfw content: reader fell first nd and abby fell harder, some angst, fluff, slightly coded fem reader, personal trainer!abby, just two idiots pining. i saw the discourse for some romance and i wanted to do my part. enjoy friends.

LONELY IS THE MUSE, entangled in an endless web of a high profile life, everyone waiting on you hand and foot, hollywood’s star in their prime — everyone needing a piece for themselves. yet the mysterious blonde who has not a clue to who you are catches the eye of the lonely muse.

wc. 8k

“You know you don’t have to stand this close to me.” Abby counters, but her words didn’t make you move an inch. Not that she really thought they would. Secretly, she enjoys your gentle touch. She likes how comfortable you feel around her. The downpour in New York has your arm entangled with her own, your hand gripping her bicep as she holds the umbrella.

“Maybe, but I don’t want to ruin my hair.” You replied gently, as you rested your head against her relaxed bicep.

“God, forbid your hair be in ruin, sweet girl.” Abby’s wet lips look inviting, especially when she’s smirking at you. Delectable, enticing, desired seeping underneath your soul as you try your best to keep them at bay.

“Now that would be positively tragic, wouldn’t it? Just a paparazzi’s wet dream. Need my hair in ruins for them to get a handsome payday.” Abby shakes her head, the budding smile threatening to reveal itself. You can see how it grows, despite the effort she makes to disguise it.

“I think you do enjoy my company. Paid or not, I bring some light into your life.” You play with the ends of her hair. The blonde feels a tingle pricking at her skin. She ignores it.

“I can see that smile.”

Better than anyone, Abby knows the gleam in your eyes is too dangerous to entertain, so she looks forward. It’s what she's paid to do, to keep you safe. Not to entertain some weird crush that will soon pass when you move on to the next actress, artist, or producer. She doesn’t need a reminder of how different your world is, she’s already abundantly clear on where the both of you stand. Worlds apart from each other, even if you’re leaning against her, the greedy hands of the public grab onto you first, mercilessly sucking the life out of anyone who enters your life.

All it does is isolate you, making your life incredibly lonely. Trapped on the throne you built with your raw talent, but the industry is a double edged sword, as much as it appears to lift you up, it impales any sense of normalcy at a private, peaceful life. You take pride in these little moments you have with her. It’s the only time you get to have a taste of normalcy, even if you did have a bodyguard, which wasn’t entirely normal. Yet, Abby is a gentle reminder of a life she wishes to have. Someone who is kind, and loving; a soul that exists for no selfish gain, greed, or selfishness.

Sometimes, you take advantage of it.

Abby knows you crave physical affection. Ever since your messy break up, you’ve been finding any little excuse to justify it. Abby didn’t really mind at all. Even if she tried to deny it in her head, she’d miss it if you stopped. The incessant need you have to be close to her at all times, your essence bleeding on to her, suffocating her with everything she wants, but knows she can’t ever let herself dip into the deepest edges of you.

Especially, not when you are still attempting to decode the wreckage of your last relationship.

Abby hates seeing you like this, but she knew there was little she could do to help. All she could do is let you ride the wave of heartbreak, take in the silent tears hitting full cheeks, and hope it would all end soon for you. For now, she would allow immediate proximity.

You’re hurting. You need it.

The first few weeks, even a couple months after, she expects it. Now it’s month four, and you were still touching her all the time. Lame excuses falling from your lips daily and Abby was sure you didn’t even believe them. She thought about bringing it up to you, establishing healthy boundaries before she crosses a line.

Yet, it feels…nice.

It felt good to be needed. The reason she had taken this job in the first place. It wasn’t what she had imagined for herself – a bodyguard of a famous musician. She jokes about it now, but it's a twisted fate for the two of you. Your eyes shine bright whenever someone asks, and you always take the lead.

Abby has always been more reserved, and your personality is as bright as the sun. She liked Abby the second she laid eyes on her. Not because she was beautiful or the most gorgeous human she’d ever seen.

Which she is.

No.

Her stupid pounding heart, the one she felt beating violently out of her chest, loves you, has no idea who she is. She had thought possibly the blonde stranger was putting on a front, some did. They liked to conceal their intentions behind greedy eyes and malicious intent.

But Abby turned out to be different.

When a blossoming friendship turned into a job opportunity, it took Abby through a loop. It was the very last thing she was expecting from you. You’d kept her in the dark and when you announced exactly who you were, Abby really didn’t know. Never was she really a fan of social media, didn’t really partake in it unless someone was showing her the latest trend going around. She’s a little old fashioned but she likes it. It worked in her favor when it came to you. Unknowingly, for the first time since your fame struck as quick as lightning, you had the pleasure to befriend someone who had no idea who you were.

