#i wanted to write something for him again

[poisonf0rest]

Poison I am on my hands and knees BEGGING PLEADING IMPLORING for some more teacher Rafayel i did not know I needed it until you made me see the light godbless biggest fattest kiss for you MUAH

(I hope you don’t take this as me demanding you to write anything, definitely only if you want of course!!)

teacher's pet?

♱⋅── a/n: 3k of Professor! Rafayel. It's not his fault you're so easy to tease, to rile up, to get you right where he wants you when you're being a brat and not listening to your dear professor. art credit to @/sugarqiyu on x

Rafayel is a world-renowned artist, known for his masterpieces communicating all the rage and depth of the ocean, a devotion so palpable apparently you could drown in it. A rumor second only to his notorious reputation of having the face of an angel and personality of the devil. 

You can vouch that both these rumors are damn near true. 

Linkon University jumped at the opportunity when the Rafayel offered to become an adjunct professor for the senior year art capstone.

From the first day, the entire lecture hall was captivated under Rafayel's siren spell, his voice like sweet poison as he first introduced himself to the class, words a careful balance between arrogant and playful— that is, until you introduced yourself. 

It was barely noticeable, something you almost swear you imagine, but those sunset eyes light up when you say your name, his smile becomes a little less hollow, and something in his gaze arrests you so violently you nearly forget to look away. 

Little do you know Rafayel has been looking for you in this lifetime for nearly seventy years. And finally, finally he’s found you. So what if these circumstances are a little less ideal than usual? 

He’s not letting you go again. 

Professor Rafayel gives you impossible standards to meet, critiques that cut deep enough to make you want to scream, and grades that keep you shackled to his office hours.

He’s careful, though. His feedback is always just shy of unreasonable, his authority unchallenged, his reputation untouchable. And when you come storming into his office demanding an explanation, he just smiles, leaning back in his chair with the air of a predator who knows his prey walked right into the trap.

“Poor thing,” he drawls, feigning sympathy as his eyes slowly trace your figure from behind his glasses. “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this. But I suppose... with the right guidance...”

He lets the offer dangle, his gaze heated and unwavering. You hate that your heart races, hate that you need his approval, his help. Hate that he looks so damn smug knowing just how to make you beg, just how to make you come looking for him instead. 

Professor Rafayel savors every insult you hurl behind his back, every time you grumble to your friends about his impossible standards and arrogant demeanor. He listens, silently cataloging each biting word, each curse muttered under your breath.

And when he finally has you moaning his name, his mouth wicked and merciless between your thighs, he can’t help but remind you of every cruel thing you’ve said.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth, cutie. Didn't you call me a sadistic asshole last week?” His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he flicks your clit with his tongue again, smirking as you writhe in overstimulation. “I suppose I am... but you love it, don’t you?”

The way you choke on a sob only makes him smile wider.

Private lessons with Professor Rafayel become a blur between you learning and losing your mind. 

Half of the time, Rafayel is a masterful teacher, and his passion for art is as mesmerizing as his paintings. He speaks about color theory with a fervor that none of your other professors have come close to, his eyes alight as he explains the emotional weight of each shade, the way hues can whisper secrets or scream rage. His knowledge is boundless, and his lessons on storytelling through art are so captivating you almost forget to breathe.

But it’s the tales of Lemuria that leave you spellbound, like something out of a fairytale or tragedy. Ancient techniques lost to time, rituals where pigments were mixed with seashells, and spells hidden in brushstrokes. He speaks with such reverence, his voice low and haunting, and sometimes, just sometimes, you catch a flicker of sorrow in his gaze, as if he’s lived through it all.

He shows you his personal collection, paints richer and more vivid than anything you’ve ever seen. Reds deeper than blood, shimmering blues that seem to ripple like water. He teaches you to paint underwater landscapes that feel eerily familiar, scenes of ancient temples swallowed by the sea, fragments of a forgotten and drowned world.

You convince yourself it’s just Rafayel’s eccentric genius rubbing off on you, a byproduct of his intoxicating charisma. But then he watches you with that knowing smile, his eyes gleaming as if he’s waiting for you to remember something you’ve long forgotten.

The other half of the time, Professor Rafayel’s lessons are nothing short of madness. He invades your space, his body always too close, his mere presence overwhelming.

His hands are always on yours when he shows you how to sketch the curve of moving muscle, the delicate slope of a hip, fingers guiding yours with agonizing slowness. His touches linger, featherlight in ways that make you shiver, his breath brushing your ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice addictive and velvety.

You try to stay focused, try to be professional, but his scent wraps around you, warm and heady, and your mind spirals. You spend far too long watching the way his hands move, the lithe grace of his fingers, the gentle strength that could so easily ruin you.

Your paintbrush trembles, your breathing uneven, and you can’t help the way your heart races when his chest presses against your back, his hands guiding yours as he whispers, “Just like that... perfect.”

Your professor knows exactly what he’s doing, of course. Rafayel feels the way your hand trembles around the paintbrush, sees the way your pupils dilate, hears every shaky breath. Rafayel drinks it all in, his smile infuriatingly smug, his sunset eyes heavy with satisfaction.

And when he finally touches you—really, truly touches you—all your remaining morality crumbles.

Of course, it’s punishment when you fail to turn in your twenty still-life practices by the end of the week. 

You’re slammed down on his desk before you can think to protest, paint-stained fingers clutching the wood as he presses you down, his body caging you in. He kisses like he paints, with passion and devotion, stealing your breath and sanity in one fell swoop. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—touching, gripping, claiming.

You gasp as he pushes your skirt up, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear, babbling nonsense about how dare you wear something so cute, so sinful to his class and how he’s been thinking about ripping it off your slutty little hips all day long. 

“All that complaining, but you’re rather obedient now,” Rafayel teases, his voice mocking as his fingers curl, instantly finding that spot that makes you scream around his fingers. “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d learn faster.”

You curse him, or at least you try, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as he curls them up again, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. Rafayel laughs. “You’re very cute when you’re frustrated.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying his name, apologizing for being a brat, every stroke and curl of his fingers calculated to drive you to the edge, to make you lose all sense of time and reason. And when Rafayel finally lets you come undone, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, he watches you fall apart with that infuriatingly smug smile, as if this was his plan all along.

And maybe it was.

Later, you’ll try to paint again, your mind hazy, body aching. But every brushstroke feels too intimate, every color too vibrant, too alive. You’ll stare at the canvas and swear it’s moving, the paint shimmering, swirling, forming shapes that look hauntingly like his eyes. You’ll feel his presence behind you, his hands warm on your shoulders, his voice velvet-smooth as he purrs, “See? Was that so hard?”

Private lessons were always his trap. And now, Rafayel’s got you exactly where he wants you.

When Professor Rafayel suggests you sketch him nude “for practice,” he’s already won. 

You know it the moment his lips curl into that wicked, knowing smile, the kind that makes your pulse race and your stomach flip. You should have said no. Should have refused, made up some excuse, anything to avoid this situation.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And now you’re trapped, heart pounding as he begins to strip in front of you.

He’s maddeningly slow about it, drawing out each movement with practiced ease, and you’re hyper-aware of every single detail. The way his fingers deftly loosen his tie, the silk sliding from his collar with a whisper that makes your breath hitch. His eyes never leave you, watching every nervous fidget, every time you shift in your seat pretending to be unaffected. But you don’t fool him. Not for a second.

Rafayel’s hands continued down to the buttons of his shirt, his long fingers working methodically, one by one, exposing more pale skin with every pop of fabric. You can’t help it—your gaze follows the path of his fingers, tracing the lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle beneath his skin.

You swallow hard, mentally debating if it would be worse to watch him or worse to chicken out now, practically surrendering and acknowledging what watching your professor does to you. Not that you could think at all when his shirt falls open, slipping off his shoulders to pool on the tiled floor, leaving him half-naked, so casually beautiful it makes you ache.

Rafayel’s enjoying this far too much. There’s the same smug glint in his eyes as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure. He begins to thumb at his slacks and you whip your head away, your entire body going rigid at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the click of metal on metal echoing through the empty lecture hall.

You don’t dare look, eyes glued to the blank canvas before you as heat floods your cheeks. But your traitorous mind cruelly fills in the details, painting a picture more vivid than any still life you’ve ever drawn. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the pedestal as he positions himself, and when you finally gather the courage to glance back the sight makes you forget the canvas entirely. 

Rafayel lounges on the pedestal like he belongs there, all long limbs and lazy grace, his body on full display with a confidence that borders on obscene. His skin is milky pale, the delicate arch of his ribs leading to the defined lines of his abdomen and fuck of course he has a six pack, his muscles lean and corded beneath flawless flesh.

Rafayel is every bit the masterpiece you expected, unfairly beautiful even like this, his glasses still perched on his nose, that infuriatingly smug smile playing at his lips.

“Well?” he drawls, arching an eyebrow as he settles into a pose, one arm draped artfully over his head, his body a careful composition of sharp lines and curves. “I thought you were supposed to be drawing, not gawking. Not the best student, are you?”

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you force yourself to look back at the canvas, gripping the charcoal so hard it threatens to snap. You try to be professional, try to focus on the technicalities—the shapes, the shadows, the proportions. But it’s impossible when every angle of him is so utterly mesmerizing, when every stretch and shift only highlights the elegance of his form.

Your strokes are shaky at first, charcoal dust smudging your fingers as you outline his figure, but it’s hard to stay steady when his ocean dual-toned eyes are fixed on you, gleaming with mischief and something far more dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing, each subtle change in his posture designed to make you squirm. When he stretches, his body arching like a cat, you almost drop your charcoal, your mouth going dry at the ripple of muscle, the unapologetic sensuality of it all.

“You’re tense,” he comments, his voice soft, lilting with amusement. “Your lines are stiff. Rigid.” He shifts, his body unfurling as he sits up, one leg bent, his arm resting lazily atop his knee. You make a sound in protest, frowning as you lose your reference. “Heh, you won’t capture the fluidity of the human form like that. You need to relax, loosen up.”

You bite back a retort, teeth grinding as you force yourself to adjust your grip, trying to follow his advice. But then he’s standing, moving toward you without a semblance of shame or modesty, his fingers curling around yours, guiding the charcoal along the paper. His completely bare body is too close, his skin too warm, the faint persistent seasalt and driftwood scent of his cologne too intoxicating as he presses against your back.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning back into his touch, one hand still shading the muscle and contour of his body as the other blindly reaches out for Rafayel’s body, hitting the edge of his abs before sliding downwards ever so slowly. 

“Don’t stop there, I’ll help.” And Rafayel’s hands come to meet yours, encircling the charcoal with one as the other wraps your palm around his dick. “You have to move your hand like this…” Gently flicking his wrist to show you the proper shading technique for the lighter areas, groaning into the back of his neck as you repeat the movement around his base, already leaking down to your fingers. 

“Just like that, nice and fluid.” His fingers guide yours around his shaft, setting a pace that makes his breath hitch, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder as his hips roll forward, chasing the friction. “Good girl.”

You can barely focus, your vision blurring as he curls his fingers around yours, moving the charcoal in slow, fluid strokes over the paper. But your other hand is trapped—held in place by his, wrapped around the velvety heat of his cock, his hips giving the tiniest, most subtle thrusts into your palm as if he can’t help himself.

He’s so hard, so hot, already leaking onto your fingers, and your breath shudders as he groans against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

“You’re sooo tense, cutie. Why is that, hmm?”

“Professor…” His title slips out before you can stop it, your voice trembling, your fingers tightening instinctively around him. His laugh is breathy, wicked, and he nips at your ear, his teeth sharp, his tongue soothing the sting. 

“Remember, it’s just Rafayel when we’re together.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, not when he’s so close, not when he’s touching you like this, guiding you, molding you. His thumb rolls over yours, smudging charcoal across the page, and you realize you’ve accidentally traced the same curve over and over, lost in the rhythm he’s set. You’re not even drawing anymore, just following his lead, letting him control every movement, every sensation.

“Rafayel.” You repeat, and he swears he loses his mind just a little. 

“That’s it,” he urges, his voice shaking slightly, rougher. “You can be braver than that. This is your art, isn’t it? You decide what to do with it.” Rafayel’s teeth scrape along your neck, and you shiver, your eyes fluttering shut as he ruts against you, his cock twitching in your grip, his moans muffled against your shoulder as he loses himself to the pleasure you’re giving him. 

When suddenly, he pulls away. 

You’re entire body goes rigid. Did you do something wrong? Did he change his mind? Has he finally realized how utterly inappropriate this is and chose to save himself the scandal and embarrassment of being caught with you? 

Mind still racing a mile a minute, it’s Rafayel’s gentle touch on your tense shoulders that has you breathing again.  “On second thought, maybe I’m not in the right condition to teach you. Maybe you also need to…” Rafayel’s arms come to wrap around you, fingers slipping under your shirt as lips trace the shell of your ear, and you swear you feel a light nip. “get comfortable.”

The charcoal hits the ground with a hollow crack. 

Your back hits the wall of his office with a muffled thud, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, it was supposed to end with you getting that damned A back on the last assignment. But not like this. Not this.

It’s reckless, dangerous, stupid. But Rafayel’s hands are already beneath your shirt, those stupidly gorgeous and talented fingers caressing bare skin, and each heated touch makes it harder to remember why you were fighting in the first place.

“Wait,” you gasp between kisses, your voice trembling as his mouth trails down your neck, “People might see...”

“Shh, it’s okay, cutie,” Rafayel laughs, his voice a low purr that vibrates against your collarbone. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with desire, a wicked grin playing at his lips. He’s already ruined you, already got you drunk on his touch, and yet you’re still worrying about silly, inconsequential things. That means he’s not doing enough. “No one will know.”

Not that he’d mind. In fact, the thought of someone catching you like this—of someone realizing that you’re his, completely and irrevocably—only excites Rafayel more. After all, he didn’t lock the door. Anyone truly could just walk in, and his cock jumps at the thought. 

Teeth grazing your pulse, Rafayel’s tongue soothes the sting as his fingers tease below the waistband of your jeans. “You’re so cute when you try to be good,” he teases, his voice mockingly sweet. “Too bad you’re not really the model student you pretend to be.”

Your protest dies in your throat as his hand finds your clit with practiced ease, stroking slow and deliberate through your panties, drawing out a needy whimper that you can’t quite swallow. His mouth is on yours again before you can think to be embarrassed, the kiss possessive, consuming, swallowing every last protest you can think of. 

“See?” he whispers against your lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You don’t really care who hears, do you?” Rafayel then curls his fingers, thrusting deep in as you scream, clawing at his shoulders and desk as your knees go weak.

God, you hate him. You hate the way he knows your body better than you do, the way he unravels you so easily. You hate the smug look on his face, the cocky confidence as he drives you to the edge. But you hate yourself more for how desperately you crave him, how much you want him, consequences be damned.

Because he’s right, nothing matters here. Not anymore. 

Nothing besides your dear professor.

[ipushhimback]

Hugs?

pairing: lando norris x reader words: ig around 500? warinings: periods?

summary: you wake up with cramps and your boyfriend comforts you <3

You woke up in the morning feeling like crap. Your whole body was aching and even just the thought about moving just a little made it hurt even more. 

Lando was still softly snoring next to you with his arm wrapped around your waist and his face buried in your neck. You gently moved his arm from your waist as the pain was just intensifying with the pressure. Your boyfriend scrunched his face but didn’t wake up. Luckily.

You didn’t need him to wake up to you being on your period the first time he stayed over at yours. You knew how unbearable you could become when you were in pain and your hormones were all over the place. 

But only a few minutes later you could feel Lando stir next to you as he stretched himself and rubbed his eyes before opening them and looking at you with so much love in them you thought you would melt in a puddle right now.

“Hey, darling. How long have you been awake?”, he asked with a sleepy smile on his face.

“Not long. Maybe ten minutes or so. You slept well?”, you asked as you pressed a kiss to Lando’s lips.

“Yeah. Your bed is comfy. Or maybe I just like having you next to me. You ok? You look a little pale”, Lando said while he furrowed his brow in worry. 

“All good, Lan. Just tired”, you tried to reassure him though you could see that your boyfriend didn’t believe you. 

The next moment you couldn’t pretend to be fine anymore as a sharp wave of pain rolled through you, making you swear under your breath. “Fuck.”

“You are absolutely not ok. Is it your period?”, Lando asked and you just stared at him perplexed. “I have sisters. No pretending here. I did it all. Doing hot water bottles. Going to the store to get chocolate or whatever cravings they had. Buying pads in the middle of the night. Seriously, just be honest. Is it bad?”

You couldn’t help but nod as you felt your eyes well up with tears by how sweet your boyfriend was.

“You want a heating pad? Hot chocolate? Painkillers? Hugs?”, Lando asked again and you nodded while the tears started falling. 

“Oh, baby. No crying, ok?”, Lando said as he wiped the tears from his your cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute”, he continued as he got up.

As promised, he returned only a little later, having a heating pad, painkillers, water, and a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. He placed it all in front of you and sat down next to you, wrapping his arms around you again. You leaned your head on his chest and let yourself just be held.

Lando leaned forward a little and grabbed the painkillers that he then held out to you. 

“Here. They’ll help.” He grabbed that water bottle as well and opened the lid. 

You took a sip and placed the bottle back on the table to swap it with the hot chocolate. 

“I hate seeing you in pain”, Lando said as he kissed the top of your head. 

“Well, I hate being in pain”, you said chuckling a little. “But thanks for being here. For taking care of me. I was scared you might be grossed out”, you admitted.

“Grossed out? Never. You are amazing and I won’t leave over something so small. I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Lan.”

a/n: something short bc i am planning to write something else but don’t have any inspiration… also, i think all of us deserve a lando in our life who makes us hot chocolate

tags: @strawberryy-kiwii / @a-distantdreamer / @requiemforthepoets / @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @comicalivy / @sid-is-gr8 / @picklesbuddy93 / @sadiemack9 / @f1fantasys / @cloud-55 / @sunny44 / @widow-cevans / @gigicisneros / @mbioooo0000 / @sinfully-yoursss / @bravo-delta-eccho / @rue-t / @mayax2o07 / @alexanderachillesisgay / @maviesamour / @suhchenjun / @pippyth3hippy / @sweate-r-weathe-r / @joannaln4 / @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy / @aleatorio1234 

[hellokittykookies]

Pose for me - J.JK -

──── sypnosis ✮⋆˙ After years of running from the life you never wanted, you thought you had finally succeeded. erasing y/n, becoming ji-ha, and leaving your past behind. But then came him. A model you accidentally brought to a cotillion, a man effortlessly loved by the woman who had become family to you. And it just so happens He was connected to the one person you abandoned nine years ago. You were supposed to avoid him. To walk away. So why did you keep finding yourself right next to him?

