#if you're burnt out or need a break you can just like
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“It hurts to be something. It's worse to be nothing with you.”________________________________________________
It’s been 16 long days. Two weeks and two extra painfully long days since you clicked on ‘Kei’s’ contact. He’ll always be Kei to you, never Tsukishima. But somehow you’re back at base one, where you started; he should be Tsukishima to you now. No endearments that come with eye rolls or the constant changes of silly names you left for his contact name. No, it’s just Tsukishima now. It feels bitter on your tongue, like everything you two had was now reduced to a burnt wick in a candle, dry and overused. But you broke your promise.
It’s not your fault, you tell yourself; if it wasn’t for the stupid walk you took out of desperation, a need to breathe in something other than the intoxication of Kei’s lingering scent in your apartment. He was everywhere, in every nook, cranny, and corner of space in your home. Now your home, no more ‘ours.’
He loves, yes. And you are at the center, while everything else that he’s ever loved gravitates but could never touch you or hold a light to the space you fill in his carefully built life. But don’t humor yourself. You aren’t spared from his nature. But if you pay close attention, his eyes glint when he speaks to you; no malice can ever be traced, not when he talks to you. He never intends to be hurtful; he’ll poke and prod but never dig his fingers into someone he holds so delicately and dearly. Kei is not soft. But he’s not a monster.
So what are you doing? Entranced and frozen in place as you stare dumbly at the boy across the street from you. A dimly lit post light shining above his pretty blonde hair as he lets a snicker with a group of friends.
It’s not Kei. You’re not that stupidly deprived that you're having delusions like a man starved of water in drastic weather. But he looks like Kei; he’s a painful reminder, and it breaks something, something inside of you. A crack tearing apart your hefty wall of restraint and discipline.
This is wrong; you should be pulling your greedy hands away from the call button, but here you are saying goodbye to your pride and tough facade. It’s ringing, and it’s goddamn loud. But not louder than your dumb heart pounding against your ribs. But why are you surprised? That’s what Kei’s always done to you.
There’s a pause; it’s deafening and gut-wrenching. You want to turn back, hang up, and delete his contact in your phone forever; maybe even run away and change your name and appearance.
But you flinch.
He’s calling your name. But no one will get it. Kei’s calling your name. That's special, something worth breaking your promise.
“What?” You retort back, but you’re quick to wince, to take it back. You’re the one who called.
Fuck.
He rolls his eyes; you don’t need to see it; you just know. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face.
“I thought the devil needed space?” He muttered through the phone, It’s an insult, but it isn’t delivered like it’s supposed to be.
Your quiet, eyes darting away like he’s right in front of you.
“Can we—
Silence, you're waiting for what?
“Kei, don’t be petty.” You spoke, bringing your knees to your chest with a shaky exhale.
“Don’t know what you’re on about. I can’t finish the sentence for you.” He shoots back, with a raised brow, waiting ever so patiently.
“Do you even want to see me?” You whispered, anxious hands clawing at your sides as you shifted uncomfortably on your worn-out sofa.
“You ask that as if you’re not important to me. Yes. Now finish your sentence.” He scoffs, shaking his head in disapproval as he slumps in bed.
“Tsukishima, can we meet up and talk… please?” You mutter out, breaths are held, nothing but the sound of rain softly pattering outside and the occasional hum of traffic.
“I’m at your house in ten.” He answers quickly and swiftly, like he already had the answer at the tip of his tongue, ready to roll off and spring to life. A quiet silence is all that’s left, connecting the two of you as you both remain on the line. “And hey, it’s always Kei to you.”
#tsukishima x y/n#tsukishima x reader#hakiyuu Tsukishima#Tsukishima kei#hakiyuu#angst to fluff#angst to comfort#laufey bewitched#music inspired#Tsukishima x you#tooth rotting fluff#angst with happy ending#it’s not a crush it’s an obsession#I love kei#I LOVED Laufey’s album betwitched
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erm perhaps mouthwashing characters + younger sibling!reader??maybe angst like dying in their arms perchance,,thx!!!
You're getting somewhere......