As fresh as breathing your first breath of air, you took pride in the circumstance. Someone enjoying your company for who they are and not just for your social standing, fame, or most importantly the money. Before either of you could really even fully come to it, Abby has become such an influential person in your life, and then you were attempting to entice her with a job opportunity, and she accepted.

You thought it would take longer and knew from the moment you had asked. But her life was uprooted by you, and she felt guilty about how much it fills her up with glee.

In the last year, Abby became the only person worthy of your trust, the only one who would keep your confessions confined, not letting the secrets drip like cheap wine down the drain. Rather more as if she was out in the vineyard, carefully hand picking the grapes for the wine as she crafts it herself. Giving it the love, care, and attention it needs to flourish into fine beverage. From one sip alone, knowing she would crave for the taste.

Getting to know you in ways some would dream of. Often, the mass of the public did, but you’re more selective who you let in your life now. Swiftly, you noticed how easily Abby listened.

Listening and seeing you for who you are, not some strewed version the media made you out to be.

She understood why you felt the need to and maybe why you felt comfortable with her. You spent time with her more than anyone. After two years together, she had learned every little detail about you. Where you liked to get your morning coffee, your favorite brunch spot, which bar you like to frequent when you had a night to give, which gym was your favorite, and to not speak with you until you’ve had said coffee.

It’s these little things Abby remembers, constantly getting her in trouble.

When paparazzi are around, you always accept her hand as she guides you through the swarming crowd. Abby knows you despise it. How inhumane it makes you feel. You feel like an attraction, an object the masses had come to see rather than being viewed as an actual person. In these moments, you cling onto Abby the most. While she’s intimidating to all, there leaves a small exception for you, never has she once been anything to you more than just a sweet, gentle giant she wants close to her at all times.

Her stature is standing a little over six feet tall. Her arms always looked too good against the tight fabric of her shirt. The one you grip onto as she is navigating through a crowd with you in tow, she’s always focused. The remainder of your team was behind you, while she was always in front of you.

At all times, protecting you.

But it was moments like today, you were grateful for. You blended with the hectic life of the city. You were just two people waiting at a crosswalk, waiting to get to your next destination.

Abby tries not to pay too much attention to how you’re squeezing her bicep, with a strong grip further indication you weren’t letting go anytime soon.

She supposes it’s better than feeling your hand in hers. There were times when Abby deemed it necessary. She would grab it whenever she needed to get you through from point a to point b, quickly. It made you follow her pace instead of lingering behind. She didn’t even know how she was supposed to feel with your head resting against her arm, your body so close to hers.

How was she supposed to act normally?

The rumors were already getting bad. You denied them when asked, and you did gracefully each time.

All Abby could think about if this moment was captured, it would be perceived as intimate. It felt like it was, but she didn’t want the entire world to see. Not when she felt the two of you walking this very nimble line of friends, something professional, and something more. She didn’t need thousands of eyes giving their two senses in a situation she didn’t even fully understand yet. All it took was one person to snap a photo if she gets too close to you. If her touch stayed on you for too long, or if she let the love reach her eyes. The ladder was the most difficult to control. It’s a part of her just as much as the air in her lungs.

This life is new to her. At times, Abby wondered if she’s biting off more than she could chew.

The only reason she’d left was for you. She had a small, quiet life. Abby’s life was very average, a cloud of normalcy hovered above her before the two of you met. A personal trainer full time and she resided in a cabin about half an hour from where she worked. She chopped wood to relieve stress, Her girlfriend liked it at the time, and she did too. She had her two dogs, and a darling kitten.

She enjoyed the privacy. The isolated countryside her sweet family could reside in. Abby had built this life she was proud of, and it made her happy. For a time, it worked. She was genuinely content with where she was. There wasn’t a need to stress or control where her life was going. It felt like a huge relief. She tended to live inside her own head, not be present in what she has right in front her.

It had been months since she felt like that. It’d felt good and she was proud of herself for not succumbing from within and really coming to terms with what she had built around her. This was the most difficult route for her to take. To allow herself to be open, even if there was a chance of her falling.

Abby really should have felt remorseful for leaving it all behind.

Nora was sweet. The most caring partner she ever had, but there wasn’t much she could compare it to. Besides her, there had only been two, and she didn’t even count Owen. A long misstep until she landed where she needed to be. He did care for her, and he seemed to be more kind-hearted than most men, but the bar was set so low, he should’ve exceeded expectations.