──── pairings ✮⋆˙ Model! jk x Photographer! reader (y/n also ji ah)

──── genre ✮⋆˙ slow burn, fake dating, forced proximity, angst, romance, mutual pining, emotional hurt/comfort, smut, hidden identity, jealousy, high fashion industry setting

──── contents ✮⋆˙ simp!jungkook, creative director!reader, reader works at dior, model!jungkook, jealousy, secret lingering touches, soft but intense sexual tension, rich! reader, rich! jungkook, domestic moments, unresolved tension, slow trust-building, implied sex (not detailed) unprotected sex (it's not detailed. just implied), family issues, abandonment themes, identity struggles, missing person case mentions, emotional breakdowns, trust issues, georgina is inspired by georgina sparks, inspired by gossip girl and devil wears prada, brother! taehyung, assistant! georgina, calvin klein jungkook, jungkook is like the main main model or the face of calvin klein, part time photographer! reader (it's her side quest pls), petty fights, bickering, push and pull?, nepo baby! jk (mentioned), make outs, kissing, teasing, curse words.

──── notes ✮⋆˙ this was last year. i haven't written anything in a while. i was looking or browsing my works on wattpad and saw this fic that i completely forgot about. i posted a poll and yall voted for me to post it so here it is! your wish is my command. haha. i'm still not sure if i wanna come back to writing but this fic is making me want to. the problem? no motivations and my words aren't still wording like before. i made my friend read the whole fic and helped me fix it and edit it so here it iss! most of the fics that were posted here in my acc will be reposted in ao3 or wattpad. reading this fic was mind blowing to me honestly. i feel proud about this.... i'm sorry if it doesn't feel rght or not omg i am not an expert at these things. i searched and researched stuff about devil wears prada outfits to change her outfits cuz it was sooo bad in the draft. like... tf you mean you're THAT rich and you're wearing forever 21 skinny jeans with fucking fitted top?? omg... my friend and i was cringing sooo baaddd. the amount of times i wrote "your breath hitched" "then" "smirk" what the fuck honestly... wrote this like actually july 2024 or something. i tried my best making this better so pls bare with me. the contents are there and the notes is here. if you don't like it feel free to give feedbacks but pls make it a little nicer maybe? also this was the time i was soo obsessed with devil wears prada. me and my friend changed the names, characters and some of the character traits cuz we thought it'd be fun if we added georgina sparks inspired character here (minus the part where she always want drama or trouble ofc), again i am not an expert at these stuff. had to literally ask my mom shit about her bags and designer stuff when i was re editing this. also i looovveee calvin klein jk omg... i can NEVER get over that era. we made ocs character a little bit moree pushy and stuff like pushing jk away and more in denial lmao. don't even know if this is slow burn or not but whatever.

──── WC ✮⋆˙ 34k

tumblr won't let me post all of it all at once so i'll post each of it part by part. atleast like 5k words per chapt next week as i have a flight tommorow lolll. also fly high michelle trachtenberg:(((

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

[fireladyofink]

Oh God.. uuhhhh.. been a minute since I tried one of these..

Skipping 1, hate first person, just can't do it, not even read it.

2 is 100% Andlàtkyn. There's some issues here and there but it will always be my pride and joy.

Due to not posting on AO3 (even though I really should be), 3 is mostly ineffective. Except Wattpad has tags. I'd say UTAU, dragons and crossover.

4, lol. Literally. Lately I keep using that (only when texting others) and it's bothering me. I feel like a simpleton because of how much I'm saying that, eugh.

5 I've honestly learned a lot while researching fics. For one, I found out lantana berries are toxic to humans yet taste like blueberries, and I have them growing in my backyard. They're actually my favorite plant! I love their flowers; so pretty, and they have such a uniquely funky smell as well. Part of why I adore them, it stands out so much without being a bad smell. And the leaves have a sort of citrus smell? I love lantanas.

6 I don't know. I've thought about requests due to the money, but I feel like I'd either struggle to start writing it or get carried away with it- or straight up not finish in a reasonable timeframe. Commissions? Like art commissions? Maybe in a few years when I'm more confident in my skills and also somehow have a drawing tablet to properly draw digitally. Something like that.

7 Either or. I love making sickeningly sweet coffee or various different teas.

8 Is honestly hard to decide! Off the top of my head I can think of Dust initially meeting Killer with the hilariously absurd question of "What do you mean you don't have a mouth? How are you speaking right now? Your ass?"

9 Believe it or not it was basically when I first got a phone and commented a short story in the comments of a YouTube video. Someone replied with a suggestion of Wattpad. The rest is history, lol.

10 Off the top of my head I can't think of anything beyond something very specific for the fic I've been thinking about again lately, Ninjagaësia. Only time I've written outside of the UT fandom too, I specifically want to get around to writing that version of Zane more. What I had planned for him is fun as hell. An absolute badass.

11 Lots of comments, votes and people enjoying it. Which, continuing the above mention, Ninjagaësia doesn't qualify for. Pretty unsuccessful, but for once I don't really care.

12 Undertale AU's. I doubt I'll ever leave, either.

13 No. Hell, my ultimate fic of Andlàtkyn was written throughout the later half of highschool. I am technically working on an original story on the sidelines, I call it my worldbuilding project because I'm building up so much lore in this world before I actually touch on the story itself outside of a vague idea. About 60-ish different species of people, including the were-diseases. Last I counted, anyway. I'll be working on it for years, I know it, and I don't mind that either.

14 Comments talking about my fics on said fics. Actual interactions! It brings me joy. 🧡

15 My family is well aware. I don't bring up a lot of details but the last time I went into vague detail with my mother it was over a scene in Andlàtkyn (no direct spoilers) and she interpreted it weirdly and now she teases me by asking if I'm killing babies again! A bit awkward..

16 Actually finishing a damn story. I don't mind the periods of no writing until I get inspired again, but what annoys me is when I can't seem to finish anything. Only ever finished Andlàtkyn. I still have yet to write anything for the sequel to it, either! Zeradelsída is still just a bunch of loose plot points..

17 I am semi successfully writing benevolent eldritch horror. It doesn't intend harm, but it is truly.. horrifying nonetheless. The uncertainty of someone knowing he died, feeling his own heart stop beating, and feeling something OTHER seep inside and force it to start again, pulsing in his veins, fusing with his anatomy, permanently altering both him and itself into something completely unknowable.. I'm rambling. Anyone who hasn't seen my Wattpad, read Awakened. If you don't mind ridiculously long fics, read Andlàtkyn too!

18 I have at least 7 I mostly expect to finish, with at least 4 others just kind of.. there. I don't think I've posted any of those, either. I also have ideas inspired by dreams that I'd love to write down someday, though don't really expect to actually codify.

19 I kind of just don't. I work on different projects as the inspiration hits, take a backseat for a month or so, then come back to either the same project or a different one.

20 Hmmm.. Hard to think of something specific. I'm leaning towards stuff in Andlàtkyn. I don't really have a favorite kiss scene because I don't do romance. I write adventure! Andlàtkyn has some side romance though- not that any of it is my favorite. Platonic stuff, though.. I'd say my favorite is honestly Lust and Alter incidentally befriending each other and becoming venting buddies. It's the cutest thing, their friendship is adorable and wholesome despite the background angst. I didn't write nearly as much of them as deserved.

21 Honestly it's mostly lack of inspiration that I'm pretty sure stems from depression. If I could get an ADHD prescription or depression meds I'd probably be a lot better but like. I am completely broke. So much so that those issues aren't even in the top 10 of pressing problems solved with money.

22 Given I've literally only done it once.. not really. I guess I post it around everywhere I can think of in excitement?

23 That one continuous dream I had that went on over a month centered on a Nightmare that was freshly corrupted. He was honestly so nerdy and adorable despite putting on the brave and mildly "evil" front. The boy. Him. Goddamnit I want to write that at some point.

24 Honestly I can't think of anything for this one.

25 Oh yeah, I can't think of anything off the top of my head but there's a lot I'd like to fix in all of my stories, lol.

26 Kind of? It's a more recent development, did it for Zeradelsída which still has yet to be written, did it for that Ninjagaësia too. A little bit of a broad, even vaguer outline for things I want to happen in Awakened, too? More like events, no particular order or connection.

27 A few of those WIP's that haven't been posted... Okay technically just one. There's also the very first fic I wrote that is subsequently the only one I've ever deleted.

28 Angstiest often coincides with cursed for some reason, so I'll just go with the ending of Andlàtkyn for the Apple Twins.

29 I kind of just.. don't. If I do, I start hating everything, and because I'm not THAT bad at spelling and grammar I think it's mostly fine the way it is.

30 Oh absolutely. It's particularly obvious when one looks at Andlàtkyn, which I wrote over the course of 4 years. Really neat transition, if I ever manage to do it, I'd rewrite the beginning a little to match the rest when crossposting to AO3. If I ever get around to that.

31 Again, Andlàtkyn. That fic is my baby, man. It's so precious to me.

32 Honestly I don't know for this one, which is weird.

33 100% Ink of Awakened. My little boy. I have some friends that would rib the hell out of me if they ever found out, lol. Thankfully the main one doesn't even remember that he has a Tumblr.

34 I was not expecting how hard of a question this is! I thought it was Andlàtkyn, but thinking about it.. I don't think so? It might simply just change depending on which one I'm currently fixated on, but at the moment I think my favorites to get that on is Awakened and Ninjagaësia, second of which already has basically nothing to begin with.

35 I don't have anything, oof.

Fanfic/Author Ask Game

Write a scene from [insert fic] in another character’s POV

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A character you enjoy making suffer.

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Wild Card: Ask me something else!

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Young and Beautiful"

Prologue

ya'll, I cannot sleep with my arm in this stupid cast, so i started rereading "the great Gatsby" (my comfort book) and i got this idea. i know, i know, i have 3 unfinished fics buttttttt i'm injured and this is my blog and i have free will so i'm writing this. This is yandere romantic batboys and bruce x reader. BUT set in the roaring 20's. Send in asks, requests, ideas, and just what you think about this! Likes, comments, reblogs and asks are encouraged and keep me going! Love yall <333. This is written in 1st person, reader is recalling events in her journal. This is a rough draft for the prologue! Sorry if it doesnt make sense, i'm high off pain meds writing this bc i'm BORED.

The first time I saw Jason Todd, he was nothing to me Just another boy in my father’s estate, covered in dirt, hands rough from labor, his bruised knuckles proof of a fight he hadn’t won. His blue eyes were sharp, full of something wild, something untamed, something that made you bristle, the kind of fire you knew to stay away from, even at 12 years old.

The first time I spoke to Jason Todd, two years after I saw him, I thought he was filth.

He was a boy covered in dirt, his hands stained with mud and the smell of horses, his knuckles raw from a fight he clearly hadn’t won. His face was sharp, bruised, skinny and too wild for someone who worked under my father’s name. He was nothing, just another street rat lucky enough to be given work in my father’s stables, another nameless stray that old Mr. Wilkes had dragged in from the gutters of Gotham. He smelled like sweat, hay, and something sharp, something angry.

I was fourteen years old and wore pearls around my throat, a silk dress with delicate lace at the sleeves. My father’s estate stretched over rolling green fields, our mansion standing tall like something out of a dream. My mother’s hands were soft, her perfume sweet, and I had never known hunger or want. My world was a world of glittering lights and expensive champagne, of high society and grand parties, of people who smiled with their teeth but whispered behind painted fans.

Jason Todd did not belong in my world.

Yet, somehow, he slipped in like a stain on silk.

We met on the back steps of the estate, where the stable boys cut through to the gardens. I was waiting for my automobile when he nearly ran into me, boots dragging dust over my polished shoes.

Jason Todd? He was filth beneath my shoes.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Because the first time I met him, he nearly ran into me.

He didn’t bow like other servants did, he didn’t apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness.

He barely even looked at me before muttering, “Watch it,” like I was in his way.

I had never been spoken to like that in my life.

I hated him immediately.

I took a startled step back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of sweat, hay, and horse.

The nerve.

I straightened my back like Daddy told me to when I wanted to look serious and I tilted my chin up as I stared down at him. "Excuse me?"

Jason smirked, slow and lazy, eyes glinting with amusement. "Did I stutter?"

I had never wanted to slap someone so badly.

Instead, I remember turning and walked away, forgetting my plans of going into town, heels clicking sharply against the stone, vowing to never look at him again and to hate him forever, no matter how handsome he was,.

That vow didn’t last long, especially when he took off his shirt.

Jason was everywhere.

I saw him at the stables, his shirtless back slick with sweat, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he worked. I saw him sneaking apples from the kitchen, disappearing into the trees, laughter on his lips. I saw him in the streets, fists flying, always coming back with fresh bruises, always alive in a way no one else was.

And then, you heard about him.

"That stable boy got into another fight," the maids whispered. "Damn near killed the other boy, apparently the other kid got smart about his lady."

At the time, I thought the strange burning feeling in my gut was disgust at even hearing Jason's name. Now I know, what I felt was pure jealousy, not knowing the 'lady' Jason nearly killed a boy over was me.

"He’s trouble," my mother warned when I asked about him at dinner. "Keep away from him, sweetheart."

"He won’t last long here," my mother sighed. "That kind of boy never does, no matter how much of a soft spot your father has for him."

My father pitied Jason, told me I oughta be nicer to him like I am to the other workers (he would regret that statement soon.)

He had no one. No mother, no father, no family, nothing but the clothes on his back and determination. He had what my father called "the look of a man who'd rather die than fail" and my father respected that.

But Jason did last.

I hated him.

Hated the way he smirked at me from across the gardens, like he knew something I didn’t.

I hated the way he never bowed, never apologized, never treated me like the others did.

I hated that when I was alone, when my father’s friends spoke about marrying me off to the sons of their business partners, I thought of Jason Todd instead.

The first conversation I had with Jason Todd was after I had fought with my father.

It was about marriage. About duty. About a boy I didn’t love.

I ran into the garden dramatically ignoring my father's desperate calls, pearls at my throat, tears in my eyes.

And Jason was already there.

Sprawled under an oak tree, cigarette between his lips, watching me like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

"You rich girls cry over the dumbest shit," he muttered.

I whipped around. "What did you just say to me?" How dare he speak to me like I was any other girl, like this wasn't my home, like he didn't work for my father.

Jason pushed himself up, boots kicking up dirt as he smirked. "You ever go to bed hungry?"

My breath caught. He had a point, you were privileged.

"Ever steal to survive?" His voice was low, teasing, sharp. "Ever wake up in the morning and wonder if you’ll still have a roof over your head by sundown?"

I didn’t answer, for the first time in years I felt something close to shame.

Jason tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with resentment. "Didn’t think so, princess."

I hated him. He made me feel childish. He humbled me. He burst my perfect bubble.

And I loved him for it.

I loved him for making you feel something real.

And that was the beginning of everything.

I loved Jason Todd.

I loved him when he me you out of the house at midnight and made me ride my horse bareback through the fields.

I loved him when he knocked the rich boy who called me a tease's teeth out.

I loved him when he threw pebbles at my window on the third floor and scaled the walls to my balcony.

I loved him when he kissed me for the first time at 14 under the summer stars, hands gripping my waist, mouth desperate against mine.

"You’re my Jason, my Jaybird," I whispered against his lips. Corny, but nothing felt better to say, especially when I saw his face.

Jason smiled like I had given him the whole damn world.

And he? He was my whole world.

When Jason was seventeen and I was fifteen, he walked into my father’s grand house, dressed in his best suit, nervous but determined and proud, his hands clean for once, his boots polished.

He asked my father for my hand in marriage. He asked my father for my hand and I thought he would say yes. Daddy always thought he was a hard worker, called him a real good sport.

He stood before my father and said, “I love her, sir. I’ll make her happy. Give me a chance. I ain't got much now, but one day I will. I'll give her what she's got and more.”

My father just laughed.

“Boy,” he said, shaking his head, “she’s not meant for men like you.”

Jason left that night, whispering a promise against my skin.

"I’ll come back for you, I'll be great. Be a man like how your daddy wants, rich and proper, he'll have to say yes."

I waited, god knows I did.

I wrote letters to the last address he gave me every single day.

For five years. Till I turned twenty. I never looked at another man, I had my Jason.

I waited for him to reply, fought off suitors and pressure from my mother. I waited for a reply, that he was coming soon, that he missed me.

I waited.

And my Jaybird never came back.

My father loved me.

He regretted turning Jason away five years later, when I still refused to marry. He never forced me to marry, not even when the years passed and my suitors grew frustrated with my refusals.

He saw my misery, my longing and admitted, “I should’ve said yes. I should’ve let you have him.”

He thought my Jason was a passing infatuation, he wondered what people would say about his daughter marrying the stable boy.

He wished he saw my love for Jason sooner.

But love wasn’t enough to keep the debt collectors away.

I knew something was wrong when my father began to look stressed, when my parents began to argue, and when I heard my mother cry herself to sleep after selling her favorite pearls.

My father was going to loose everything all at once.

The steel business wasn't what it used to be.

And then suddenly, Bruce Wayne arrived like a knight in shining armor.

He was older than me, 18 years my senior. Refined, powerful, and dangerously charming.

And most importantly, rich. He was exactly what I needed to stop my family's fall from grace.

Bruce courted me like a gentleman.

He sent roses every morning, took me to the finest restaurants, whispered in my ear about a future where I would never want for anything again.

He was patient.

He never forced me to love him.

He only asked for one thing.

"Let me take care of you."

I kept Bruce waiting for three months. All I could do was think of Jason. I knew he was not returning, that he either was dead or found some other pretty girl to make promises to.

I told myself love was not enough to fill an empty stomach and keep my parents happy like they did for me.

I told myself that Jason Todd was not coming back to save me, yet each morning I woke up waiting for a letter or pebbles thrown at my window.

After four months of courting, I decided.

And at twenty, I became Mrs. Bruce Wayne.

Jason Todd never sent me a single letter, but I still dreamed of my Jaybird even as I looked at the massive ring on my finger.

OKKKKK SO WHAT YA'LL THINK??? CONTINUE OR DELETE??? FLOP OR BOP? SEND IN ASKS!!!! I MISS YALL! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING ROMANCE W JASON AND BRUCE. I REALLY LIKE THIS AU!!!! WHAT DO YALL THINK IS GONNA HAPPEN? SORRU IF IT SUCKS OR DOESNT MAKE SENSE, I'M SO HIGH BRO.

BE NICE PLEASE, I'M IN PAIN! THIS IS NOT EDITED OR PROOF READ.

[messenger-of-babel]

Could you write about the sweetheart grips? Soldiers in ww2 used to put photos of their lovers on the grips of their guns and I think that would be cute with Jason.

Eye for An Eye

Summary: Jason keeps a photo of you in his gun to keep you close to him, even in his hardest moments. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.7K

Notes: dear anon I really, really wanted to make this sweet. But then I got an angst idea and- I tried to do it justice without too many tears. Forehead kisses for you because as soon as you sent this in I legit thought about this idea for like three days straight I fell in love with the concept. I might use it again for other Jason fics you got me hooked (I was a MASSIVE military history nerd). Warnings for description of violence and injury, character death, some choppy writing. Back onto my angst train, I'm so sorry y'all (I'll write this concept sweeter sometime, I SWEAR).

ALSO HAPPY 100 POSTS. It's crazy when I remember I'm still a baby blog. <3

Enjoy~! RiRi xoxo <3

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Bruce had never been one for guns, and while Jason was Robin, he hadn't either.

He didn't consider himself a particularly violent child or had any real craving to use weapons. After all, he never really hit anyone who didn't deserve it, and he got great satisfaction of getting back at people who thought they could hurt innocent civilians just because they were bigger and older than him.