And he did, in some areas.

Others, he fell more than flat but there was little to nothing he could do about it. Abby likes girls and he wasn’t one. Her sexuality shattered their relationship into a million pieces – leaving neither of them any option but to move on.

Nora felt real. This genuine connection she’d never experienced before. Abby knew it one year into their relationship. The pair had built this life together, one where she didn’t feel trapped in, and one Abby could be proud of. She felt acknowledged and loved Nora. There wasn’t a sliver of a doubt in her mind this where she needed to be.

She tells Nora when she needs space, and she isn’t ashamed of it. If she didn’t want to go out, Nora wouldn’t guilt trip her into it. Abby didn’t feel pressured to intertwine her identity with Nora just because they were together. Nora hardly ever gave Abby a reason to be upset. She showed up like partners were supposed to, even when Abby didn’t.

But it was a heavy weight to carry for Nora. Being her first serious queer relationship, Abby was left stunted in areas where Nora had to lend a helping hand. She never made Abby feel bad about it, but the two of them could feel the string keeping them threatening to snap.

Often, it frustrated Abby. To always be the one receiving help and never giving it. She didn't blame her partner, but she was left at a crossroad.

She never understood Owen more and it really pissed her off.

To no fucking end.

But Nora was far more patient than Abby had ever shown. Maybe it was the testament to love or maybe Nora was just a good person and Abby is shitty. She had more patience than Mother Thersea herself, and it amazed her. Always guiding Abby with a gentle hand, never getting upset with her even when she let her anger shine through.

It makes her feel undeserving of a love she could never earn.

This pure and untainted love had never touched her before, and she’d never fallen this hard. Abby didn’t want to be anywhere but here. She really thought this could be it. Nora could be the one. They could get through those hardships together, right?

Then you came and overwhelmed her like a tsunami.

She was running late, which was completely out of the ordinary for Abby. Instead of her neat braid, her sun kissed-blonde hair was in a low bun. Underneath her eyes was evidence of her lack of sleep. She hadn’t been getting any as of lately and the bags only seemed to get deeper.

Abby wouldn’t call the fights constant, but it sure did feel like it.

The back and forth, having the same fight consistently. Abby was more than frustrated. The biggest efforts she made were dismissed by Nora, even making her upset at times. She was trying too hard and being annoying, or not doing enough and then it meant she wasn’t present in the relationship.

Abby felt her stuck at a wall, Nora on the other side of it and she couldn’t hear a damn thing.

So, she was running late.

One of the many fights they’ve had with each other as of late. Nora is tired of dealing with a “baby gay” as she likes to remind her in the heat of their arguments. Abby gets offended, her lips forming into an even deeper pout, her porcelain skin flushed in anger before she gives them both space.

Contemplating about the future of their relationship in the shower, causing her to be late to work in the process.

Astronomically behind – her client arrived at the gym she worked at half an hour ago. The most recent argument with Nora plagued her morning. All they seem to do is argue, trapped in what they both need from the relationship, but all the two of them could do is argue, argue, argue.

But neither of them makes a move. They are still as the eerie silence that carries them into questioning.

It’s when she’s too inside her head, fearing about the future, when she violently bumps into you. Body colliding with yours, Abby’s stone-like build causes you to crash into the pavement, your belongings scatter along with Abby’s.

“Fuck. Are you alright? Sorry, I’m in such a hurry, I’m sure I wasn’t even paying attention.” You let her pick you from the ground, she does with ease. She looks right through you and you expect the excitement, the excited tears, or to be asked for a picture but it never comes.

“For a moment I thought I ran into a wall—” You giggle to yourself. “Really, I’m alright.” You spoke softly. You pick up both of your belongings that had slipped from both of your grips, returning it to its owner.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Abby asks again.

You think it’s cute how much lace of concern is conveyed in her cerulean eyes, full of light and wonder, so beautiful it stops you in your tracks.

“No no! I’m fine! Really don’t worry about it.”

Honestly, you’re still in amazement she has no idea who you are. It makes your fondness of her grow even more. The two of you depart quickly, go about your day, and you think nothing of it until you go to unlock your phone to message your manager and it’s not a picture of the moon you’d taken during the eclipse, it’s the mysteriously hot and kind woman you’d run into before.

Shit. She has my phone.

Lucky for you, Abby was coming to the same realization. Ready to bring out the workout she had planned out for her first client, opening her phone to access where she had written everything out only to find this isn’t her phone. Well, fuck.

Abby hollers at Dina to take over the client for a moment, excusing herself for a moment before retreating into the office to call from her direct line.