That was until he was taken by Joker and showed just how much hurt someone older and bigger than could inflict.

April 27th, the date that the Joker killed Jason Todd.

Now, he couldn’t imagine his hands without the comforting grip of his pistol. The grips were designed just for him, slotting into the contours of his fingers and worn away in the areas he instinctually rubbed. They were wide so they sat snug in his large palms, with a coarse texture in the areas he habitually flexed. The grip allowed it to stick to his gloves for a steadier shot while it would simply irritate anyone else who tried to hold them.

Everyone knew that those guns were Jasons, but nothing said it quite like the new addition of the faded photo tucked into the grips. The colt's had originally come with wooden handgrips, which were quickly removed while he made his modifications.

"You know the Bat isn't gonna be happy with you getting another set of guns." Dick calls out, approaching his worktable in the cave. Jason just grunts at him over his shoulder, making sure he keeps the screws where he can see them.

"Bruce can honestly suck it up." he huffs, the mention of the Bat souring his demeanour immediately. Jason had wanted to do this in his apartment for this exact same reason. He knew Stephanie would annoy him with questions if she caught sight of him, and that Tim would interject constantly with 'improvements' he deemed necessary. Duke he could deal with, and Cass would leave him well enough alone.

Dick and Damian just managed to piss him off simply existing sometimes.

Mostly when he was already in a bad mood.

His older brother trots down the stairs, a frown forming on his face as he puts his hands on his hips to observe.

"Quiet." Jason mumbles flatly, knowing the older vigilante was giving him a disapproving stare. Dick ignores him, eyeing the photo tucked up near his water bottle.

"Jason," he says, voice a warning tone.

"I said quiet." he cuts off, wiping the area down with a damp cloth. Dick just sighs behind him as Jason gingerly picks up the photo, rubbing his calloused thumbs over it. Dick wants to say something as he eyes the photo but can't bring himself to speak above the block in his chest. He watches the tension ease from his brother’s shoulders, the muscles that had been stiffly held by his ears for weeks. The scowl he wore softened slightly, and he could actually hear him exhale for once instead of wondering if his chest actually was moving or not. Instead, Dick sighs in reluctance, giving in. Dick watches him with sad eyes, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a slight squeeze. "Don't forget to, you know," he leans forward slightly and draws a circle with his finger on a certain point of the photo. Jason's face ripples with a flash of pain, but he watches his younger brother grit his teeth and nod.

"Look after yourself, Jay." he murmurs, pulling back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Jason waits a little bit before turning back the photo, ensuring that Dick had left the cave. A still silence settled over the dim space once more. It didn't help the hum in his head, making his fingers and muscles shake, the white noise refusing to settle in his conscious. He gently drew on the photo of you with pencil, tracing the shape that he needed for the grip and ensuring that you weren't cut out by accident.

It was a favourite photo of his, taken at one of Bruce's galas. He hadn't wanted to go, hardly showing to the events in the first place. "Full of rich idiots trying to get even richer." he had told you, tossing a look over his shoulder to you. You were standing at the door, holding the invite that had been slipped through the mail slot. You waved the thick cardstock, a small smile on your face. "Aw, but I was kinda looking forward to going." you say, looking over the details. "I think it'll be fun."

"The only one who thinks those things are fun are Dick and Steph if she's around. Tim will get bored and probably turn into a loan shark if left unattended too long. So yeah, fun." he grumbled.

"What about Dami?"

Her turns around, eyebrows raised.

"I’m sorry?" he asks. "When did we start calling the demon child, Dami? We're on nickname level now?"

He hates how his heart flutters in his chest when he hears you laugh, melting away his annoyance.

"He's sweet, just a little prickly. like you." you grin, coming to wrap your arms around his neck, pecking him on the lips.

"Yeah, he's sweet to you, he's a little shit to everyone else." he grumbles.

"Sounds like someone else I know." you tease.

He can't help but grin, sighing out through his nose softly. "Fine. we can go." he grumbles, knowing he won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.

The photo he traces was from that night, you tucked into his side. You're staring at the camera with a sparkle in your eye, lips pulled back into a wide grin. You're wearing black to fit the theme of the ball, with red accents, matching him. He’s got his arm around your shoulder, taking the photo with you pressed up against him. He thinks you look stunning, eyes twinkling at him from the page.

He takes the exacto knife and gently runs it over the image, cutting himself out so that he can focus on you. The piece pops free, and he trims the edges. His heart thrums as he slides you onto the handle, fluttering with a tame delight.

"Don't forget to, you know..."

Dick’s voice floats back into his mind, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards once more. Reluctantly he pulls your photo from the handle and reaches for a screwdriver to his left, bringing it above the paper. He feels like he's about to stab you, the way the metal tip hovers above the image smiling back at him.

But he does it, heart clenching with each scrape across your eyes, slowly erasing the twinkle he loved so much. There's something sickening about the feeling of scratching your face out, the gritty sound of the photo tearing and leaving white streaks in its wake making his stomach flip. Finally, it's done, stark white lines blotting out your gaze. All that's left is the upturn of your lips, and the soft smile you wore.

With a heavy sigh Jason slots it back onto the handle, placing the clear protector over you. At least nothing could damage you more than he already had. He told himself it was for the better, as he cleaned his hands on a nearby rag and bit the inside of his cheek. You weren't the most supportive of his guns, but you liked that they kept him safe. You had had a few conversations with him about it but never an argument. He wanted to keep you close, but he knew he wasn't going to be an idiot about it. He wanted to protect you, hide your identity from any eagle-eyed thugs.

"Besides," he thought to himself. "Don't want em seeing what I'm about to do."

Maybe it was for the best that he covered your face for this.

His body hums with adrenaline, still alone in the Batcave. With scarred fingers he screws the cover onto the grip, clear cover sitting flush and keeping your photo secure. Jasons tosses it a few times in his hand, getting used to the feeling of the new colt pistols and making sure you weren't going to shake loose. When he was content, he looked over his shoulder, scanning the shadows for movement.

He knew that Bruce would condemn his actions, he didn’t even need to ask on that front. Dick would be understanding but try to hold him back, and Tim would try to talk him out of it. The only person he felt that silently agreed with him was Damian, the pair of them fostering an unlikely bond in the last few weeks.

Everyone in the manor knew what Jason was thinking.

What Jason was doing spending his nights in the Batcave, the one place he had grown to hate ever since coming back.

What he contemplated as he haunted the halls of the manor, the place he often traded in for the comfort of his downtown apartment.

Everyone knew what Jason was going to do tonight, yet none of them were game enough to say it out loud or stop him.

Therefore, Jason took their silence as compliance because he knew somewhere deep down, they wanted him to do it.

Or was he deluding himself?

He shook the thought from his head, holstering the newly decorated pistol. He was already dressed and strapped for this mission, no turning back now. With heavy hands he donned his helmet, taking a deep breath as he pushed Jason aside to become Red Hood. The air was still, as if the Batcave was filled with spirits watching him in silence as he mounted the bike and pressed the key for the garage door, speeding out.

He was already haunted by too many ghosts.

The streets of Gotham were relatively quiet, the usual alleys he stalked devoid of the thugs he would have expected. It seemed that even the city was holding its breath, civilians tucked safely inside. He knew where he was going.

He had been receiving mocking invites in the mail for the last week, notes attached to crime scenes in a gory fashion just to mock him. So really, it was no surprise when he arrived at Gotham cemetery, parking outside and not even bothering to kill the engine. He wasn’t going to be long anyways.

Just past the cemetery was the crumbling shell of Arkham, ivy covering the brickwork and roof caving in. His boots crushed broken panes of glass as he entered the decaying mental hospital, leaves scattered through the building from wrinkled trees that had cracked through the floors. He slowly made his way to the upper floor, where he had seen the lights.

Instinctually he reached for his gun, and he felt his heart calm sliding his hand over your picture secured into his sweetheart grip. He hadn't felt this anxious fighting in a while, unused to the way that his pulse thudded against his neck or the dryness that crept into his mouth. The corridor felt like it stretched on forever, making his vision swim trying to reach the light at the end.

Candlelight flickered weakly at the end of the hall, luring him in like a moth. As he stepped in he took note of it, hand tightening. Jason knew he was going to play with him, taunt and torture him. The images of you taped up on the peeling walls were enough. Photos that spanned back months, photos of you on dates, at work, in his car, in your apartment, blurry photos of you and him in his bed. His thumb instinctually placed itself over your eyes, despite them already being scratched out.

He didn't need you seeing the messy patchwork of your life.

Jason didn't even mind the photos, knowing the sadist would be doing something like that. What he did mind though were the images of you from three weeks ago, the same images that Dick had refused to let him see, that Tim wiped off the Batcomputer hard drive and Babs had removed from the GCPD database. The ones displaying the blood, the bone, the bruising.

Your eyes, unseeing.

Everything that was so familiar to him, but so foreign on you.

Everything that that one curved piece of metal had caused way back when, stained a dark brown. The same piece of metal that was sitting in the middle of the desk at the centre of the crude shrine, drying with a fresher coat of oxidised red.

He felt his heart rise to his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was bile in his throat or the taste of blood from his bitten lip. His grip turned white, muscles flexing under the skin and pressing unnaturally hard. He felt the green tinged mania inside him rear its head, threatening to take over his mind and act purely on instinct. The Lazarus pit clawed and pulled at his soul harder that it had in years, gasping at him like a beggar, screaming for a shred of violence to feed it.

He knew the game. He knew all of this was to provoke him, try to get Jason to release the rage inside him. The monster wanted to see him squirm, see him struggle to keep himself in check. He wanted to watch Jason Todd fight against the Red Hood, watch the Bats moral code play out on his face.

Well, Jason wasn't Batman. He wasn't Bruce.

As soon as a skinny figure moved from the shadows to his right, his pistol was out in a flash. His free hand ripped the mask from his face, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed, but he felt more relaxed than he had been in ages.

He was no Batman. He was Jason Todd.

And Jason was going to do the one thing Bruce had always been too much of a coward to do.

With one crisp bang the clown couldn’t get a single word out before he was splayed on the floor. As Jason stepped over the body he regarded it apathetically, barely biting down the urge to step on it. The bastards’ lips were pulled back in a wide smile, even in death. Maybe he had expected Jason to do this, maybe it was his last hurrah as an asshole, but Jason didn't care.

He didn’t even feel scared at the idea of the aftermath as a retraced his steps out of the abandoned building, mounting his still-running bike.

There hadn't been a single gloat before the gun cracked through the night, not a single joke or pun or taunt to leave the devil’s mouth. Bruce might have entertained it, let him play it out, but not Jason.

For Jason, everything that needed to be said had been said in actions.

The air was strangely cool, devoid of the humidity that nomrally hung in the streets. The city itself seemed to be sighing, taking a breath like the chord holding the city on a leash had been cut. He relished the feeling of it on his skin, the cracks in his suit letting the breeze run across his knuckles and where his mask met his neck. He imagined the cool fingers were you, cradling his face and whispering for him to take a rest, and he let his eyes flutter closed briefly.

 As he hit a red light he took a pause, reaching his hand down to pat where you were, tucked tightly under his hip. He didn't care what the reaction was going to be when he reached the manor, or the screaming match that was likely going to destroy what was left of his relationship with his pseudo father. All that matters is that he had done right by you, that he had done what he wished someone had done for him.

April 17th, the night Jason Todd killed the Joker.

[sometimesanalice]

Morgannn!! 💖 oh I’m so, so happy you liked this! Fluffy, fun, and flirty vibes for days!

I’m so happy that it was something that made you smile! 🥰🥰

More for you!!

Oh, this was absolutely delightful and fun and exactly what I needed after this week! I broke into giggles and a smile more times than I could count! I love everything you write, but sometimes you pop off with the best little details and phrasings and it's such a joy to read your writing!—🥹🥹🥹

And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place. 

Quite literally the vibe for modern dating, and especially with how many men always forget Feb 14th is a holiday!!!!!— I just imagined her being like “are you sure??” like five times and this guy being like “it’s a Wednesday like yeah”. But truly, the amount of me not utilizing the notifications on their built in calendar is a CRIME. But especially on international hearts day!

And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Men don't appreciate good fashion. That's why we dress for the group chat and ourselves!— the girlies(gn) just want to look and feel cute! But also, you know that group chat was popping off with the🔥 emoji, lol

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

This visual this gave me! A beacon of pink! Get her a drink!— goodness knows miss ma’am needs one! She was just trying to go with the flow and have fun! But I loved trying to find ways to highlight just how out of place she was there, not only like with how she felt but also the setting!

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

STOP, THIS GOT ME!— I MEAN CAN YOU IMAGINEEEEE

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

Snaps for Selleck mention.— the OG mustache man!

Oh.

AN ITALICIZED OH, SO YOU KNOW IT'S GOOD!!!— ITALICIZED OH SUPREMACY!! (Also I’m so endlessly tickled by the amount of support the italicized oh has gotten 😂 I know I posted about it specifically, but I love how much love we all have for those two little letters!)

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

This was entirely too relatable. Those jeans are too slutty and the group chat must know! (nothing wrong with taking a lil pic either 🤫) — I was so obsessed with the idea of her being like “you guys won’t believe what happened” and her phone just blowing up the other night of her best babes wanting allll the tea! You know the brunch talk is going to be popping! (But the slutty beans and that cock walks are a lethal combo!!)

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

This whole pool scene was so fun! You captured Jake and Bradley's game with so much descriptive detail, it made me want to watch the movie again! Jake would absolutely get hustled, that man has too much ego to not get played.— ahhhh!! This is the best thing you could have said because Morgan I know nothing about pool lmaooooo 😂 I was reading as much as I could and snooping on r/billiards to figure out what was going on hahaha! All the while cursing myself for deciding her ace needed to be her sneaky pool shark skills. He would SO get played, he wouldn’t be able to help himself!

In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. 

This is quite literally one of my favourite ways a kiss has been described. So visual, yet you can feel it. It's going to be rolling through my brain for a bit, I love it!— stopppp!!!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰 there’s always so much pressure to try and get a first kiss right, so that makes me so happy that it landed well with you!! 🫶🏻

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[writeriguess]

Can you please write Bakugo x Short Reader, who always has trouble reaching tall shelves and stuff like that, he always finds it very cute and has to make himself not to show a smile when she requires his help. Maybe sometimes he just picks her up to help her reach stuff and always teases her about it. Thank you!

Just Ask, Shorty

It happened again.

You stood in front of the kitchen cabinet, glaring at the top shelf like it had personally offended you. Your fingers stretched as far as they could, the tips just barely grazing the edge of the cereal box you wanted. You refused to get the stool. That thing only reminded you of your constant struggle against gravity, and you weren’t about to let an inanimate object win today.

With a deep breath, you prepared to jump—only to freeze when a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“You look like a damn idiot.”

Your shoulders stiffened, and you turned your head just enough to see Bakugo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, definitely trying not to smirk.

“Shut up, Katsuki,” you huffed, returning your focus to the shelf. “I got this.”

Bakugo made a low sound in his throat—something between an amused scoff and a chuckle. He knew damn well you didn’t ‘got this.’ And, honestly, he found it absolutely adorable watching you struggle, even if he’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, pushing off the wall. “Move.”

You didn’t move. Instead, you stubbornly hopped, fingertips brushing the box just enough to nudge it further away.

“…You’re doin’ this on purpose, aren’t ya?”

“No!”

He rolled his eyes before stepping up behind you. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted you up like you weighed nothing.

“K-Katsuki!” you squeaked, flailing slightly as he held you effortlessly.

“What?” he snorted. “You wanted the damn cereal, didn’t ya? Hurry up before I drop your ass.”

You grumbled under your breath but grabbed the box, feeling your face heat up. The worst part? This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. If anything, it was becoming a regular occurrence. And he always took the opportunity to tease you about it.

Once he set you down, you spun to face him with a glare, only to find his usual scowl in place—but his eyes held something softer, something amused. You knew he was holding back a smirk.

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“Pfft, yeah right,” he scoffed, ruffling your hair before walking off. “Just admit you like bein’ picked up, short stack.”

You grabbed a kitchen towel and threw it at him. He dodged without even looking back, laughing as he disappeared into the living room.

…Yeah. You were never going to win against him.

[lvlystars]

16:35 — g.sg

TIE A BOW ON IT.

BITE IT.

ASK HIM TO USE IT AS YOUR NECKLACE.

ASK HIM TO PUT YOU IN A HEADLOCK.

“babe?” you're snapped out of your thoughts when suguru taps your thigh, his expression reading borderline concerned, but confused. his lips jut out in a slight pout as his eyebrows raise in confusion. “you were spacing out. something on your mind?”

you shook your head, brushing him off as the traffic light turns green, the engine revving as suguru presses his foot on the gas pedal. as you stare off into space in front of you, your eyes betray you and trail back to your boyfriend’s biceps, the way they flex and bulge sending your brain into overdrive.

the fact that he was wearing a black compression top wasn’t helping either—yes, it was summer, it’s hot, but showing the pecs off like that? who can blame you for just being attracted to your boyfriend?

at the next red light, suguru brakes and leans over, stretching a bit as he leans his head on your car seat, pouting as he looks up at you. when you meet his eyes, he blinks, smiling softly.

you lean down to peck his lips, catching him off guard and eliciting a small sound of surprise from him.

“affection? from you? what a strange phenomenon.” he tilts his head teasingly, making you scoff as you look out the window, trying to further distract yourself. suguru eyes your shaking leg, patting it softly. “you good?”

you hum, nodding absentmindedly as you try your best not to look him in the eye.

“are you sure? you’re not looking me in the eye, did i do somethi–”

“can i tie a ribbon on it?” you blurted, leaving your boyfriend speechless.

“...excuse me?” “i wanna tie a ribbon on your bicep.”

his eyes go wide from realization, laughing out loud. “of course you can tie a ribbon on it, baby. you don’t have to ask!” he chuckles. “tell you what, i’ll drop by the crafts shop you always go to for your yarn and i’ll pay for those huge ribbon things around those wheel looking things. you can tie me up all you want to your hearts content.” he smiles devilishly, making you giddy and excited. “REALLY?!”

“who knows? maybe i’ll let you tie it on my di–”

“GET ME TO THAT SHOP RIGHT NOW.”

oh, this was going to be the best evening.

wc. 407

tagging 🏷️ —

@starshuas @etherealyoungk @shieunviya @seuonji @desirehorizon @kyeomyun

a/n: I'M POSTING AGAIN?????? and my first jjk fic on here hehehehehehe. idk if i'll post often BUT WHEN I DO WRITE i promise i'll post <3

ⓒ lvlystars

[gf2bellamy]

Hi!! I love your writings! I was wondering if you can write one where Reid and Hotch are both interested in the new BAU agent and kind of compete for her attention or something like that, you can take full control I just like the idea. Thank you<3

competition — spencer reid and aaron hotchner

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader x aaron hotchner ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is tired , mention of low blood sugar and processed snacks a/n: hii i gave it my best shot i hope you like it <3

You smiled as you took the coffee from Hotch’s hands, your fingers briefly brushing against his. “Thanks, Hotch,” you murmured, grateful for the caffeine boost.

It was late—ridiculously late. The kind of late where time didn’t feel real anymore. You hadn’t looked at the clock in ages, but judging by the near-empty bullpen and the way your body screamed for sleep, it had to be at least 2 AM.

Spencer, seated next to you at the conference table, glanced up from his files, his gaze flicking between you and Hotch. His grip on his pen tightened ever so slightly.

“You should take a break,” Hotch said, his voice softer than usual. He didn’t tell you to—he suggested it, which was rare for him.

You let out a quiet laugh, blowing lightly on your coffee. “I’ll take a break when the case is solved.”

Hotch huffed a quiet, almost amused breath before giving you a pointed look. “Try not to fall asleep at the table then.”

“I make no promises,” you teased before turning your attention back to the case files spread out in front of you.

Spencer’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer before he spoke. “Caffeine actually doesn’t prevent sleep deprivation. At best, it temporarily blocks adenosine receptors in your brain, but the fatigue will still catch up with you.”

You turned your head, smirking at him. “So what you’re saying is… I should drink more coffee?”

Spencer blinked, then sighed, shaking his head as he muttered, “That’s not what I—”

“You know,” Hotch interrupted. “if you really want to stay awake, stepping outside for some fresh air might help.”

Spencer straightened slightly. “Actually, studies show that cold air exposure can temporarily increase alertness, but it’s not nearly as effective as a twenty-minute nap.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to nap right now?”

“I want you to function,” Spencer corrected, giving you a pointed look.

“I am functioning.” You shot him a grin before taking a slow sip of your coffee, enjoying the warmth.

Spencer frowned, but before he could retort, Hotch spoke again. “I’m heading outside for a moment. If you want to clear your head, you’re welcome to join me.”

Spencer sat up straighter, looking between you and Hotch as if calculating something in his head.

You, meanwhile, barely thought twice about it. “Maybe in a bit,” you said, waving your hand. “I want to finish this profile first.”

Hotch gave a small nod before stepping out, leaving you alone with Spencer in the dimly lit conference room.

A beat of silence passed. Then—

“You know he doesn’t bring coffee for everyone, right?”

You looked at Spencer, amused. “Are you implying that I’m special?”

Spencer’s lips parted slightly before he caught himself, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “I’m just saying… Hotch doesn’t usually do that.”

You shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being nice.”

Spencer didn’t respond immediately. He just studied you for a moment before returning his gaze to his paperwork.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened slightly.

And you certainly didn’t notice the way Hotch, standing just outside the room, glanced back through the glass walls—watching as Spencer subtly shifted closer to you.

Because you had no idea.

No idea that two of the smartest men you knew were engaged in a silent competition.

The conference room was quiet except for the occasional shuffle of papers and the soft scratching of Spencer’s pen against his notepad. You were too focused on the profile in front of you to notice the way he kept stealing glances at you, or the way his foot bounced slightly beneath the table—a telltale sign of his nerves.

Hotch returned a few minutes later, his expression as unreadable as ever, though his eyes flicked to you almost immediately. “You sure you don’t need that break?” he asked, his voice measured.

“I’m good,” you replied, resting your chin in your hand. “But if you’re offering to finish this profile for me, I would reconsider.”

Spencer snorted quietly, shaking his head. Hotch, on the other hand, simply gave you a knowing look. “Nice try.”

You sighed dramatically and leaned back in your chair. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Hotch smirked ever so slightly, but before he could respond, Spencer spoke.

“You should at least eat something,” he said, not looking up from his notes. “Your blood sugar’s probably low, and working while fatigued makes you more prone to cognitive errors.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying I'm doing terrible work?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. “No! I just meant—”

“I think what Reid is trying to say,” Hotch cut in smoothly, “is that it wouldn’t hurt to take care of yourself.”

Spencer shut his mouth, giving Hotch a sideways glance. You, meanwhile, huffed a small laugh. “Noted. I’ll get something from the vending machine in a bit.”

“Not the vending machine,” Spencer muttered, shaking his head. “The processed snacks won’t do much for your energy levels.”

Hotch, who had already anticipated your response, set something down in front of you. An apple.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks, Hotch.”

Spencer frowned, glancing between you and the apple like it had personally offended him. “I—” He suddenly got up from his seat, digging through his bag before placing a granola bar in front of you. “This would be a better option.”

You stared at the apple. Then at the granola bar. Then back at the two men sitting in front of you.

Hotch simply took a sip of his coffee, remaining unreadable. Spencer, however, looked suspiciously focused on the file in front of him.

Smirking, you took the apple and the granola bar. “Well, since I clearly have two very concerned babysitters, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Spencer finally looked up, opening his mouth to say something, but Hotch beat him to it.

“Good,” he said simply.

Spencer shut his mouth again, pressing his lips together as he glanced at Hotch.

The tension between them was subtle, but if you weren’t so sleep-deprived, you might have noticed the way they seemed just a little too invested in your well-being.

Might have noticed the way Spencer had started to lean closer, or the way Hotch’s gaze lingered on you longer than necessary.

But you didn’t.

Because, to you, they were just being their usual selves.

And to them?

This was far from over.

[ddiwata]

if you could only know me (like your prayers at night) — the day you said goodnight, hale

— mydeimos x fem! wife! reader

— help.. help.. his words to phainon.. i cant breathe.. requests open!!

— warnings : MAJOR spoilers for the new quest, angst 💔💔 just tears and desperation idk!! no usage of y/n :3 devil works hard but i work extremely harder

— 🩸

“i’ll be leaving okhema soon to fight the greatest darkness of the world. and to shoulder nikador’s destiny. so, listen well: if there comes a day when we meet again on the battlefield, and i stand opposed to the flame-chase..

remember to stab your sword into my back and through my tenth thoracic vertebra. that’s my weakspot, and the only way to kill me.”

mydeimos’ last words to phainon. he planned to pack up and leave, with nothing but the clothes he has on and his bloodlust coursing through his veins. but every time he gazes down at his fingers, stained with the blood of too many to count. but the twinkle of gold around his ring finger makes him hesitate. he shouldn’t hesitate. he isn’t someone who hesitates.

but the words of his wife rings in his head. “i had these rings forged! look, it’s gold. it matches your armor!” his heart clenches and he can’t bear to say goodbye. to leave her like this. but he can’t bear to see her eyes fill with tears, her hands trembling as she pleads for him to stay when he says goodbye.

too many people he’s slain, too many people grovel at his feet. but every time his wife sobs, he feels mortal. fragile. so he leaves when night has fallen over their humble abode. his wife’s body comfortable underneath the weighted blanket they share, locks messy and her face relaxed— often marred by horror and concern when she finds out he’s died for the nth time after another battle.

he prays—for the first time—that his love won’t cry when she finds out. standing at the gate, where he’ll leave and won’t come back, he exhales deeply.

“walk out of okhema and i swear to the gods, i will divorce you, mydeimos.” the frail threat hangs in the air, and the prince turns around to see his wife—beautiful, tired, and utterly radiant. his breath hitches and he swallows. “it was a mistake giving that coreflame up. you know that, my love,” he looks away, eyebrows furrowing.

“why didn’t you wake me?” she asks firmly, voice cracking in a moment of weakness. mydei knows she’s trembling, fighting the urge to hold onto him. “i didn’t want to see the only reason why i want to stay hurt because of something i did. i left you a letter, but i’m.. horrible at writing.” he groans, his armored feet moving without the intention to.

he falls in his beloved’s arms, soft, sweet, and holding him so tightly. “my love, please forgive me.” de whispers, his cold, gloved hands grasping onto his wife’s cheeks. for the first time in a while, he feels tears trail down his cheeks and her soft thumb wiping it away as she stares up at him.

“you must go. and i understand..” she presses her forehead against her husband’s, nose brushing against his as she exhales softly, “do not lose yourself. come home to me.. please.”

a swift press to her lips, his own locking onto his wife’s, a familiar gesture— but this time it’s filled with grief. longing— desperation. he pulls away just as he kisses her, and with a gentle squeeze to her arms, he leaves, disappearing with the wind.

[littlelamy]

Hi, i wanted to ask if you could write something with rafe cameron x baddie reader I'm talking like someone like maddy from euphoria. I'm sick of all the i can fix fics he needs someone who matches his freak

note: didn't know if you wanted smut, but i'm in a smutty mood 🙂‍↕️

you’re not the girl people warn him about. you’re the girl people warn him to stay the fuck away from.

rafe cameron is trouble. everyone knows it, everyone whispers about it when he walks into a room—spoiled rich boy with anger issues, a temper that burns too hot, too fast. he’s the kind of man that destroys anything good he touches, the kind that doesn’t just ruin lives, but enjoys doing it.

but you? you’re something else entirely.

when you meet, it’s not some soft, lingering moment. it’s heat. it’s pressure. it’s a collision. you’re in his space, dripping in gold and confidence, a dress so short and tight it should be illegal, lashes so long they sweep against your brow bone when you blink at him like you already know you own him. because you do.

"you're staring, cameron," you purr, swirling your drink, lips painted in the kind of red that stains, that marks.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, sharp blue eyes dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. he's cocky, always is, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides. wanting. needing.

"not used to seeing a girl like you around here."

"that's because there aren’t girls like me," you correct, taking a step closer. the scent of your perfume, expensive and intoxicating, wraps around him. "you like what you see?"

he exhales a low chuckle, but there's something darker in his gaze. something dangerous. "i think you already know the answer to that."

it goes like this—fast, reckless, inevitable. you're both fire and gasoline, a match struck in the middle of a fucking drought.

"keep up, cameron," you taunt one night, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you lean against his car.

his jaw clenches, fingers flexing at his sides. "you love teasing me, don’t you?"

"i love watching you sqirm," you correct, tipping his chin up with a perfectly manicured finger before sauntering inside the club without a backward glance.

rafe isn't used to losing control, but with you…he doesn’t stand a fucking chance. he learns quick that you're not like the other girls who bat their lashes and let him call the shots. you push back. you challenge. you take and take and take, and he loves it. you’re not afraid of his temper, of the sharpness in his voice when things don’t go his way.

if anything, it turns you on.

and that drive him fucking crazy.

when he fucks you, it’s all-consuming, a battle of dominance neither of you really want to win. your nails rake down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake. his hand tightens around your throat, just enough to make you gasp, make your lashes flutter. he doesn’t fuck soft. he fucks like he needs it, like he’s been starving for it, like you’re the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

"tell me who you belong to," he mutters against your skin, hand slipping between your thighs, fingers pressing into you just enough to tease.

"hmm," you hum, pretending to think. "i don't know, rafe. do you deserve to hear it?"

his smirk falters, grip tightening. "you're playing a dangerous game, baby."

"i always win," you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest before flipping the script, shoving him onto the bed. he lets out a sharp breath, watching you with dark, hungry eyes as you straddle his lap.

"fuck," he hisses as you grind against him, slow, teasing. "you’re gonna pay for that."

"good," you smirk, leaning down until your lips brush his ear. "make me."

he flips you before you can blink, but you’re faster. Before he can pin your hands, your legs wrap around his waist, twisting, flipping him onto his back. you straddle him again, nails trailing down his chest, smirking as his breath catches.

"what’s wrong, cameron? thought you were in charge?"

his hands grip your hips, hard enough to bruise, but you grind down against him, slow, deliberate, making him groan through clenched teeth. you lean forward, lips barely grazing his ear.

"you drive me so fucking insane," he growls, voice ragged.

you chuckle, dragging your tongue along the shell of his ear. "then lose your mind for me, cameron. if...you can keep up."

and he does. every single time.

he fucks you until you’re shaking, until his name spills from your lips without hesitation, without defiance, until you’re gasping, clawing at his back, needing more, more, more.

and in the aftermath, when you’re tangled in his sheets, bodies still buzzing with the aftershocks, he looks at you with something dangerous in his gaze. like he’s addicted. like he’s never letting you go.

"mine," he murmurs, tracing a possessive line down your spine.

you don’t argue. you just smirk, pressing a kiss to his jaw, already thinking of all the ways you’ll test him again tomorrow.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

[aspenmissing]

I'm so happy your requests are open again!! But I'm glad you closed them for a while since you get so many and write so much for each one.❤️❤️

Could I, pretty please with a cherry on top, request arcane characters (specifically viktor, jayce and steb, if you write for him if not that's ok) with a reader that's usually well spoken and composed, think before they act kind of person. But once they're comfortable and let their guard down, they start stuttering and stumbling over their words because their mind is quicker than their mouth, and they keep getting frustrated because they can't say what they want. Kind of like an autistic person automatically unmasking when they're around someone that makes them feel safe, but they weren't planning on unmasking so they're frustrating with themselves.

Hopefully, I managed to explain what I mean😅, please do take your time. You can write it whenever.❤️❤️

~🍒

ᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇꜱ

ᴊᴀʏ��ᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ? || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5306 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ! ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ! ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴛᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ɪ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ! ᴊᴜꜱᴛɪᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ!

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ?

JAYCE

Piltover adored control. It thrived on meticulous planning, on rules and order, on minds that could bend chaos into something neat and palatable. You had spent your entire life mastering that balance, shaping yourself into something sharp-edged and refined, a presence that commanded respect in every room you entered.

You had learned early that precision was power. People listened when you spoke, when every word was deliberate, calculated, and polished to perfection. You were the kind of person who could dismantle an argument before it was fully formed, who could read a room and adjust accordingly, who never let emotions cloud reason.

And then there was Jayce.

Jayce Talis, all boundless enthusiasm and effortless charm, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and let his emotions lead him before logic ever caught up. He was brilliant, yes, but he was also reckless, a man of impulse and grand gestures. You should have found him insufferable.

Instead, you trusted him.

That was your first mistake.

And now, you were paying for it.

=

"Y/N?"

Jayce’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, low and filled with something dangerously close to concern. You blinked, refocusing, only to find him watching you intently. His head was tilted slightly, brows drawn together, his lips pressed into a soft frown.

"You okay?"

No. No, you were not okay.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as heat pricked at the back of your neck. Your mind was still racing, but your mouth had completely betrayed you.

You had been explaining something—a theory, something important, something that had been circling your brain all day like a restless storm. The words had been there, clear and coherent in your mind, but the moment you had let them out, they had tangled, tripped, collapsed into a jumbled mess of half-formed sentences and stammered syllables.

Jayce had been patient. He hadn't interrupted, hadn't tried to fill in the gaps. He had just waited, listening, giving you the space to get the words out.

But you hadn't been able to.

Your stomach twisted. You were used to control, to confidence, to certainty. But now—now your tongue felt heavy, your thoughts moved faster than your mouth, and the more you tried to push the words out, the more they refused to cooperate.

Why now?

Why him?

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding against your throat. You had spent years perfecting this—honing your speech into something unshakable. And yet, in the presence of Jayce fucking Talis, your brain had apparently decided to throw itself off a cliff.

“I— I was t-trying to say—” The words broke, stumbled over themselves, catching on your tongue like jagged stones. Your breath hitched. Your hands twitched. You could feel the frustration rising, tightening in your chest like a vice. “It’s— it’s not— ugh! It’s in my head, I j-just can’t—”

Your jaw snapped shut, teeth clenching hard enough to ache. The silence that followed was deafening.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You couldn't even look at him.

Jayce didn’t fill the silence.

He didn’t push, didn’t try to smooth over your faltering words, didn’t do anything except stand there, watching you with an expression that was far too soft.

That, more than anything, made something in you crack wide open.

“I’m s-sorry,” you muttered finally, jaw tight, frustration burning beneath your skin like wildfire. “I d-don’t— I d-don’t usually—”

Jayce smiled. Not the politician’s smile, not the confident smirk he wore for the world. This was different. Smaller. Softer. Real.

“I know,” he said simply.

You froze.

Your eyes snapped up to his, searching—for what? Mockery? Pity? Some kind of forced reassurance? Something that would justify the knot of shame twisting in your gut?

But there was none.

Jayce just knew.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs.

How long had he noticed? Had he always known? You had spent your entire life perfecting the mask, ensuring every word was polished before it ever left your lips. But somehow, without even trying, Jayce had seen through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I mean, I figured. You’re always so careful with your words, but sometimes, when you get comfortable, you just... go."

His smile widened, dimples pressing into his cheeks. "It’s kinda cute."

Your brain completely short-circuited.

Cute?

You could have handled pity. Could have handled irritation or even indifference. But this? This stupid, easy, genuine affection?

Your stomach flipped violently. Heat crawled up your neck. You stared at him, wide-eyed, caught between mortification and something you didn’t quite have a name for.

Jayce shifted, suddenly uncertain. “Not that it’s bad! Or— or weird, or anything. It’s just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just mean, you don’t have to force it with me. However you talk, however you think—I want to hear it.”

Your throat tightened.

You had spent years forcing it, shaping yourself into something the world could understand, something presentable. You had never expected to find someone who didn’t mind the unfiltered version of you—who actually liked it.

The thought was terrifying.

The thought was freeing.

Your hands twitched again, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration. Slowly, cautiously, you let yourself breathe.

Jayce grinned. "There it is."

You scowled, heat creeping up your neck. "Sh-shut up."

Jayce laughed, bright and easy, like you hadn’t just had a full-on existential crisis in front of him.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to rehearse what came next.

Maybe—just maybe—some things didn’t need perfect words.

Maybe you didn’t need them.

Not with him.

VIKTOR

The laboratory was quiet, save for the gentle hum of machinery and the rhythmic tapping of Viktor’s cane against the floor. The scent of parchment, metal, and something faintly ozone-like filled the air, the ever-present signs of scientific discovery in motion. Y/N sat perched on a stool beside one of his many workbenches, her hands moving animatedly as she tried—emphasis on tried—to explain a theory she had been mulling over for weeks.

Usually, she was composed, articulate, the kind of person who measured each word before releasing it into the world. A person who never spoke without intention. A person whose thoughts were always carefully curated before they left her lips.

But that version of her had been left behind the moment she grew comfortable in Viktor’s presence.

Now, words tumbled from her lips in an erratic cascade, her thoughts outrunning her tongue like a stampede she had no hope of controlling.

“So—so, if you, um, if you factor in the—the—ugh, the—okay, okay, wait—if you consider the way—ugh, no, that’s not—” She groaned, gripping her hair in frustration as she tried to catch up with herself. “Okay, what I’m trying to say is that—oh, never mind.” She threw her hands in the air and slumped forward, practically melting onto the workbench.

Viktor chuckled softly, the sound warm and indulgent, like he was enjoying a particularly amusing scientific observation. “You were doing quite well. Please, continue.”

Y/N shot him a glare, though there was no real heat behind it, only the kind of irritation reserved for someone she trusted not to judge her. “I was not doing well.”

“On the contrary,” he said, leaning slightly against his cane, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “I quite enjoy watching you speak when you are truly invested. It is… animated.”

She let out a dramatic groan and buried her face in her hands. “It’s infuriating is what it is. My brain is working faster than my mouth can keep up, and now I sound like an idiot.”

He hummed, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Ah, but I think it is quite endearing.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His smirk widened, and he tapped his cane lightly against the floor. “Just a little.”