Idiot Anderson. Now you get to make an idiot of yourself, twice.

Way to go.

She calls her phone and it rings a few times before the familiar voice chimes through the speaker, the one she heard this morning during her fit of anxiety.

“Please tell me this is the woman I ran into earlier or else I’m going to be even more embarrassed for answering a stranger's phone.”

“Well you’re in luck.”

“Oh thank fuck—” You curse yourself before being so vulgar with someone who you didn’t even know. “Sorry! God, this is all my fault. I must have swapped our phones when I picked them up and didn’t even realize.”

“It’s okay, really, if I was paying attention where I was walking this morning it never would have happened. Did you wanna meet?”

“No! Let me. Please, this is all my fault. I should at least be the one who makes the drive.”

“Are you sure? It’s really no trouble. I don’t mind.”

“I’m really sure.”

Abby offers the address of work, thinking once after she does if it’s a good idea, a total stranger knowing where she works but she’s already giving the street name and suite number before she can even make her mind. Abby usually doesn’t get nervous but this situation has sent her into a frenzy, thinking about how dumb she could have been. Nora will get a good laugh out of it she thinks, then she is reminded of the fight the two of them were still in. She wonders if she’s even tried to reach out to her yet or if Nora’s just waiting until Abby’s anger rolls over.

More favorably, the ladder.

Until the two of them have the comfort of their lives, the cushion they have between their shared friends and the home they share twenty minutes out of the state, until it comes up again and they’ll be contemplating it all over again. Anxiously, the front desk girl, Bevs, the younger girl who has a crush on her, shyly comes up to her.

Bevs says what she assumes is your name, confusing Abby in the process.

“You know her?”

“How could you not? She’s one of the most famous actresses ever.” Abby is stunned to say the least. Truthfully, she had no idea. Her lack of social media keeps her out of the loop and as much as her friends tease her about, if Abby knew who you were the first time around, she’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to say more than two words. Clearly, you’re a fresh face to her. Already, Abby knows Manny is going to have a field day when Bevs lets this information spill in her sheer excitement.

Great, she thinks.

“Oh.”

“I put her in your office. Some of the clients were already starting to have questioning looks, putting the pieces together. Hey! Maybe they're as clueless as you.”

“Bevs, go back to the front desk.” With a curt nod and realizing she has pushed too far, with a tail between her legs she retreats back to her post.

Okay, Anderson, let’s get this over with.

Abby smells you the minute she steps foot in her office. It’s not the usual pinewood scent the candle in her office radiates. There’s a lingering smell of lavender with just a hit of vanilla. It’s sweet as it engulfs her nostrils, she finds herself sniffling slightly, a silent beg for more of it. You’re standing the minute you’re aware of her presence. Painfully, Abby is aware of her lack of clothing. The tight sport jacket is left unopened, her black sweatpants, accompanied with her sports bra, abs on display as she watches your eyes examine her carefully.

She’s not sure how to feel about it.

There is a moment, a short one where your eyes go to her chest, the silver barbells constricting against the small fabric, clear as to what lies beneath.

Abby does smirk at that. She’s only human.

You keep staring at her for a minute longer, well it feels like one but Abby deems it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s really not a problem.” The more time goes on, the sweeter you are. “It’s pretty close to where I live.”

Abby didn’t know it then but you were lying straight through your teeth. The trainer didn’t know you moved around your entire day to make the phone swap or the butterflies swarming your stomach from just how attractive and nice she seemed to be. There was something about her that sent your caution flying to the wind, drifting in the leaves with the rest of your pride.

“Well I appreciate you coming out this way, even if it’s in your area. I really wouldn’t have minded taking the drive.” Abby pulls out your phone as she hands you yours. It’s simple, transactional, and it should have just been left at that but you had a fondness of putting your foot in your mouth.

“Are you a trainer here?”

“Uh, yeah. Been doing it for a few years actually. I spent so much time here already, now I get paid for it. Can’t really complain.”

“Do you ever do private sessions?”

“Um-” Abby scratches the back of her awkwardly, not sure if you’re asking her genuinely or if you’re trying to insinuate something else entirely.

“Oh fuck no! I didn’t mean it like that. I just have a….job opportunity I have to get in shape for and you just look like you know what you’re doing.” Abby thought you might as well point to her physique but if anything she was flattered. It was always nice knowing something she’s been working on for years, her longest standing commitment besides Nora, is appreciated.

“Sure, we could work something out.” You slightly smile before you exchange phones, this time on purpose, to put in the other’s number. Normally, she didn’t give out her number to clients, but Abby makes an exception for you that day. To this day, she’ll never outwardly admit why she did, not even to herself.