Her groan was muffled against her palms, and Viktor chuckled again, watching her with the same quiet, unshaken patience he always had. She never had to apologize for her words with him, never had to fear looking foolish. He listened, even when she made no sense, even when she grew frustrated with herself. And worst of all, she knew he wasn’t just humouring her—he actually liked watching her get lost in her own excitement.

“Would it help,” he mused, “if I attempted to guess what you are trying to say?”

She peeked at him again, skepticism written all over her face. “…What, like a game?”

“Of sorts.” He tilted his head, his grin taking on a teasing edge. “Let us see if I can translate your brilliance before you become too flustered.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips now. “Alright, genius, give it a try.”

Viktor straightened, adopting a faux-serious expression. “You were trying to explain a new variable in your experiment, something that has been overlooked in traditional calculations. However, the implications are complex, and you are frustrated because you want to articulate the exact significance without losing momentum.”

Y/N blinked at him. Then blinked again.

“…Damn it,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “That was almost exactly what I was trying to say.”

Viktor’s grin turned victorious. “I will take that as a win.”

She huffed but couldn’t stop the warmth from creeping up her neck. Despite her frustration, there was something undeniably comforting about the way Viktor simply listened, the way he never seemed annoyed by her occasional verbal trainwrecks. If anything, he found them charming.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind that so much.

JAYVIK

The Piltover gala was as extravagant as ever—glittering chandeliers, golden champagne, and an overwhelming crowd of scholars, council members, and socialites who seemed more interested in flaunting their wealth than discussing anything of substance. You had attended these events countless times before, always maintaining your polished demeanor. Your words were measured, your posture poised, and your mask of composure carefully crafted.

At least, until you got comfortable.

The night had started smoothly. You moved through the crowd effortlessly, engaging in discussions on politics, technology, and academia with the same ease as a seasoned diplomat. It wasn’t that you were pretending to be someone you weren’t—you were intelligent, well-spoken, and composed. It was just that keeping your thoughts neatly packaged and your speech precise required effort.

And then, a group of scholars approached, intrigued by your involvement in the latest Hextech advancements. The conversation drifted toward the complexities of stabilizing arcane energy in compact devices—an area of research that you had poured your heart and soul into. Excitement sparked in your chest. You leaned in slightly, eager to share your thoughts.

That was when everything began to fall apart.

“Well, uh, s-so, the—the thing about Hextech, right, is that it’s—um, it’s volatile, but not—uh—ugh, no, I mean—so, like, if you—okay, okay, let me—” You gestured wildly with your hands, words tripping over themselves in a desperate attempt to keep up with your thoughts.

The scholars exchanged puzzled glances. One man furrowed his brows. “I’m… sorry, what exactly are you saying?”

Embarrassment hit you like a freight train. Your stomach twisted, and frustration burned at the back of your throat. You knew the answer. It was so clear in your head. But the words wouldn’t come out the way you wanted them to.

And then—

“She means,” Viktor’s voice cut through the awkward silence, smooth as silk, “that the instability of raw energy makes miniaturization particularly challenging. The frequency shifts unpredictably, which is why traditional containment methods fail.”

You blinked as he appeared beside you, leaning lightly on his cane. His amber eyes held amusement, but his tone carried an unmistakable warmth, as if he found your struggle endearing rather than embarrassing.

“Exactly,” Jayce added, stepping up on your other side. Ever the charismatic presence, he offered the group an easy grin, effortlessly slipping into the conversation. “That’s why we’ve been experimenting with precision-tuned matrices. We’re trying to stabilize the fluctuations instead of suppressing them.”

Relief flooded your system. The scholars’ expressions shifted from confusion to comprehension, nodding along as Jayce and Viktor elaborated on your idea with the same excitement you had intended to convey.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, but the residual embarrassment still prickled at the edges of your composure. You turned your face toward Viktor and Jayce, lowering your voice so only they could hear.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling warm and a little sheepish.

Viktor’s lips curled into a smirk. “No need to thank us, můj drahý,” he murmured, his voice teasing but undeniably fond. “It’s rather charming, watching you get flustered.” (My Dear)

Jayce chuckled, reaching over to brush a thumb across your cheek in an affectionate gesture. “Yeah, you should let loose more often,” he mused, his grin widening. “You’re kinda cute when your brain short-circuits.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “I hate you both.”

Viktor tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming mischievously. “Oh? Then perhaps we should let you fend for yourself next time?”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his in horror. “Don’t you dare.”

Jayce laughed, sliding a warm, strong arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Relax,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got you.”

Viktor let out a soft chuckle before reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a gentle squeeze. “Always.”

With them beside you, the night didn’t seem so unbearable anymore.

VANDER

Vander always admired the way you carried yourself. Composed, measured, deliberate. A mind as sharp as a dagger, words chosen like the perfect hand in a game of cards. It was part of what drew him to you. In a place like Zaun, where chaos ruled and emotions ran hot, you were a steady presence—unflappable, always thinking before speaking, always in control.

That was, of course, until you let your guard down.

He’d noticed it the first time you'd lingered in the bar after hours, long after the usual crowd had stumbled home. A few drinks in, boots kicked up, letting yourself relax for once—and suddenly, words tangled on your tongue, tripping over themselves in their rush to be spoken. You’d furrowed your brows, lips pressing together in frustration, trying to force them into order. It had been endearing, to say the least.

And, apparently, the kids had noticed too.

Now it was a game.

=

"Come on, just one little ramble," Vi grinned, perched on the counter of The Last Drop, arms crossed with a knowing look. "Tell us about, I dunno, the history of Piltover’s trade routes or something."

You shot her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. "I—That’s not—"

"Or maybe about how different alchemical components react to heat," Mylo chimed in, a wicked smirk on his face.

Claggor, the more merciful of the bunch, just shook his head, though even he was biting back a chuckle.

You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself. "I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t—"

"You sure? You’re already hesitating." Vi dangled her legs over the edge of the counter. "Bet you can’t explain somethin’ real fast without trippin’ over yourself."

You narrowed your eyes. "I—"

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You had the words in your head—so many of them���but as soon as you tried to get them out, they jammed up in your throat, stumbling over each other like a pileup in the middle of the bridge.

Your jaw clenched.

Vander chuckled from his spot behind the bar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that amused, knowing smile.

"Don’t encourage them," you huffed, turning to him with exasperation. "They—They’re doing this on purpose!"

"Oh, I know." His grin deepened. "But I gotta admit, it’s kinda adorable."

Your face burned. "It’s—it’s not adorable, it’s—frustrating!" Your hands clenched at your sides as you tried to string together a proper retort, but the words kept getting away from you. "Infuriating!"

Vi and Mylo were grinning ear to ear, fully enjoying the spectacle.

Vander, on the other hand, just walked over, resting a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder. His touch was grounding, like solid stone beneath unsteady feet. "Take your time, love," he murmured, voice low and warm, meant just for you. "Ain’t a race."

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment, letting his presence settle you.

The kids, of course, weren’t satisfied with that.

"You should’ve seen her the other day," Vi snickered. "She was tryin’ to tell Benzo about some new Piltie security measures and nearly short-circuited. Just—" she waved her hands dramatically— "total breakdown."

You groaned. "Vi."

"And you get all fidgety, too," Mylo added, grinning. "Like your hands try to talk for you when your mouth can’t keep up."

"Probably ‘cause she’s gotta keep up with that big ol’ brain of hers," Claggor said, nudging you gently. "Nothing wrong with that."

That earned him a little glare from Mylo, but you—despite your frustration—sighed and relaxed slightly.

Vander gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall away. "You don’t gotta be perfect all the time," he murmured. "We like you just fine the way you are—even when you trip over yourself."

You huffed. "You say that, but—"

"But nothin’," he interrupted, tipping his head slightly. "Ain’t gotta have every word come out polished. Sometimes the best ones don’t."

You glanced at him, and despite yourself, your heart softened. Damn him and his easy way of making you feel seen.

Vi, of course, ruined the moment.

"Bet if Vander asked you somethin’ real nice, you’d really start stuttering," she teased.

Your stomach flipped. "I—That’s—"

And, as expected, the words tangled up all over again.

Vander laughed, and this time, even you couldn’t help but chuckle, rubbing a hand over your face in resignation.

The kids cheered in victory.

SILCO

Silco had always admired your composure.

In a world teeming with chaos and deception, you were a rare creature—one who wielded words like a scalpel, precise and measured. Whether negotiating with smugglers or diffusing tension in The Last Drop, your speech was always deliberate, your tone unwavering. It was something that set you apart, something that made you invaluable.

And then there were moments like these.

Moments when your guard slipped. When the walls you so carefully constructed crumbled, not from fear or anger, but from something far more dangerous—comfort.

Sitting across from him in his office, with a tumbler of whiskey half-forgotten at your side, you were completely at ease. It was a rare sight, one he relished. The tension that usually sat in your shoulders had eased, and for once, you weren’t calculating your every word before speaking.

Which meant—

“I j-just—ugh, no, wait, I—wh—wha—”

Silco watched with a bemused smirk as you stumbled over your words, frustration flickering across your face as your mind outpaced your tongue. Your fingers curled into your lap, gripping at fabric as if that might help slow your thoughts down enough to articulate them properly.

A lesser man might have laughed. Might have teased you for the stammer that had replaced your usual eloquence. But Silco was not a lesser man.

Instead, he simply raised a brow. “Having trouble, my dear?”

Your lips pressed into a firm line, cheeks heating in frustration. “I—I know what I want to s-say, it just—” You huffed sharply, shaking your head. “It won’t come out right.”

Silco hummed, swirling his whiskey before taking a slow sip. He let the silence settle, his gaze steady, patient. “I don’t mind.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, uncertain. “Y-you don’t?”

“If I wanted idle chatter, I wouldn’t have chosen you.” He leaned forward, placing his glass down with a soft clink. “Your words have always mattered. Stammer or not.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Silco never wasted words, and he certainly never offered empty reassurances.

Something in your chest warmed.

But of course, peace never lasted long in Zaun.

=

The room was dimly lit, thick with the scent of smoke and whiskey. Shadows clung to the corners, pooling in the cracks of the old wooden walls. A lantern flickered overhead, its dull glow barely penetrating the haze. The air was heavy, tense with the weight of yet another exhausting supplier meeting—one of many that drained your patience. You preferred efficiency, precision, but men like Varn made that impossible.

Varn was one of Silco’s smugglers, a man who carried himself with the kind of arrogance only emboldened by ignorance. He had been droning on about the Enforcers, about how difficult it had become to slip shipments past their patrols. Complaints, excuses—never solutions. You listened, expression unreadable, even as irritation prickled at your composure.

Still, you remained poised. Even as frustration coiled tight in your chest, even as your thoughts outran your tongue, snagging your words before they could fully take shape.

“The—Th-the next s-shipment will—” You clenched your jaw, closing your eyes for half a second. Breathe. Focus. Try again.

“It will arrive t-tomorrow. Docks. Late.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Varn scoffed. He leaned back in his chair, his smirk carved deep with mockery. “Didn’t realize Silco was hiring broken records now.” He tapped his fingers against the table in a rhythmic pattern. “Maybe if we give you a minute, you’ll get through the whole sentence, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap.

Not because they were the worst you had ever heard. Not because they were new. But because he said them here.

In Silco’s domain.

The air shifted.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. It slithered between the bodies at the table, curling around throats like an unseen noose. The temperature hadn’t changed, yet a cold dread settled in your stomach.

Because Silco was watching him now.

He had not moved, had not even spoken. But the weight of his gaze was enough to send a chill down your spine. His fingers traced the rim of his glass in slow, deliberate circles, the rhythmic motion a stark contrast to the simmering menace behind his mismatched eyes.

Varn, still oblivious to the razor-thin ice he had stepped onto, chuckled. He expected others to join in.

No one did.

Silco’s voice cut through the silence like a blade slipping through silk.

“Broken record?”

Varn hesitated, his bravado flickering. “I—I only meant—”

Silco stood.

It was an unhurried motion, almost lazy, yet it sent a ripple of unease through the room. He didn’t need to rush. The sheer gravity of his presence filled the space, a silent warning wrapped in elegance.

“You talk too much, Varn.” His tone was smooth, deceptively calm. “And yet, somehow, you still say nothing of value.”

Varn swallowed. The confidence that had bloomed so easily in his voice a moment ago had withered under Silco’s scrutiny. “I didn’t mean any offense, boss.”

Silco exhaled slowly, tilting his head as though examining a specimen under glass. “Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He took a measured step forward. “You didn’t think.” Another step. “Didn’t stop to consider the weight of your words.”

Varn flinched as Silco came to a halt beside him, his hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, fingers idly drumming against the wood.

“You see,” Silco murmured, leaning down so his lips hovered near Varn’s ear, “I detest people who waste my time.”

The room was still. Deathly still.

“Do you know why I keep her by my side, Varn?” His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it sliced through the air with precision.

Varn’s breath hitched.

Silco let the question linger, then turned his gaze toward you. Something flickered in his expression—something softer, something almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

“Because every word she says matters,” he continued, voice smooth as glass. “She does not waste them on arrogance, nor on fools.”

The message was clear.

Varn was a fool.

And Silco had no use for fools.

Without hesitation, Silco retrieved the knife from his coat pocket. He did not flourish it, did not draw attention to it. He didn’t need to. The soft glint of steel against the dim light spoke loudly enough.

Varn stiffened as the cold tip pressed just under his chin, tilting his head up ever so slightly. His pulse jumped beneath the blade’s edge.

“If you ever speak of her that way again,” Silco murmured, voice silk over steel, “I’ll make sure the only sounds you’re capable of are whimpers.”

Varn’s breath stuttered. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, as if fighting the urge to tremble.

Silco leaned in closer. “And those who whimper in my presence,” he mused, almost thoughtful, “don’t last long.”

A moment stretched—sickening, suffocating.

Then, just as smoothly as it had appeared, the knife vanished. Silco straightened, slipping it away with practiced ease.

“Get out,” he said coolly.

Varn bolted.

The door slammed behind him, leaving nothing but the distant echoes of his hurried footsteps. The silence that followed was deafening, your own heartbeat the only sound pounding in your ears.

Silco settled back into his chair as though nothing had happened, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a measured sip.

He glanced at you, an amused glint dancing in his gaze. “Something on your mind?”

You swallowed, still processing what had just transpired. “I think...” You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together before continuing again. “You just scared the stutter out of me.”

Silco smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in something almost affectionate. “A pity.” He leaned back, exhaling contentedly. “I was rather fond of it.”

Your cheeks burned, though this time, frustration had nothing to do with it.

STEB

The cobblestone streets of Piltover stretched ahead, glistening under the dim glow of the hextech lamps. The city was quiet at this hour, a far cry from the usual midday bustle of merchants, students, and enforcers barking orders at troublemakers. Now, only the occasional carriage rattled over the stones, the faint hum of distant machinery threading through the silence.

A quiet evening patrol—just another night of keeping order.

Y/N walked beside Steb, hands tucked neatly behind her back, each step measured, uniform pristine. Composure was something she valued, something she cultivated. Every action was deliberate. Every word carefully chosen. In a city like Piltover, where reputation carried more weight than gold, she refused to be anything less than precise.

But somewhere along the way, she had grown comfortable.

And comfort, she was learning, came with its own set of problems.

Because comfort made her talk.

And once she started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop.

“…and it’s just, you know, ridiculous that the new regulations say we need approval for every hextech enhancement when—no, actually, it’s not ridiculous, I get the safety measures, but—I mean, does it really make sense to lump minor repairs in with full-scale augmentations? Like, say you have a gauntlet with a minor power fluctuation—”

Her words tripped over each other like a pile of toppled playing cards. She exhaled sharply, trying to recalibrate, but the second she opened her mouth again—

“—and, and it’s like, I get it, okay, regulation is important, but if we’re—ugh, damn it—if we’re patrolling and need—ugh—if we need to—gah—words!”

She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples as if she could physically force her brain and mouth to work together.

Steb, who had been walking beside her in comfortable silence, turned his head slightly.

His eyes flickered over her face, unreadable, calm. He had the kind of quiet presence that never demanded space but occupied it effortlessly. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was never more than necessary. A sharp contrast to her current mess.

Y/N let out a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping slightly. “I swear I’m not an idiot.”

A pause. Then—

“…It’s okay.”

Two words. Simple. Steady. But there was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just an automatic reassurance, like he meant it.

When she finally forced herself to look at him, he was already gazing ahead, his usual neutral expression softened by the faintest curl of a smile. Not mocking. Not pitying. Just… there. Steady.

And that was somehow worse.

Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, and she hastily turned her face away, rubbing at her temple as if that could chase away the heat creeping up her neck.

“…Yeah,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “I know.”

They kept walking.

She tried to keep her mouth shut. She really did. But silence felt so much heavier now. And despite her frustration, despite the way her brain constantly outran her mouth, she didn’t mind talking to Steb. It wasn’t like talking to anyone else—there was no pressure to fill the quiet, no expectation of a response.

So before she could stop herself—before she could consider if it was wise—her lips parted again.

“Y-you—” She winced at the stumble, frustration already bubbling up again. “Ugh, damn it—you never talk much, huh?”

Steb didn’t react right away. He simply existed beside her, steps never faltering, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Then, after a long beat—

“…No.”

Y/N huffed out a small, breathy laugh. “Yeah, I, uh—I noticed.”

Silence stretched between them once more, but this time, it was lighter.

She fiddled with the cuff of her uniform sleeve, suddenly hyperaware of how unraveled she sounded. How her tongue kept tripping over itself. She never did this with anyone else.

Just him.

Why just him?

“You, uh…” She swallowed. “You ever get frustrated when you do talk?”

He didn’t answer right away, but she could feel him considering it.

Finally—

“…No.”

She blinked up at him.

His eyes, though still their usual blank, unreadable dark, held a flicker of quiet amusement.

“Oh, well, good for you, then,” she grumbled, dragging a hand down her face. “Meanwhile, I sound like I got into a bar fight with the alphabet.”

Steb exhaled—a sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle but was close enough.

She turned to glare at him. “You think that’s funny, don’t you?”

A pause. Then, a small nod.

“…You’re the worst,” she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

They kept walking.

=

The city was quiet, but her mind wasn’t. It was racing—jumping from one thought to another, desperate to form a coherent sentence before it got tangled up again.

Instead, what slipped out was—

“We make a good team, huh?”

Steb glanced at her, tilting his head slightly in silent question.

“I mean—” She waved vaguely between them. “Someone who talks too much, someone who barely talks at all. Kinda funny, don’t you think?”

Another long pause. His expression didn’t change, but she could tell he was thinking about it.

Then, in that same steady, measured voice—

“…Yeah.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, the tension in her chest easing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Steb didn’t say anything, but his lips twitched—just a fraction, just enough for her to know it was there.

She decided she liked it.

And though she still stumbled over her words, still fought with her own tongue, she didn’t feel so bad about it anymore.

Request Answer Continue: My dear Cherry, I hope you enjoyed the Steb! And no need to apologise! I am willing to write for characters one off! And from what I've read about Steb, he may or may not talk, so I went with the headcanon where he does talk, but barely. So I do hope it's alright! <3

[obeymeluv]

How You Spend the Night Together [Azul, Kalim, Vil]

Not proofread. I stayed up late writing this because I'm off tomorrow. Will proof-read tomorrow. Just wanted to get something out.

Azul had seen paintings of people in love. People being intimate. He'd salvaged unsent notes and journals while hunting for coins in the Coral Sea. He knew the definitions of words like passion and adoration but none of it made sense until he looked at you. You were half asleep, gazing at the aquarium wall built into his Housewarden room.

Taking on the mantle of Housewarden meant embodying the Sea Witch's spirit of benevolence and assuming care of the aquarium wall. As much as he believed creatures of the sea should be free, Azul took aquarium cultivation very seriously. The array of creatures and plants in it were depending on him! Much like Jade and his terrariums, Azul's budget was more flexible when it came to the wall. He and Sam had modified it (with Crowley's permission) so he could actually swim around in said wall when he wanted.

Part of the modifications included remote-controlled ambient lights. They were on a dimmer setting tailored to his own sleep schedule. You were bathed in blues, undertones of crystalline teal, and one of his hearts lurched painfully in his chest (he wasn't sure which one). Your eyes seemed to glow against the patchwork of blues, and all it once it hit him.

This is what the painters felt. It was something that could only be painted because words paled in comparison. Sure, things like adoration were close--certainly relevant--but not perfect.

You were, though.

The sheets piled around you reminded him of seafoam. All rumpled and wild twists. He could almost imagined you'd washed up on shore from the sea. Maybe he saved you from the sea itself.

"Are you reverting?!" you snapped up when he registered in the edge of your vision. He was just standing there, not responding! Suddenly you were throwing the top cover and sheets out of the way. Azul heard you fall. "Do I need to get Floyd? Jade? The potion's in your desk, right?"

"No treasure, I'm fine." Azul laughed, crawling onto the bed to stare over the edge at you. You were hopelessly tangled, one leg still swallowed in the silk. He hauled you up awkwardly, grabbing you by the leg and pulling you up with one hand as you relaxed with a heavy sigh. "Just mesmerized. That's all."

He pulled your leg into his lap, picking at folds in the sheets like he was prepping napkin rolls at his mother's restaurant. The heat of your skin was muffled and he relished the random brushes in the quest to set you free. Your skin was soft against his hands. Funny how he was setting you free when he was utterly trapped by you, hm?

Your leg now free, you laid back with him. Azul placed his glasses on the nearby nightstand, turning to face you and slide down into the sheets in one smooth motion. Yeah he had to squint to see, but getting close to your smile was worth it. "Good night, treasure."

You kissed the bridge of his nose and he wrinkled it reflexively. His eyes were an unfair kind of blue. A blue only Corelians could have, you thought. Your bodies moved together unconsciously, caught in a current of longing to be together after an even longer day. Azul snugged into the hand cupping his cheek as his looped around your waist. Come the morning your legs would be tangled together like something unholy but that was okay.

"Goodnight, Azul."

------ ------

Spending the night with Kalim wasn't just as simple as 'get changed, go to bed.' It usually involved helping Jamil tidy up Scarabia after another party. Jamil insisted time and time again that you didn't need to help, that you were a guest, but you famously told him 'then as a guest, I decide to help' and that was that. He secretly appreciated the help and Kalim found himself admiring your unapologetic assistance.

He didn't know how to describe it but you were like Jamil--fluid and natural to everything. You didn't miss a step cleaning up a room, straightening a pillow as you scooped another plate onto your stack and added a napkin to the wad in your other hand. Kalim trailed behind you like an excited puppy, trying to find something you or Jamil hadn't done so he could contribute.

When you're handed everything you could ever want and have the ability to do whatever you can think of, you don't realize how much you don't know. You don't know how much effort goes into things because it just shows up.

He wanted to show you that he could provide financially and physically. Kalim wanted to learn the independence his family was too scared to give him. Jamil let him do small things now and then but it was hard for the long-haired boy to beat down his lifelong training. His current task was splitting the stack of plates with you--he tried to take the whole stack but you refused because you were competent and stubborn--and taking them into the kitchen to be washed. When Jamil determined there were no more knives left in the sudsy water, Kalim was allowed to wash and dry them with you.

It was the most he'd done in a kitchen, he thought. Aside from chasing his siblings in and out of one or stealing snacks before a banquet. You'd more than proved yourself to Jamil by now; he knew it was safe to leave Kalim in your care while he retired for the night.

It's just as well; Kalim has a habit of sending him away when he wants to be alone with you. He tries to give Jamil as much freedom as he can without either of them getting in trouble. Dishes done and kitchen tidied, you gave him permission to get ready for bed.

He's not sure why that filled him with such excitement but it was like the first time every time. Kalim thought it weird a handful of times, when it would hit him like a spelldrive disk, but it didn't bother him.

It was a happy weird. One that would send him blabbing Jamil's ear off about your potential wedding until he was ready to strangle him.

What if every night was like this?!

Another giggle escapes him--you shush him lest he wake his dormmates--as you pull him into his Housewarden room. It's a massive, beautiful room with arching windows that open onto a balcony. The door is heavy and you shut it as quietly as possible. Moonlight illuminates the room, sliding over the desk and luxurious canopy bed until it touches the bathroom.

You change behind the large curtain framing the windows; it's thick enough to give a suggestion of you but not a peek. Kalim curses softly in his language, looking away from you to free his arm from the now-tangled scarf.

That's what happens when he tries to take off too much at one time.

"You look so pretty, qalbi!" Kalim peppers your face with kisses as you meet him in the middle of the room. You giggle, hugging him and swaying.

"You act like you've never seen it before! You bought it!"

It was some kind of fancy nighttime set popular in the Scalding Sands.

"Still pretty." Kalim hums, his head against your shoulder as you walk him to the bathroom. He undoes the ribbon and bejeweled circlet, revealing messy white hair. You slide a headband onto his head as he places the circlet on a velvet pillow. The sink in his Housewarden bathroom is basically big enough to be a counter! Jewelry holders of all shapes and sizes lead to the faucet, the other side framed with hygiene products.

Kalim can do it with his eyes closed and has done it a million times before but he always stretches the moment. He tilts your head this way and that, tickling your chin and cupping just underneath it as he fashions his ribbon into something that will hold your hair and frame your face. It's supposed to keep your hair safe while you sleep. You open some rose-scented toner pads one of his sisters sent, sticking them on his cheeks and forehead. He returns the favor before setting out a bowl and mixing a handful of things his mother gave him.

"It's for your hands." he's mixing and checking, mixing and checking until he's satisfied. He scoops some in his hands, coats his, and grabs yours. This was a new thing but it very appreciated! He's massaging your hands and you're melting in his. You're very close to sleeping standing up when he turns the water on and washes your hands for you.

You blink awake as he's picking the toner pads off your face. "To bed, hayati, to bed." he takes your super-soft hand and you climb into the bed together. You feel yourself dissolving into the piles of plush pillows, your last conscious thought is Kalim pressing tight against you and being deathly still as Jamil starts to open the door and check on you.

----- ------

An evening with Vil was scheduled but relaxed. It was a result of growing up in auditions and networking. "There's always time for something," he liked to say, "And it's whatever you choose to make time for."

You catch yourself staring at him like the lovesick fool you are, not because he's THE Vil Schoenheit, but because he's made time in his schedule for you. At this point in the evening, Pomfiore has finished dinner and their post-meal stretches. He's done his rounds as Housewarden and checked on his dormmates. Everyone has retired to their rooms for the evening, pursuing whatever their hearts desire.

He leads by example, as a good Housewarden does. His little desire is at the edge of the bed making smoochy eyes at him.

Well...you looked at him like you loved him and that was fine, too. He'd be okay if you actually wanted to give him smoochy eyes. You would if he could be as reckless and free as Rook encouraged. It was a near-daily conversation you weren't aware of. Vil was confident on runway, the stage, and the screen but he couldn't bring himself to kiss you spontaneously or bury you under a mountain of love notes even though it was a constant thought.

He was just too regimented for that. Romance is supposed to be planned and grand, not hasty and rash! The idea of sweeping you into a crushing hug or swatching his lipstick collection all over your face behind a locked door was extremely tempting. He's just at a delicate spot with his career and can't afford to be passionate and free; it may lose deals and get you a lot of unwanted attention.

Vil looks at you over the edge of Perfectly Wicked Potions and Poisons, grinning to himself. His eyes crinkle at the corner and he can't even bring himself to fret. You just inspire that much joy in him. Future crow's feet are a small price to pay for these little moments where he doesn't have to worry about agents, managers, or devout fans.

Like Rook, your presence soothes him. He delights in having you nearby.

"What are you doing, Potato?" Vil tries to focus on the words in front of him but it's not working.

"Just looking at my boyfriend being all relaxed."

It's such a simple answer but there's no crazed-fan gloating in it. It's genuinely touching.

"Relaxed but lacking," he laments, book tilted towards his still-painted lips but careful not to touch. "I'm in need of my Potato."

You giggle, squishing yourself into the padded armchair with him. He laughs, cradling you with one arm as you slide your feet under the other to hang off the chair. The armchair is deep enough that it works. Your back is supported by his arm and the chair, he gets to put his chin on top of your head. Vil plants his elbow gently into your thigh, bringing the book back up to his face. Comforted by warmth and weight, he makes it through a few pages until you knit yourself ever closer and reach behind him to remove the ornate hairclip.

He'd forgotten it was in there, honestly, and it feels good to have his hair down. Vil hums, book threatening to slide out of his hand as you work his scalp gently with one hand. His violet eyes slide shut, head tilting back. "I didn't see anything about wicked potatoes in my book but wicked you are, my darling." Vil murmurs.

"Want me to stop?"

"In the chair? Reluctantly. In the bed? No." Vil summons the energy to put the book down, breezing over to the bed with you in his arms. He taps you on the nose with a painted nail, smirking at you as he disappears to hang his Housewarden outfit up. You close your eyes as he changes, only opening them when he's at the bedside pinching your shoulder gently. It starts a small trade-off of shoulder massages.

His alarm goes off about twenty minutes later. You follow him to the attached bathroom, brushing your teeth as he washes his face. Vil puts undereye patches on the two of you. He relaxes into the bed like he's boneless, content that he's done everything on his schedule for the day.

He's rewarded with completionist's satisfaction. He'd also liked to be rewarded with more hair-playing. Cheeks blooming pink, Vil nudges his head towards you. Half asleep now, you bring your hand up to massage his scalp. "Goodnight, Vil."

"Goodnight, Potato."

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 7: "The one with unexpected visit" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: You plan your weekend, preparing to tackle the clutter—the disorganized clothes in your closet, the ones strewn at your feet, but most of all, the chaos in your mind after an unexpected visitor shows up at your door. WC: 10.4k

A/N: Okay. Here it is. 😭

Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

Friday, August 30th

“This place is packed,” Santi muttered beside you, his gaze sweeping over the crowded tables, each one occupied by people leaning in close, lost in conversation or absorbed in their laptops. The low hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm sugar hung thick, comforting, almost intoxicating. The display case by the register was lined with golden croissants, glistening danishes, and—most importantly—rows of perfectly round, sugar-dusted donuts.

“The donut thing must be true,” he added, still scanning the room like he was making a tactical assessment.

“No, I heard the coffee’s actually good. Though, yeah, maybe the donut thing too.”

“I hope so. I want my free donut,” he said, flashing you a grin.

Ahead of you, two people stood in line. The café itself was like something out of a storybook—warm, inviting, all soft golden light and mismatched wooden chairs. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, the handwriting slightly smudged in places, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through writing “oat milk.” A framed picture of what appeared to be the owner’s dog hung beside it, wearing a tiny apron.

“When’s Yov coming back?” you asked, nudging forward as the line inched along.

“Sunday. Why? Trying to get rid of me already?”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You can stay with me if you want. Tonight.”

Santi nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

“Dinner at Will’s place.”

“Ah.” You nodded, as if that explained everything. “Well, I guess I’ll be alone again.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “As if you don’t love being alone.”

“That’s true,” you admitted, raising your eyebrows. “Now that you mention it, maybe I’ll use the night to finally sort out my closet. Do you have any idea how many t-shirts must be buried at the bottom of everything?”

“Wow,” he said dryly. “You really know how to have fun on a friday night.”

“Next,” the man behind the counter said, his voice carrying over the soft hum of conversation and the clatter of ceramic cups.

You and Santi stepped forward. He ordered an espresso. You ordered a latte. Simple, predictable.

But beside you, you could feel Santi hesitating, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. Like he was holding himself back.

“And I’ll have a blueberry muffin too,” you said, sliding your gaze toward him, leaving space. An opening.

Santi didn’t say anything.

The man behind the counter gave you a knowing smile. He looked like he was in his early forties, maybe late thirties. His light brown hair was touched with soft gray at the temples, and his eyes—large, dark green, almost too deep for their color—had the kind of quiet presence that made you think he was good at remembering faces. He was tall, too, though he moved with an easy, unhurried air.

“This your first time here, right?” he asked, punching your order into the register.

You nodded. “It is. I, uh—” You gestured vaguely toward the sidewalk behind you. “I have a bookstore just a few doors down. Right next to the florist.”

Recognition flickered across his face. His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ah, Vandspell Books—that’s yours?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel before leaning slightly against the counter. “My daughter loves to read. She’s in that stage where she’ll devour an entire book in a day.”

That got your attention. You smiled, suddenly much more invested in the conversation.

“Really? What’s she reading now?”

“Anne of Green Gables. She’s ten.” He hesitated, as if considering something, then added, “Do you have any recommendations?”

Your mind immediately began sorting through titles, but a quick glance behind you told you there were already three more people waiting in line.

“Oh, I have lots,” you said, shifting your weight slightly. “You should bring her by. I’d love to talk books with her.”

His face lit up, as if the idea genuinely delighted him. “Of course. I’m Bill, by the way.”

You told him your name, then gestured toward your brother. “This is Santi.”

“Nice to meet you, Santi,” Bill said, then tilted his head. “You want anything else with your coffee?”

Santi opened his mouth, hesitated. “Uh…”

“Pick some donuts,” Bill interrupted. He gestured toward the display case behind him, where an array of golden, sugar-dusted, chocolate-drizzled, and rainbow-sprinkled donuts sat under the soft glow of the pastry case lights. “On the house.”

You turned just in time to see Santi’s expression shift. You smiled.

With coffee in hand and two paper bags filled with still-warm donuts, you and Santi stepped out of the café and onto the sidewalk. The air outside was delicious, the kind of perfect morning where the sun felt warm against your face without being overbearing. A breeze moved lazily through the streets, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a bakery down the block, the faintest hint of lavender from the florist next door.

And, as it turned out, everyone had been right about the coffee. It was good—really good, the kind that made you close your eyes for a second just to savor it. The donuts, too. You had chosen one with plain icing, while Santi, walking beside you, was already biting into his, the chocolate coating cracking under his teeth.

“You look happy,” you observed, watching as he chewed, looking for all the world like a contented child.

Santi laughed, brushing a stray crumb from his shirt. “I’m happy in the mornings.”

You reached the bookstore and pushed open the door, the small brass bell overhead letting out a familiar chime. Immediately, the scent of books wrapped around you—old paper, faint traces of vanilla from the spines, something earthy in the air like dust settling in sunlight. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, pooling in golden patches on the wooden floor.

You took a sip of your coffee and moved behind the counter, switching on the computer, unlocking the register, setting everything in place for the day. Santi made his way to the couch on the left, the one tucked against the universal classics section. He sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, his gaze drifting across the shelves.

“Thinking about something?” you asked, noticing how still he’d gone, how his eyes seemed focused on something only he could see.

“Not really,” he said, leaning back. Then, after a pause, “Just remembering how dad used to read Henry James to us.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “And Poe. That man was out to terrify us.”

You laughed, the memory slipping in as easily as if it had happened yesterday—those slow, humid summer mornings, your father behind the counter, his reading glasses sliding down his nose, the two of you sprawled out on the floor, half-helping, half-distracted.

That first summer, when you were seven and Santi was twelve, you had spent the mornings at the shop mostly because there was nowhere else to be. Santi had been having a rough year at school, and your parents had decided bookstore shifts were a more constructive punishment than being stuck at home. You, naturally, had followed him. It had been the off-season, slow and uneventful, so your father had pulled The Turn of the Screw off the shelf and started reading it to you in pieces, depending on how long you could sit still. He hadn’t expected you to love it, but you had. You’d finished the book quicker than he planned. And after that, the habit had formed—morning readings of Poe, a little May Alcott, sometimes Dickens. Always, at the end, your father would close the book, clear his throat, and say in that particular, expectant voice, Well, kids, what did you learn?

“Yes,” you said now, settling onto the couch beside Santi. “I remember every story like it was yesterday.”

“Well, you have a better memory than me,” he admitted. “I’ve forgotten a few.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up.

“Take the book, then.” You crossed to the shelf, letting your fingers trail along the spines, stopping when you found the one you wanted.

“Really?”

“Yes, Santiago.” You pulled the book free and handed it to him. “Read it again and tell me what you think of it now that you’re old.”

He laughed, flipping absently through the pages. “Change of perspective, huh?”

“That’s what they say.”

Santi made a quiet sound, thoughtful, tapping his fingers against the book’s spine. “Something I remember, though.”

“What?”

“The way Henry James talked about it.” He paused, searching for the phrase. “Change of perspective.”

You laughed. “You mean 'points of view’?"

Santi nodded.

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Nothing. Just an interesting thing to think about. How we all have different points of view. How stories—experiences—can be—”

“Oh, shut up,” you said, swatting his arm as you walked back to the counter.

Santi just grinned, flipping open the book.

Saturday, August 31st

“What about this one?” you asked, holding up a shirt to the light filtering through the blinds. Mr. Darcy, curled at the foot of the bed, blinked at you in slow, feline disinterest. You stretched the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head as if seeing it from a different angle might reveal something new. “I think this color looks good on me,” you mused, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you think?”

Mr. Darcy did not respond. His eyes drooped closed, an infuriatingly serene expression settling over his face.

With a sigh, you pressed the shirt against your chest for a final moment of consideration before tossing it onto the “stay” pile. The bed was covered in these small mountains of fabric, some meticulously folded, others crumpled in a way that suggested their fate was still undecided.

“You’re not being much help,” you told the cat. He responded by shifting slightly and sighing—a real, proper sigh, as if he too were exhausted by the ordeal.

You picked up the last two sweaters that had been holding you hostage in indecision for the past twenty minutes. One was soft and familiar, a shade of blue you always liked on other people but never felt quite right in. The other was oversized and cozy but had a tiny stain near the collar you would never actually get around to fixing. With a sharp exhale, you placed them both in the “go” pile.

This had taken so much longer than you expected.

Yesterday night, full of unwarranted optimism, you had yanked everything from your closet in a single dramatic motion, watching as shirts and dresses tumbled onto the floor in a heap of fabric and regret. At first, you moved with purpose—lifting, sorting, folding—but soon, fatigue crept in. You had far more clothes than you realized, and the sheer volume of it all became overwhelming. Then your stomach growled, and you told yourself you’d take a quick break, have dinner, then get back to it.

Except you didn’t.

Instead, you ate too much, stretched out on the couch for what was supposed to be just a moment, and woke up (many) hours later with Mr. Darcy sprawled across your chest, his full weight pressing into you like a tiny, indifferent furnace. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, and the mess was still waiting for you.