Two years later, she’s single from her life being turned upside down by you. The casualty being her own relationship, leaving Nora behind was one of the hardest decisions she’s made. Nora never agreed on Abby taking the job. As much as Nora wished for Abby to be more open about their endeavors, as soon as she accepted an offer that could drastically expand the trajectory of their life, Nora couldn’t be asked to compromise another thing.

That was that. Not even two months into Abby working for you and Nora had called it quits. Abby never talked about it, only you knew she had a girlfriend she used to talk about when you began training with her, and then it was just silent. Back then, you didn’t know her well enough to pry, so you didn’t.

Even as time passed, the two of you became friends through your employment, spending all your time with her during press season for your upcoming film, Lonely Is The Muse, together. Today was the only day you had off, even if it means Abby technically had the day off, you insisted that both of you leave the hotel and go out for the day. It's the most peace you felt during the European leg of the tour. Only one more day of dealing with your sensory issues, people in your face telling you when and where to go, or the distasteful question regarding your past public breakup instead of the work you were promoting.

Some interviewers were kind enough to let the drama go but some wanted to get their own viral moment, waiting for you to say the wrong thing. As the industry likes to say, any publicity is good publicity.

When you’re America's sweetheart actress of the century, such luxuries can’t be afforded.

As your manager likes to remind you, there’s a reputation you have to protect.

“Would you like to head back now? Long day tomorrow. Last day of interviews and then your flight leaves first thing in the morning.”

“Did Stassie put you up to this?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the fun one.”

“Mhm, your definition of fun is letting you do whatever you want.”

“And the problem with that is?”

All Abby can do is chuckle.

“What do you want to do then?” Abby asks. She takes note of the sparkle in your eyes, as blinding as the sun but obtaining the serenity of the moon. “I’m all ears sweetheart.”

It’s how the two of you end up here, a rooftop party, a friend of a friend you said. The party was lowkey, more than the typical ones you would get invited. Maybe because you weren’t in Los Angeles, Miami, or New York — but tucked away on another continent — or perhaps everyone here is just discreet.

There’s only two fans that come up to you instead of twenty. You’re thankful for some sense of normalcy, one night where you can just feel normal. It still never gets old, people coming up to you as they confess the impact you’ve had on their life. It feels unbelievable at times but you’re grateful for the luxury life you’ve been granted.

“Here. No liquor tonight.” Abby hands you a glass of red wine, your favorite beverage of choice when you couldn’t have tequila.

“Yes Ma’am.” You playfully salute her. More than anything, you enjoy the not so subtle chuckle. “Not that I don’t love your company but isn’t Stassie supposed to boss me around?”

“She felt under the weather. Plus, we both know you don’t listen to her.”

“And I listen to you?” Your hand plays with her loose blonde hair, smoothing out the white button she’s wearing.

“Yeah, you do. I wonder why that is.” Abby is playing with fire tonight. Possibly due to the fact that you wouldn’t leave her side, not even for a moment, keeping your body close, practically gluing yourself to her. Yes, she’s charged with keeping you safe and protected but it seems you find enjoyment bringing it to another level entirely.

“You’re much nicer to look at, that’s all.” It’s light, a quiet whisper, not meant to be heard by anyone — not even for Abby to hear. “Don’t wanna make my handsome bodyguard upset.”

Faking your pout as you let the words leave your lips, Abby chuckles as you get closer to her, her body standing strong as you push your weight onto her. Stoic as always, while you lean on her, she keeps her eyes peeled. Ensuring your safety at all times.

“Flattery isn’t going to get you a shot tonight.”

“I’m just stating the obvious.”

Abby chuckles, again. She’s delighted you’re enjoying yourself, even if it comes at her expense. There’s a soft jazz song playing outside, couples dancing to the music, you zone out for a moment as you look upon one in particular.

They are older, possibly in their forties, raven hair beginning to gray, fine lines crinkle when they smile at each other but it’s hard to take note of anything else but the way the couple looks at each other. Your mind wonders how long they’ve been together, if it’s been for years, months, a couple weeks.

It doesn’t really matter. You just want that.

The feeling isn’t lost on you, especially when you’re in the arms of the woman you love. For her, she’s being protective, doing her job but you wish it was different. A bubbling desire dripping off your tongue, a need to have her close to you but because she wants. Not because she’s paid to.

“If I can’t have any tequila shots, god forbid, you have to dance with me.” You down the rest of your wine, placing the empty glass on the bar. “C’mon, you can give Stassie an earful later.”