Now, after a long shower and a strong coffee, you had finally pushed through. The bed was covered in neat stacks, some slightly more chaotic than others, but it didn’t matter. Most of these clothes were staying.

Humming along to the song drifting from the speakers in the living room—Perfect by The Smashing Pumpkins—you began folding the last of the pieces, tucking them carefully into drawers, smoothing them into place. The sun had started to set, golden light spilling across the room, stretching shadows across the floor. Mr. Darcy let out a soft sigh in his sleep.

You rolled your shoulders back, stretching your arms overhead. The apartment felt quieter now, softer. As if, for the first time in a while, there was a little more space to breathe.

When everything was finally in place, you stepped back, hands on your hips, surveying your work with quiet satisfaction. The closet doors stood open, revealing rows of neatly folded clothes, the bed cleared of its previous chaos. It felt good, in a small but tangible way, to have imposed order on something.

Mr. Darcy chose that moment to stretch luxuriously, arching his back, his tail curling in the air. He let out a slow, deliberate meow, as if announcing his presence.

“Oh, now you’re awake,” you said, sitting down on the bed just as he slinked over to rub his head against your leg. His purring started up instantly, a low, soothing vibration under your fingertips as you scratched behind his ears.

“You’re a sweetie, you know that?” you murmured, pressing your forehead lightly to his.

He responded with a small, almost reluctant meow.

“Of course you know,” you said. “You’re the cockiest little thing in the world, and I love you for it.”

Mr. Darcy accepted this praise for a few more seconds before deciding he had better things to do. With a final flick of his tail, he hopped off the bed and padded out of the room. You followed his lead, heading into the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror was flushed, your skin still warm from the shower. Strands of hair clung to your neck. You ran your fingers through it absently, shaking it out, then padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave read 5:37 PM. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, which explained the hunger curling in your stomach. You opened the fridge, scanning the shelves, your eyes landing on a carton of eggs. Maybe pancakes. You could make pancakes.

Just as your fingers brushed against the milk, the doorbell rang, muffled beneath the music playing in the living room.

You cursed under your breath, shutting the fridge with a little more force than necessary before glancing toward the window.

“I’m coming!” you called, raking a hand through your t-shirt, smoothing the fabric over your stomach as you walked toward the door.

You glanced down at yourself—Santi’s old, faded Soundgarden t-shirt, worn soft with time, and a pair of shorts. Not exactly presentable, but it was just your brother. What did it matter? You only hoped he’d had the decency to bring food. A bowl of his stew, preferably.

You opened the apartment door and made your way downstairs, still prepared to greet him with some sarcastic remark about how he always showed up unannounced. Your fingers curled around the handle of the front door, pulling it open with a practiced ease, your lips already forming the beginnings of a smirk—

But then, you saw who was standing there.

Not Santi.

Frankie.

The smirk disappeared instantly.

Your gaze rested on his face, searching for something—an emotion, a clue, anything that might tell you what he was thinking. But if there was something there, you couldn’t decipher it. All you could tell was that he didn’t want to be here. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something you weren’t perceptive enough to name.  

“Hi,” he said finally, shifting his weight back slightly. “How are you?”  

There was a hesitation before you answered. “Fine.” Your eyes dropped before they could linger too long on his face, skimming down his body instead. No cap. No glasses. A gray T-shirt, black cargo pants. His car was parked behind him, engine off, as if he wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying. “You?”  

“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute. About the other night.” His voice was steady, careful. “If you want to. If you can.”  

Your pulse jumped, an uncomfortable awareness settling in your chest. You hoped the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t visible, but it probably was.  

You nodded. “Yeah, sure. Do you want to come up?”  

You stepped aside, gesturing toward the stairs with a thumb.  

Frankie nodded once, silent, and crossed the threshold. As he passed, you caught the faintest trace of something—clean, warm. You exhaled through your nose and turned to close the door behind him, hesitating a beat longer than necessary. A small, quiet breath left you before you followed him upstairs.  

At the apartment door, you pushed it open and stepped inside first. He hesitated for half a second before following, his eyes flickering to the floor, scanning for the cat.  

“Sit,” you said, already walking toward the kitchen.  

He wordlessly lowered himself onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees. You opened the fridge, the sudden cool air brushing against your skin as you scanned the shelves.

“Do you want something to drink? I have coffee, tea, juice, um—”  

“Water’s fine.”  

“Okay.”  

You poured two glasses—one for him, one for yourself—and returned to the couch, setting them down on the coffee table. You almost sat beside him. Almost. But at the last second, something made you change your mind, and you lowered yourself into the couch across from him instead.  

Silence stretched between you, thick and unmoving. Neither of you seemed to know where to begin.  

You were just about to reach for something, anything, when he let out a breath and spoke first.

“I owe you an apology.”

Frankie’s voice was steady, but there was a tightness in his jaw, in the way his fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees like he was bracing himself. He was looking at you now, fully, not shying away. “For the other night and… for everything. I’m sorry.”

Your brows pulled together. “Everything?”

The word sat between you, unanswered.

Everything felt too big, too vague. How far back did he mean? Since the other night? Since years ago? Since always?

His gaze dropped to the coffee table where the glasses sat untouched. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were weighing his words, as if the right ones might suddenly appear among the condensation rings forming on the wood. When he lifted his eyes again, he looked more sure of himself.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard about Harry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said all that shit. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I had no right to get in your business like that. And it won’t happen again. You can trust that.”

There was something about the way he said it—without defensiveness, without expectation—that made you believe him.

“I know I don’t have an excuse,” he continued. “But I do know how you feel.” His fingers flexed against his knees before his hands finally relaxed. “I’ve been there.”

His gaze dipped again, like the weight of saying it out loud was too much. “I’ve been abandoned. And I found out the hard way that it was pointless to spend every day crying, wondering why.”

Your mouth opened before you fully registered the thought.

“Rachel.”

The name landed between you, quieter than you meant it to be, as if it had slipped out on its own.

Frankie nodded. You noticed the smallest movement in his expression—the way his eyebrows twitched slightly, how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. A moment of remembering.

“And I know you’re not me, and Harry’s not Rachel,” he said. “But I couldn’t help it. It felt the same. Like I was watching something repeat itself right in front of me.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.” He nodded quickly, closing his eyes for a second, like he needed to reset. “I know.”

Frankie rubbed his palms over his thighs, exhaling through his nose. “Seeing you hurt over him reminded me of myself, and I—I—”

“Do you wish someone had demanded you get over it? Would you have preferred someone to yell it in your face?”

The question came out softer than you expected. Frankie’s head tilted slightly, his lips parting just enough for a breath to catch. Then, slowly, he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“I wish they’d been less careful with me,” he admitted. “Everyone acted like I was this fragile thing they couldn’t say certain shit to. Like if they said the wrong thing, I’d just… break.” His eyes flickered to yours. “Honestly? If I could go back, I’d tell myself to get over it. That it didn’t make sense.”

“But that’s not how it works,” you said gently. “You can’t force yourself to get over something. And you can’t force other people to, either.”

His jaw shifted slightly, the muscle tightening before releasing again. “I just would’ve liked some honesty. You know what I mean?”

You held his gaze and nodded. "Yeah, I get it. But, what, did you think I wanted the same thing? Everything you said that night wasn't new to me."

“I just... I know I have no right to tell you what to do. Or give you advice," he said, quieter now. "And even beyond that, I know the way I spoke to you was wrong. I was insensitive. And for that, I’m sorry.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I got caught up in it. I saw how much you were hurting, and I—I messed up.”

His hand dropped, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had softened.

“You and I… we’re not exactly made for each other, are we?” His lips quirked, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “And I don’t even know what it is that makes us like this. But whatever it is…” His voice grew quieter, like he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear the last part. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

For a moment, you considered the easy way out. You could tell him you understood, that you had been unfair too. You could nod, accept his apology, smooth over the jagged edges between you.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of this, tired of swallowing words, tired of pretending you didn’t feel the way you did. And, honestly, you had no idea when you’d get another chance to say these things to him. Knowing yourself, probably not anytime soon.

You took a breath, tried to shape your thoughts into something measured, something that wouldn’t unravel into a mess of frustration and regret. But overthinking it wouldn’t help. It never did.

So you just said it.

“You make me feel stupid,” you told him, and even though your voice was steady, it felt like tearing something open. “Almost all the time. Since the very first day.”

Frankie blinked, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. Like all my choices are inconsistent, irrational. If I wanted to be sad about Harry, if I wanted to cry over him, why couldn’t I? Just because something similar happened to you? This pain is mine, Frankie. I get to decide how I deal with it, how I suffer through it. That doesn’t mean I’ll carry it forever. That doesn’t mean I need you—or anyone—to rescue me from it.”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the way he was breathing, the way his hands were clasped so tightly between his knees, told you he was listening.

“And I get it,” you continued, exhaling sharply. “In some messed-up, roundabout, very us kind of way, you were trying to help me. But you…” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it. “You have this particular way of hurting me. Like you know exactly where to push, which strings to pull to completely disarm me.”

Frankie didn’t move. He just kept looking at you, so still it was almost unnerving. And as the words left your mouth, you felt something uncoil inside you, a weight lifting. But it wasn’t enough.

You straightened, rolling your shoulders back, bracing yourself.

“Can you be honest with me?” you asked. “Really honest? No bullshit, no deflections.” You gestured vaguely with your hand, like you were wiping the excuses away before he could even reach for them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me how you feel about me.” The words landed heavy in the space between you. “Tell me how you feel about the way I treat you. Tell me what it does to you, being near me. What you feel, and what you’ve felt all this time.” You inhaled, grounding yourself. “Right now, Francisco. I’m asking you for honesty.”

For a second, he just stared. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Or like he was trying to figure out if this was a trap.

And then he seemed to decide that, whatever it was, it didn’t really matter.

“I…” He exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I feel bad.”

His gaze dropped to the coffee table, avoiding yours like he was embarrassed to be admitting it out loud.

“I feel inadequate. Out of place. Like when you’re a kid and you go to a birthday party and no one wants to play with you.” His fingers flexed, then stilled. “Like I’m failing a test over and over again.”

You were quiet for a few seconds, letting his words settle, letting them exist in the space between you. If he had felt that way—if he felt that way now—you had never noticed. Not even once.

“I didn’t know,” you said finally, careful with your tone, as if the wrong inflection might break whatever fragile honesty was hanging between you. “I mean… I never thought anything I said actually got to you. All these years, you always seemed so sure of yourself. Like you wanted to prove that between the two of us, I was the one who wasn’t enough.”

Frankie lifted his gaze, meeting yours. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture did—something subtle, something you almost missed.

“What made you think that?” he asked. “What made you believe that what you said didn’t affect me?”

“You.” 

Frankie blinked, caught off guard.

“You make me feel small,” you went on, voice steadier than you expected. “Like I don’t know what I’m talking about, like I’m constantly getting it wrong. Every time we’ve argued, you always seem to know exactly what to say to hurt me, like you have some map of my insecurities, like you know exactly where to press.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “And I’ve always felt like you win. No matter what I say to you, no matter how angry I am, it never feels like I’ve landed a hit. You always turn it around, always make it worse for me. And then it’s like you’re fine—like you’ve already moved on, like it didn’t even matter. Like you enjoy knowing you won, until the next time we see each other and do it all over again.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted slightly before he exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. He pressed his lips together, jaw flexing, and when he looked back up, something unreadable had settled into his expression.

“I didn’t feel like I won the last time we saw each other,” he said. “If that makes you feel any better. Or any of the other times, really.”

You let out a quiet breath, looking down at your hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“Shit,” you muttered. And then, because it felt right—because it felt true—you lifted your eyes to his and said, “I’m sorry.”

His brows twitched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m sorry for everything I said to you,” you continued. “It wasn’t true. None of it. I was just—I was mad, and I was hurt, and I wanted you to feel just as bad as I did.”

Frankie’s lips curled at the corners, a small, wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

You shook your head. “That’s not—” 

“It’s okay.”

“No, that’s not okay,” you said, shaking your head, as if you could physically reject the thought. “Because something like that—what I said to you—no one deserves to be treated like that. And it wasn’t true. Not even a little bit. I don’t actually think those things about you, Francisco.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “I just wanted to hurt you.”

Frankie exhaled, looking down, shaking his head as if he could shake off the weight of it.

“I deserved it.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “I… I didn’t know I made you feel that way. That it was that serious for you.” His hands flexed against his knees, knuckles pale with tension. “I didn’t know, or maybe I just didn’t let myself realize it. Not until the other night, when I—When I made you cry.” A pause. Then, barely above a whisper, “Jesus Christ, I’m such a fucking asshole.”

He pressed his fingers against his temples for a second before looking back at you. “All this time, all these years, I knew we were hurting each other. But I didn’t think—I didn’t think anything I said could actually wound you like that.”

“You didn’t realize?” The words left your mouth before you had time to temper them, sharp and incredulous.

Frankie nodded, almost to himself. “We fought, we pissed each other off, and in you, all I ever saw was anger. I thought, yeah, she hates me. So I figured that was all I was provoking—just that. Just anger. I never thought I was really—” He hesitated, exhaling through his nose. “I never thought I was actually hurting you.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what always got to me the most,” you muttered. “How come you always knew where to hit? How to cut?”

Frankie’s eyes rested on yours, unreadable, and then drifted down to your hands. You were twisting your fingers together, restless, wound tight.

He let a breath pass before answering. “The first time we actually argued was that day at the lake, remember?”

You did.

You nodded, and Frankie went on. “I took your life jacket by mistake. And when you found out, you just—tore it out of my hands without a word. We hadn’t even talked much before that. Barely knew each other. But that moment felt like… like it told me everything I needed to know.” He wet his lips, glancing at you briefly before looking back down. “I went after you, asked you what the hell your problem was, and you said I needed to be more careful. That I should keep my hands off your stuff. That I always managed to screw things up.”

His fingers tapped absently against his knee.

“Later that day, you lost the parking ticket, and we argued again. And I—I remember throwing it back at you. That you were the one who always screwed things up. That you were careless. That you needed to pay more attention.” He gave a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “After that, I don’t remember the specifics. Just that it was always like that between us. Always fighting, always picking at each other, always knowing the worst possible thing to say. And Santi losing his mind over it.”

He glanced down at the side of the couch, where Mr. Darcy had stirred, stretching lazily before padding toward Frankie’s feet. Frankie reached down, scratching lightly behind his ear, gaze unfocused.

“I didn’t know the things I said were touching a nerve,” he said finally, still not looking at you. “But I did know that the things you said to me were.” His fingers stilled in the cat’s fur. “It always felt like you knew exactly where to press. Like you could see my insecurities before I even admitted them to myself.” He finally looked at you, his mouth curling in a wry, humorless smile. “And if you think about it too much, it’s almost funny. Because our attacks—our words—they’re the same. They always have been.”

You followed his gaze to your cat, who had curled up beside his feet again, content. Your thoughts tangled together, unspooling into more questions than you could keep track of. Would he answer them?

“Yes, I understand that. What I don’t understand is…” You stopped, your throat tightening so suddenly it caught you off guard. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to push through the burning behind your eyes. “What I don’t get is… why?”

Frankie looked at you, his expression unreadable at first, then shifting into something closer to confusion. “What?”

You blinked rapidly, a thin sheen of wetness gathering in your eyes.

“From the very beginning, you never liked me.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Since the first day, the first moment we met. You made up your mind about me on the spot. Why? You didn’t know me. You knew nothing about me, and yet somehow, you decided I was—” You stopped, struggling to find the right words. “—not worth your time. Not worth being kind to.”

His expression didn’t shift at first, just deepened into something unreadable. “I don’t... I don't know what you mean.”

You let out a breath, something like a laugh but without the humor.

“Francisco.” His name felt strange in your mouth, too formal, too intimate at once. “Come on.”

"No... I mean, I know it was weird, but that's not how I—"

“From the very beginning, you hated me.” A tear slid down your cheek, warm and humiliating.

“I didn't,” he said quietly.

“You did. Since the first time we met.”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching, like maybe the answer would be written there instead. “The first time we met?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “I... I don’t know if we’re talking about the same thing.” He glanced downward, rubbing his palm over his jeans, like the answer might be tucked somewhere there. “I—”

“We are.” Your arms folded tightly over your chest, and a single tear slid down your cheek.

Frankie watched it fall, his expression still, like he was afraid to move. “Are you... are you talking about the party?”

Your breath came out unsteady. “Yes. When Santi introduced us.”

Something changed in his posture, a nearly imperceptible shift. He straightened, his head tilting slightly.

“You decided,” you went on, voice gaining weight, strength, “that I wasn’t enough. That I was something you just didn’t care to bother with.” You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “Why? What was it about me? What made you so sure, right away, that I wasn’t worth respecting?”

The last word broke in your mouth, and you turned away, unable to keep looking at him.

Another thin tear traced the curve of your cheek, warm against the cool air. Frankie shifted, pushing himself up from where he sat, his movements unhurried but purposeful. He didn’t hesitate—he crossed the space between you, lowering himself beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence in the subtle press of air, the quiet weight of him.  

He didn’t touch you, not really. Just the faintest brush of his fingertips against the edge of your jaw, a barely-there pressure, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Like he was testing the shape of the moment, waiting to see if you would pull away.  

“That’s not true,” he murmured. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Something burned beneath your ribs, something twisting and insistent, and you shook your head, exhaling sharply. A thin, bitter smile flickered across your lips, but it barely lasted a second. It collapsed the moment your eyes found his again, replaced by something heavier, something almost resigned.

“I heard you, Francisco.” Your voice was quiet, steady. “I heard you that night. Talking to Will.”

Frankie’s expression barely shifted at first. He was watching you carefully, trying to read you, as if unsure whether this was an accusation or something else entirely.

“What are you talking about?”

You studied his face, searching for any flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. Not yet.

“After dinner, when everyone went down to the bonfire,” you started, measured, watching for his reaction. “Benny stayed behind to help me with the dishes. I was already feeling off—because of you, because of how you looked at me when Santi introduced us, because of how you acted during dinner. Like there was something wrong with me. Like I was—” You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your throat, but forced yourself to continue. “Like I was something unpleasant that you had to avoid.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, but there was a shift in his features—subtle, almost imperceptible. He looked puzzled. But still, not like he knew.

You exhaled through your nose, gathering yourself before speaking again. “I wasn’t in a good mood after that. So after we finished, I went to the bathroom. And that’s when I heard you.”

Something in Frankie’s posture stiffened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you go on.

“You and Will were outside, talking near the bathroom window,” you said, watching him closely now, waiting for something in him to give. “I wasn’t trying to listen. But then I heard you talking about me.” You swallowed. “You were telling him there was something weird about me. That I had... something.”

A pause. The air in the room changed. Frankie’s gaze darkened—not in anger, but in something closer to realization.

“Will told you not to be like that,” you went on, voice quieter now. “He said I was Santi’s sister, that you should at least try and talk to me. And you—” You stopped, bracing yourself, because saying the words out loud after all this time felt different, sharper. You forced them out anyway. “You said you’d rather sacrifice yourself in another way.”

And then—there it was.

His expression shifted, something cracking open behind his eyes. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth parted like he might say something, but no words came. He pulled back just an inch, like the memory had physically landed in his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor, breath measured, something about the way his shoulders rose and fell too precise. He shook his head—at himself, at the situation.

When he finally met your eyes again, there was something different there.

“What else did you hear?” His voice was careful, but there was something uneasy in the way he asked.

“Just that,” you said simply.

“Nothing else?”

You shook your head. “Does it matter?” Your voice was steady, but there was an ache behind it. “You were clear.”

Frankie dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling as his gaze flickered to the floor again. For a moment, it felt like maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, finally, he looked back at you.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“I heard you, Francisco,” you said, voice steady but sharp at the edges. “I heard you clearly—”

“I know,” he interrupted, nodding, inching closer. His voice was quiet but urgent, like he was trying to get ahead of whatever was coming next. “I know you did. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t—I never thought those things about you, I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just—just listen to me.”

Your stomach clenched. “Why the hell would you say it then? If you didn’t believe it, why did you say it?” You could hear your own voice rising, the frustration bleeding through. “Because from where I was standing, it made perfect sense. The way you looked at me that night, like I was something disappointing. Like I wasn’t what you expected or wanted me to be. And then to hear you say it out loud to Will—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It all lined up.”

Frankie held your gaze, unblinking.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, firm, his voice low. And for some reason—against all logic—you almost believed him.

You swallowed. “Then tell me the truth! Tell me what happened!”

Something flickered across his face, something uncertain. His posture stiffened just slightly, and his eyes darted away, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down this road at all.

He hesitated. Then, finally:

“I can’t,” he said. The words came out carefully, cautiously. “I can’t tell you. But you have to believe me when I say that what you heard wasn’t the full story. It wasn’t even the full conversation. I—” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I said those things so Will would drop it. So he’d stop insisting.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Insisting on what?”

Frankie’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting slightly, landing on Darcy, who had perched himself on the coffee table, lazily observing the conversation. He didn’t answer.

Your patience frayed at the edges. “Francisco.”

His eyes finally met yours again.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I promise. Just—not right now.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t you just tell me?” You leaned in slightly, closing the space between you, your face inches from his. He had nowhere to look but at you, no way to slip past the moment, no escape. “I asked you for honesty.”

His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady something inside him. His eyes had darkened, locked onto yours with an intensity that sent something twisting in your stomach.

“It was a weird night for me,” he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. “A weird week. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head, running a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the memory. “Please, you have to believe me. Yes, I said those things to Will, but no—none of it was real. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t think those things about you.” His voice caught slightly before he pushed through. “I barely knew you. We’d exchanged, what? A few words? An introduction? I wasn’t sitting there analyzing you, deciding what I thought of you. And whatever impression I gave you that night, whatever you think I believed—I swear to God, it wasn’t that.”

You let out a shaky breath, something sharp and unsatisfied curling inside you.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” Your voice wavered but held. “How do I know you’re not just lying to make this easier, to convince me I misheard, that this was all some kind of misunderstanding?”

“I—”

“You ignored me all night,” you went on, your heart picking up pace. “When the others spoke, you were fine. You looked cool, easygoing. But when I spoke?” You let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “It was like you forgot how to be a person. Like you wished I wasn’t there at all. You barely looked at me, and when you did—” You hesitated, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So tell me, Francisco. How can I fucking believe you? You deliberately ignored me all night. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Are you seriously going to deny it? Do you think I’m stupid?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable passing through his expression. And for a moment, all you wanted was to know exactly what was going through his head. To break him open and sort through whatever the hell he was keeping from you.

But it wasn’t that easy.

“No, not at all. I... I just... Fuck. Yeah.” He dropped his gaze, running a hand over his jaw for a moment before looking back up at you, his eyes filled with nerves. “I know I acted weird that night, I do. But it wasn’t because I didn’t like you or because I thought anything bad about you. And I know I probably sound like I’m making excuses, but I swear I’m not. I mean it. I’m serious.”

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Are you seriously trying to tell me that something happened that night that made you act weird only with me? Just me? Come on, Francisco, don't fuck with me."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn’t think I was being that obvious. I didn’t think you noticed how I was feeling that night. And I never would have imagined that you thought my attitude meant I didn’t like you. Honestly, I remember feeling like you were the one ignoring me all night. If I had realized back then that it looked like I was ignoring you on purpose, things would have been different."

"That's not believable, Francisco, seriously. Just stop."

"I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just... not right now. The conversation with Will, that whole night—I’ll explain it all, really."  

You snorted, glancing to the side for a moment before looking back at him.

“Please, trust me,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll tell you, I will, but not right now. I can’t.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But if you trust me—” He stopped himself, inhaled sharply. “God.” He shook his head, stepping back slightly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You have no reason to do it. I know that. But please—please, just trust me.”

"Why should I trust you? I know I have no real reason to. But give me one. Why should I trust you?"

Frankie stared at his hands for a few seconds, trying to come up with an answer (or maybe an excuse?) to give you.  

"I don't have one." He met your gaze, his eyes full. "I... I only have my word. And if you decide not to trust me... I get it."

You stared at him for a long time, searching his face, studying every shift in his expression, every flicker of hesitation. You were ready to call bullshit, to let yourself hold on to the anger, to the version of him you had carried around for so long.

But you couldn’t.

Because somehow, against every instinct, every logical explanation—you believed him.

Whatever else Francisco was, he wasn’t lying. Not right now.

“All right, okay,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “I don't know what's wrong with me, but I trust you. But you’ll tell me. You will. You promise.”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah. I’ll tell you. I will.”

"And I won't wait too long. I mean it. I think I deserve an answer. I do."

"Yes, you do. And you will get one, I swear."

You stared at him in silence, your eyes locked on his, like lie-detecting machines. Frankie didn’t look away. He held the gaze until it felt like it was too much.

Then, ee exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face before looking at you again. “Jesus… are you telling me this all started that night?”

You let out a small, humorless breath, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know what super secret reason you had, Francisco, but you were a dick to me. That’s just how it was. Whether you like it or not.”

His lips pressed together, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to piece something together.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I really am. I just… I thought this was all because you didn’t like me first.”

You turned to him with an incredulous look, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitched, just barely.

“I didn’t like you,” you admitted. “But only because I thought you were a rude, arrogant pain in the ass. That’s all. In fact, you have yet to prove to me wrong. ”

Frankie let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Is that why you didn’t give me a slice of cake?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at him. “And how do I know you’re not still that smug asshole, huh?”

Frankie held your gaze for a second, then shrugged.

“You don’t.” His expression softened just slightly. “And if you wanted to take some distance after all of this, I’d get it.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

He nodded. “I haven’t exactly been good to you. Not at all. I’ve hurt you, disrespected you. And yeah, it’s been mutual, but… I’d understand. If you wanted me to step back.”

You swallowed, something thick forming in your throat.

“I’ve been mean to you, too.”

A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. “Yeah. You have.”

“Remember when I threw that dart at you?”

Frankie groaned, rolling his eyes. “I still have the scar. Of course I remember.”

You looked at him then, amused, but it didn’t last. The lightness of the moment faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by something heavier pressing against your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. You blinked hard, but it was useless—your eyes were already burning. “About the other night. I’m really sorry. You’re none of those things. I don’t think you’re a failure. And I—I feel awful about what I said, Francisco.” You let out a breath, your voice wavering. “And I really like your family. Your mom is… she’s wonderful. No one with a family who loves them that much could ever be a failure.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could wipe it away, Frankie moved. He didn’t hesitate this time.

His arm came around you, pulling you in—not forceful, not demanding, just steady. Solid.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your hair. “It’s all right.”

You closed your eyes for a second, listening to his heartbeat, to the rise and fall of his breath.

“I’ve been a jerk to you,” he continued. “I just hope someday you can forgive me. For all the times I made you feel small or stupid. You’re none of those things. Never have been.” He let out a quiet breath. “I was—I'm just an asshole.”

You pulled away from him, your breath still unsteady, the warmth of his proximity lingering on your skin. When you looked up, his expression was tight, conflicted. There was something guilty in the way his gaze dropped for a second, like he wished he could take back whatever had just passed between you.

“Maybe,” you said, a small smile curving at the corner of your lips, though it wasn’t entirely lighthearted. “Then again, maybe we’re just too different. Or similar, at times.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on yours, steady and unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice even. “That must be why you make me so uncomfortable sometimes.”

A small, puzzled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Your eyebrows pulled together.

“What do you mean?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you could see the realization hit him, the regret arriving a beat too late. His shoulders shifted, a quiet exhale leaving him as he glanced down at the cat beside him, as if Mr. Darcy might somehow provide him with an escape route. But then something like amusement flickered across his face, and a breathy, almost reluctant laugh followed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally looking at you again. “It’s strange. You make me nervous, I guess. Like, I don’t know how to talk to you, what to say. Maybe it’s the arguments, maybe it’s my self-esteem, who knows.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, as if it wasn’t something that had been bothering him for a long time.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed.” A pause. “Although, now that I think about it, you do come across like you have a hard time talking to women.” The words were teasing, but your gaze stayed on him, curious.

He huffed, shaking his head. “I grew up surrounded by women. Believe me, a man learns things,” he said, eyes steady on yours, serious but with something wry beneath the surface. “Even if he doesn’t want to.”

You let yourself smile then, dropping your gaze to your hands. There was something about this—about him, about the quiet between you—that felt different than before.

Mr. Darcy rubbed against your legs, then made his way toward Frankie, stretching out lazily before flopping onto his back, belly exposed, trusting. Frankie ran a slow hand through the soft fur, absentmindedly scratching along the cat’s ribs.

Funny, you thought. Mr. Darcy already trusted him enough to show him his ridiculous little belly.

Maybe—just maybe—you could consider doing the same.

“Frankie?” you murmured, watching the sharp lines of his profile, the way the dim light carved shadows across his face. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, absentmindedly pinching at the skin around your nail, a nervous habit you hadn’t been able to break.

He turned to you at once, eyes steady, dark, unreadable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated. Swallowed. “I want this to end.”

A crease formed between his brows. “What?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, as if that could encompass everything—the biting words, the unresolved tension, the years of something tangled and unsaid. “The fights. The confusion. I’ve had enough of it. I don’t want it anymore.”

Frankie was quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, his expression serious but thoughtful. Then he nodded, once.

“Right.” His voice was steady. “I don’t want it either. And I get it. If you want me to stay away, I will. I’ll tell Santi. I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you—”

“No,” you interrupted, leaning in just slightly, just enough for him to notice. “I don’t want that either.”

That caught his attention. His posture shifted, the tension in his jaw loosening. “No?”

You shook your head. “I think Santi’s had enough, too. I don’t want to put him in the middle of this, make him feel like he has to split his time between us. It wouldn’t be fair. Don’t you think?”

Frankie exhaled, nodding. “Yeah.”

You glanced down at the coffee table between you, the two water glasses still untouched, condensation pooling at their bases.

“I just… I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel good, for either of us. Maybe we could try again. Be normal. Be… cordial.” Your eyes flicked back up to him. “We’re doing it right now, aren’t we?”

Frankie let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Look at us. Talking like regular, well-adjusted people. What’s next? Respecting each other?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smirk. “Actually, I’d like that.”

“So would I.”

“But it’s not going to be easy,” you said, crossing your arms and straightening slightly. “This is years we’re talking about. You don’t just patch up a road that broken overnight.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Really?”

He lifted his chin, his shoulders squaring as if accepting a challenge.

“That’s right,” he said smoothly. “Let me make it up to you.”

Your brow furrowed. Suspicion prickled under your skin as you studied him. “How?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth, something familiar sparking in his expression. You recognized it immediately. It meant he was up to something.

“Are you still making your list?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yeah…”

“Good.” He leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking just enough. “If you let me, I could help you with that.”

Your lips parted, then curled into a grin. “You’re telling me you’d go to a club with me just so I can kiss strangers?”

Frankie laughed, deep and genuine. “If that’s what you want. Do you?”

Your gaze dropped, landing on Mr. Darcy sprawled between you, tail flicking lazily. You considered it for a second longer than you meant to.

Then you looked back up at Frankie.

“Not yet,” you said.

“Okay. Just think about it. Pick something, and I’ll do it with you.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Really?” Your skepticism sharpened the word, your head tilting slightly as you studied him.

“Just say it.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stood there, watching him, searching his expression for any sign of hesitation. Was this just him being polite, trying to smooth things over? Or did he actually mean it? Would the weight of the last few years—the fights, the misunderstandings, the things he knew you’d overheard—make him agree to anything just to prove a point?

The thought was almost amusing.

Your list was long. Some things were easy, some a little more complicated. Others, though, would be downright painful in the oppressive august heat.

How far would Frankie really go? He’d said anything. But how much did anything actually mean?

“Okay,” you said finally, drawing the word out just a little, watching the way his shoulders stayed loose, the way his eyes remained locked onto yours, waiting.

“Anything, then,” you repeated, testing him.

He didn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

“Good.” The corners of your mouth began to curve upward, the anticipation stretching into something almost giddy. You let the moment breathe, dragging it out just long enough to watch a flicker of uncertainty cross his face.

Then you said it.

“Skydiving.”

Frankie made a sound—something between a cough and a laugh, caught in his throat. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression somewhere between surprise and intrigue.

“Skydiving?”

“Yes.” You nodded, resolute.

For a second, he just looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back. Then, to your astonishment, he nodded.

“Perfect. We’ll go skydiving, then.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Your smile faltered, just for a moment.

“Really?”

Frankie shrugged, still watching you. “Yeah. If that’s what you want to do.”

“Good. Yeah.” You nodded, though the certainty you’d felt a moment ago was already beginning to waver. “Skydiving. I want... Skydiving.”

Frankie watched you closely, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We can do something else if you want.”

“No, no.” You shook your head, as if saying it more than once would make it true. “Skydiving. I want that.”

You stood up, grabbing your glass of water from the coffee table and carrying it with you toward the kitchen. The condensation on the glass chilled your fingers as you took a slow sip, trying to steady yourself.

Behind you, Frankie got up too. His footsteps were unhurried as he followed, his presence easy, unintrusive. He stopped in front of you, shifting his weight slightly as his hand settled on his hip. His grin had stretched wider, like he was already enjoying whatever came next.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll figure out all the details this week and let you know.”

You watched as his gaze drifted past you, landing somewhere on the wall behind you. He seemed to be thinking about something, his lips pressing together briefly before his eyes flicked back to yours.

“I think it’s a good idea, you know?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Starting the list up here,” he tapped his fingers against his temple, “and then working your way down. I mean, after this, going camping in the middle of the woods is going to feel like nothing.”

You considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”

His smile deepened, like he could see the shift in your expression, the way you were already beginning to believe it. “See? It makes sense.”

There was a beat of quiet. A comfortable one.

Then Frankie’s posture changed, his shoulders squaring just a little as he took a step closer. His voice was softer now, more deliberate.

“Well. Thanks for talking to me.” His eyes searched yours. “And for listening to me.”

You exhaled, glancing down at your glass before looking back at him.

“It’s okay, really. I needed it too.”

Frankie’s head tilted slightly. “Yeah?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Yeah.” A pause. “And I really hope things will be different from now on.”

He nodded, slowly, his gaze dropping to your feet as if grounding himself. “Me too.”

But he didn’t move just yet. He stayed there, hand still on his hip, eyes lingering on the floor like there was something else on his mind.

You watched him in silence, a dozen new questions forming, waiting on the tip of your tongue.

But they could wait. You could ask them another time, another day.

Now you knew you could.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone,” Frankie said suddenly, shifting his weight before stepping back. His voice was casual, like he’d just remembered he had somewhere else to be. He was already turning toward the door. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Yeah—oh, Frankie,” you called after him. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder, brows lifting slightly.

“Santi told me your mom was asking about me,” you said. “That she was a little worried. Is everything okay?”

Frankie exhaled, running a hand over his jaw like the question had pulled something heavy to the surface.

“Things are complicated,” he admitted. “But don’t worry. I’ll tell her something—”

“I’ll go to dinner with you,” you interrupted. “At her place. If you want.”

His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. “Oh—you don’t have to, really.”

“I know,” you said. “But I will. I don’t mind. Besides, I promised her.” You lifted a shoulder, watching him carefully. “Really, it doesn’t bother me. I like your mom.”

Frankie studied you, his gaze steady, assessing. Like he was waiting for you to crack, to take it back, to say you were just being polite.

You didn’t.

After a few beats, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to her, then.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling.

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time, there was something softer in his voice. He smiled back. “See you, then.”

“See you.”

He pivoted on his heel, crossing the room in a few strides. The door creaked open, and just like that, he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, gripping your glass a little tighter, your mind catching up with everything that had just happened.

Were you actually going to throw yourself out of a fucking plane?

Jesus.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella

[cod-indulgences]

can you write something like this (i can’t make a link on anon sorry https://www.instagram.com/reel/DGMQ0pQMqM8/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ== ) for simon? with reader under the bed trying to scare him <3

Simon Riley x gn!reader, silly, no sex, scare prank, spanking

"Hey Si! Can you come here a minute?"

You muffle giggles against your palm, waiting. It was a tight squeeze under the bed, but you managed it, and couldn't wait to finally get one against Simon.

His feet appear in your field of view, silent in his socks, and your hands flex. Just a little closer....

"Love? Where you at?" He asked, and you swung your arm forward and clasped it around his ankle to yank.

The squeal you got from him made you laugh, the absolute ridiculous way he jumped and crashed onto the bed sent you into hysterics. You couldn't breathe between the laughter and the increased pressure on your back. Oh, you wish you'd thought to set up a camera, his face must have been incredible.

A growl is your only warning before big hands grip your feet and pull you back, dragging you halfway out from under the bed. "Fucking hell," Simon rumbles, "what the fuck was that for?"

"Its funny!" You giggle again, and kick your feet. Simon snags one of them and tickles it, making you shriek and kick harder. He lets go- he doesn't want a broken nose again- and instead you feel his weight shift on the bed. He doesn't pull you out any further though, and realize when he palms you ass that you might have....miscalculated.

"Wait, no Simon hang on it's just a prank-!" His hand comes down on your ass in a spank, and you yelp, trying to army crawl away. He grabs your leg in his other hand and keeps going, bouncing your ass cheek against his palm. "Ow, ow! Fuck, sorry, ok, I won't do it again!" He spanks you a few more times, because he's an ass, and lets you go. You sag into the dusty rug, whining. You're in love with an asshole.

You lay there for a minute, letting your heart settle down, Simon's fingers tracing the edge of your shorts. He huffs. "Was pretty good," he admits, and you giggle in delight.

You're free to move now, and slither out from under the bed, hooking your arms over the mattress to climb up. Simon is still draped over the other side, and you eyeball his ass.

Nice, big target. Plump and round. You wind up for the pitch, lock in your aim, and slam your palm down across his cheek with all your might.

Now this squeal is even funnier, and you get to see his face for it. Win-win, even while you scramble to escape his reach, laughing at the sight of your big boyfriend limping from the handprint on his pretty ass.

(Simon absolutely leathers your ass for it later)