Pulling her towards the makeshift dance floor, Abby leads as your head rests against her chest. The steady, soft heartbeat soothes you, a reminder of the safety you feel with her. Caught in the riptide of her kind eyes and heart full of gold. It’s what makes her so unique, so loved, so her. With a surprisingly good tone, Abby sings to the music softly before twirling you around and spinning your body back to her.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Your hand rubs lovingly on her lower back as she holds you in her arms. You take pride when it doesn’t feel transactional. When she holds you and it feels as if she was meant to. There’s nothing else comparable to it, her frame melting into yours as your soul finds solace in her warm embrace.

“There’s plenty of things.” Playfully, Abby smirks.

“Oh yeah. I’m sure.”

The sarcasm practically drips out of you as her smirk grows wider.

“Can I ask you something?” You hesitate for a moment as you find her beautiful blue eyes staring into your soul. It’s only then does everything troubling might dissipate while she holds you — secretly hoping it’s forever.

“You can ask me anything.”

You give yourself a moment to collect your thoughts as you move to the delicate beat. “Do you ever wish for a life where you could have had a normal life? I wonder if things could be different.”

Immediately, Abby answers.

“Not anymore, no, not for a second.”

If it was even possible, Abby pulls you closer to her, not urging a word more. It’s how she is, cold and distant to some but they don’t feel the stutter in her breath when you’re near or the soft pad of her thumb rubbing soothingly on the back of your hand. Or the soft words of encouragement when you’re having a difficult day.

They hear none of it.

She dances with you for a couple more songs, before you find solace on the couch. You lay beneath the moonlight, your body cuddles into her side as you stare up at the sky.

It’s lost on you how you’ve ended with her, someone as kind and untainted as her, wanting to spend her free time with you, but you’re grateful for it. Whatever god you have to thank, you’ll get on your knees to praise their alter for bringing Abby into your life. She’s the best thing to ever happen to you and she doesn’t even know it. Albeit, she hardly knows the extent of how wonderful she is.

“Why here?”

“It’s a good night, nice weather. Why not?”

A question with a question. It’s the most straightforward answer you’ll ever give her. Innuendos for the sweet girl to piece together, but with the soft circles being drawn her stomach with the pad of your finger leaves little to nothing to decode.

“It’s nice, yeah.”

Abby always has so little to say but her mind swarms with a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea and a million of why this is where the constellations in the jaded sky have led to you. Straight into the pits of innocence, a heart that’s been hurt more times than she can count but still as golden and whole as one could be.

“What do you think of Italy?”

“It’s nice.”

“Nice? That’s all I get?”

Abby smirks but her body stills when you play with the waistband of her trousers before gliding back to the security of her abdomen, carving the liner of her defined abs. The ones she tries so hard to cover up, but you saw on the very first day you met her.

“Do you want more?” You ask, an eyebrow raising in suggestion. Abby knows it’s a double edged sword, one she doesn’t want to be injured with.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game.” Cautiously, Abby warns. “I’m not sure that last drink was a great idea.”

You rest your head on her sternum, sapphire eyes looking down at you as her hand finds home on your waist, the blunt of your nails scratching softly at her stomach.

“They always seem like a great idea at the time, don’t they?” With a gentle hand, you caress her scarred cheek, the pad of your thumb gently tenderly kissing the freckled skin. Outlining the softness of her jaw with your left, while your right one refuses to leave her stomach.

“I don’t see how anyone would ever want to leave you.” Abby hums, not giving you much to go off of, tight lipped as she’s always been. The Nora situation has always been on your mind. One day, Abby’s speaking of her like she’s the love of her life and the next? Abby stiffens so tight when you bring up her name you promise yourself to never speak of it again. Until now, almost two years later, you’re more curious than you have ever been. The fatal ending, not belonging to you, but still you paw for the answers with your greedy palms.

“You can just ask me if you want to know. I can see the look in your eyes.”

“What look? I don’t have a—”

Abby tilts your chin with your palm, leaning into her touch as you often do.

“Yes, you do.”

“How do you know this look?”

“Hm.” Her thumb pulls at your bottom lip, “You’re just trying to get me in trouble now.”

Your tone shifts, your eyes become transcendent, more crystal clear than they’d been all night.

“What happened between you and Nora?” You ask, treading lightly on the ground you’re skating upon, in fear the ground beneath you might just crack if you apply too much pressure.

“Why is it so important to you?”

“It’s not that it’s—” You face plant into her chest, giving yourself a moment to breathe. Fuck, even her chest smells good.

“You don’t ask about anything unless it’s of value to anyone. You don’t waste time, you’re very adamant about it. Painfully so.” Blonde eyebrows relax as she closes her eyes for a moment, but her touch on you soothes you. It’s gentle; a somber comfort bleeding into blissful joy.

“But I’ve spent a lot of time with you.”

“Yes, you’ve spent a lot of your time with me.

Abby opens her eyes to see you, your head tilted to the right, as you look upon each carve of her angelic face, the one that could only be carved by the gods above, resembling an angel on earth. As pure as the snow with the biggest heart of gold you ever have had the pleasure of knowing.

“What?”

“I didn’t say a thing.” You smile slyly.

“We didn’t break up because of you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Abby sighs, “You’re not some homewrecker. My home with Nora was already wrecked before we met.”

“Are you just saying it to make me feel better?”

“No, I’m not.” You play with the ends of her golden hair, it hurts to be this close to what you want but knowing it’s so clearly out of your reach, league even, all of it will end the same. “Nora wasn’t fond of her being my first relationship with a woman. It caused a ripple effect, me feeling like I wasn’t good enough and her feeling like she has to carry me in the relationship, emotionally anyway.”

“Is that why you broke up?”

“No.”

“It was because of me.” You state, as a matter of fact, knowing there is no other truth to be known. With tears welling up in your eyes, an ache in your heart, one that made you ache all over. The dread of the guilt weighing heavily on your heart, time and distance still isn’t enough for you to run from it.

“It was a job that was a great opportunity. Alright? It wasn’t you, even if I hadn’t, we both wanted different things. I didn’t even realize it until after but I wasn’t happy. I promise, it has nothing to do with you.”

What Abby didn’t know, you needed to hear her say those words. In the back of your head, a monstrous demon unleashes in your mind, telling you crashed her relationship. You were the problem and her inevitable doom, but she’s assuring you it wasn’t the case.

“We hardly knew each other back then.”

As pathetic as it sounds, Abby can’t imagine her life without you.

“Yeah hardly.”

There’s that look again, pouring into Abby’s soul as it eats her up whole, the gleam in your eyes begging for more. It’ll complicate things if Abby gets involved, she knows this, but it already seems like she is despite her best efforts not to be.

“Did I do good? You always say you miss stargazing with your brother back home. I know it’s not as quiet as the cabin you have, but I thought it would be okay for now.”

“The view isn’t bad, not one bit.” She admits as she lets you rub her abdomen, the goosebumps crawling upon her skin the more Abby lets you touch her as if she’s yours to hold. “Lev would like it. I’m convinced the kid likes you more than me now.”

“As he should. I’m pretty damn amazing.”

“He asks too many questions though.”

“About what?”

“I dunno…..things.” Abby retreats back into her shell, the layer of protection she uses to protect herself from getting hurt. Most of all, out of everyone the gods could torture her to be confused about, of course it has to be you. Everyone in your life is always begging for pieces of your time, pieces of your affection and bits of your time to suck you dry. Abby has always wondered how you juggle it all. It feels cruel to even think you would put her in the mix.

Painfully, there’s nights like tonight, where she sees the desire swarming in your eyes — every part of her pleads to give in to the temptation. Give into something she’s never even let herself think about until the last few months. As thick as drywall, there was a barrier keeping her heart from you, one she kept to protect you and herself even.

The absolute last thing she wanted was to wreck everything this has to offer. If she makes the wrong move, all of it can come crashing down on you…it’s the last thing she wants. Make you a martyr in her story, one she thinks and dreams of often but knows you’re too big for her to exist in your life. The circles you run in don’t even exist in the same planet, the same fucking universe if Abby’s being honest.

“What things?” You pout, your hand traveling south, caressing her thigh with a familiarity Abby wishes you didn’t have. She wishes for a lot but they never come true, that’s all you can be, a dying wish Abby curses upon a fading star.

“It’s just stupid shit, not worth mentioning.”

“Abby…”

“Yeah?”

“I—” You take a deep breath, your voice already shaky and you haven’t even told her yet. “I don’t think you even know how much you mean to me.” Abby isn’t sure where you’re going with this, terrifying her instantly.

Have you finally had your fill of her? Were you gonna fire her? Now?

“Lev doesn’t just talk to you about us.”

“Us?” Nervously, Abby stomach clenches, unprepared for where this conversation is heading.

“Why are you so scared?”

Abby visibly and loudly gulps, almost making you giggle slightly.

“I-I’m not.”

The stonewall she attempts to hide behind but you won’t let her, not tonight. Slumping in the shadows, waiting for you to find someone else to love as she watches your happiness from a far, that’s what she allows herself. Nothing more and nothing less.

“Abs, look at me.” She meets your eyes, away from the constellations in the sky, afraid if she looks for a moment too long she’ll be stuck here forever. “Talk to me, m’right here, not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

Instantly, Abby grips your hips, keeping you in your place.

“No, that’s not—”

“What?”

“I’m not what you want. I’m surely not what anyone needs. Hell, I’ve only been with one woman which is deemed to be for not being enough, right? I’m the girl who came out too late, who doesn’t have enough experience but because I’m built like some fucking adonis I need to know whatever the fuck I’m doing but I don’t. I never know what I’m doing. The only thing I know how to do is protect you, that’s all I’m good for and I’m not gonna screw that up just because I—”

“Because what?” Your pelvis is on top of hers, your face coming closer to Abby’s, watching as you are irrevocably close to her, closer than you’ve ever been, wet lips ghosting over her pouty pink lips. Abby doesn’t even know when you moved, how you got so close, too lost in her own head to register your movements.

“It doesn’t matter.” Abby puffs out.

“It matters to me.” You sink into her, further, if it's even possible. “No one matters more than you, alright?”

“But there’s people.” Abby looks for an excuse to get up, she comes up enough so she’s sitting up against the armrest of the patio couch, holding your lower back as she does so, leaving you straddling her hips.

“I don’t care. All that matters is you.” You push a piece of blonde hair away, seeing her beautiful cheeks more clearly, her shining blue eyes finding its unique path to your heart, the one especially made for her. “Here just let me talk, alright? You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”

Abby is nearly crying, practically purring as you run your fingers through her cascading blonde hair. It’s too much but not enough. Although she is sure of one thing, the one thing she wants more than anything.

“I’ve always been one for pretty girls. I had a reputation around Hollywood, always chasing one after the next, never reaching my fill or as the tabloids like to say.” You chuckled half-heartedly; the wound cutting deeper than you would have liked. “My publicist having to pay paparazzi an obscene amount of money to get these photos from ever hitting online, month after month, it was pathetic really. Just trying to fill a hole, one I didn’t even know how to fill.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of and I never wanted you to see me differently but I’m not ashamed anymore though. I’m not that person anymore. I haven’t been since I met you.” Abby falls silent, her cheeks turning crimson before she can try to hide it “You not knowing how I was, it's just the humbling I needed. Not to mention you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen— you still are— but you had a girlfriend so I kept my feelings silent. Something just felt different with you and then you were single and I was afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin you so I made a promise to myself. I would never start anything with you, not unless I was in love with you.”

“You love me?”

“It’s impossible not to.” You sigh into her, forehead pressed against hers, her strong hold not letting go. “You don’t have to say anything or do anything. I don’t expect anything in return. I just can’t live in a world where you think because you’re not experienced as some, you think you’re less than people who are.”

“It’s true, I’m not there with everyone else and it shows.”

“Abby, you’re not getting it.”

“Well, no shit. I’m not good enough for any of this, you especially.”

“It’s not…” You bite your lip as you reach for her hands on your waist, intertwining them with your own. “Abs, it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” Your lips ghost over her lips again, but this time Abby inches closer, her breath warm as it hits your mouth.

“What?”

“If I was a patient person and waited for you.”

More than before, Abby’s breath is heavy as the rise and fall of her chest is rapid, trying to calm herself down but it’s impossible when you’re this close. It’s a lot for her, maybe she’s overly sensitive, but your touch is practically lighting her on fire. Abby wonders if it will ever be able to be put out or if your magnetic touch will leave her scorned.

Puppy eyes inwardly pleading for an ounce of your touch, so sweet as she supports your weight with her strong thighs, anchoring you to her — never quite letting go. A single glance detrimental to the layer of protection she built around herself.

“There’s no more waiting, m’right here.” Abby closes the gap indefinitely, lips connecting with yours as they move in perfect harmony, as if this is what she was made for. Involuntarily, she whimpers in your mouth as you gently tug at her bottom nibble at her bottom lip, your tongue sliding in as it dominates her own. It happens too quickly — the way her very being melts into you.

Like honey to a bee, there’s nothing that’s ever been so sweet.

This is all you need.

“Abby?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

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#(ᝰ.ᐟ) tlou works.#THIS SHIT BEEN IN MY DRAFTS SINCE MARCH.#MARCH!#anyways lmk if you guys like it!#more to come from me soon #i've been very motivated lately ♡#abby anderson #abby anderson angst #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x masc reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby x reader #abby x y/n #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson fanfiction

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