Not proofread, obviously.
Curly was so happy when you came on the Tulpar, whether you're an intern or a new worker, he's suppopeperrr duppoerrr happy about it. He's kinda protective, he'll monitor you a lil more than the other crew members. They're all his responsibility though, so he won't go overboard. He needs to make sure the others are alright as well, ykkk??? Since i see no other way of you dying before he gets crashed, let's sayyyy...... The ship does crash like ingame, but you followed him like the STUPID LITTLE SHIT EVER. You're right outside the cockpit, and just before they hit the meteorite, Curly sees yo ass and tries to get you away, but fucks up and throws you into the fire. He pretty much goes fucking insane and tries to save you and gets himself burnt a little. Now you're a quarter bit more of a corpse and he's fucking bawling. You won't die yet, but you'll be soosososooooo happy when you do.
I don't think Jimmy is that happy that you're working together. Nah, he probably fuckin hates it. Now, people always assume that siblings will fight no matter what, that's a bit of an advantage for him he can say whatever shit he wants, and people will just be like "Oh, that's just how siblings are". A lot more meaner to you than he is to everybody else and sometimes forcibly shows you how to do your job right. He's probably the one killing you, and he'll barely feel any remorse. If not him, he still won't really care that much, “I told you so" that's him. If he cared...... It'd only be because he doesn't want to damage his reputation......
It's hard for me to think of Swansea having a younger sibling. I guess his parents fucked again when he was like 20-40 whatever you want and have a child that is raised better than he was. He'll still treat you like Daisuke, but you're family, so he's nicer. Holds nothing against you despite being the child that y'alls parents tried harder and better on. Acts like he has something to teach you, and does kind of teach you. I imagine that your parents didn't really like when you were with him during his drunk years, so you never really had time to spend together. If you died, he lowk wouldn't show how it affects him, but he becomes more irritable. Lashing out at people. Thinks it's his fault for you dying because he couldn't be a better brother. Thinks y'alls parents would fucking hate him for letting you die, might as well kill himself/hj.
Now, Daisuke. He's ecstatic!!! His little sibling with him? (You're in an intern here, idgaf) He's so happy that mom didn't send him alone. At least there's someone there that understands him. You and Daisuke are basically the children the others babysit. When you die, he just kind like.... Ykykykyk breaks down. Fuckung sobs himself on you, and he's scared that y'alls parents will get mad and hate him for not protecting you and he also thinks its his fault. Now he feels like the loneliest person ever, and he'll just be in a constant grieving state. All that standard stuff until he dies. Letss says that Jimmy was the one that killleed you. Daisuke would stay far away from him, and be all awkward whene he tries to talk with him
I feel like the person who'd take it the hardest is Anya, it just feels right to say that. You die a slow death, not slow and painful like Curly, but still dying slowly in pain. She'll try to treat you, but struggle lots because she just can't bear the sight of you in pain. Ultimately, she'll feel guilty when you die and blame herself for not being able to take care of you like a proper nurse should. This is really short and i hate that.
#jimmy mouthwashing#anya mouthwashing#curly mouthwashing#daisuke mouthwashing#mouthwashing#captain curly#anya x reader mouthwashing#curly x reader mouthwashing#daisuke x reader mouthwashing#jimmy x reader mouthwashing
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Always sucks to me seeing those people who like, developed a following with one specific game/franchise/whatever who've just like, clearly fallen out of love with it but are still engaging and making content for it since they're 'the [whatever thing] guy' but you can clearly tell they're bitter and sour about it since all their content is just sad and complaining and shit and it's just like
Dude, if you're not having fun you can like, do something else
You know that, right?
#it sucks that the way online subcultures form that ends up completely deincentivising basic shit like ''finding new interests''#or ''avoiding burnout''#and you see it everywhere too#like with tumblr blogs or youtubers or streamers#but idk it's pretty telling for someone who still says they like a thing but has absolutely nothing good to say about it#putting absolutely nothing but bad vibes out there bringing down the atmosphere#most heartbreaking when it's streamers who's livelihoods rely on that thing that's burning them out#but I've seen it with shit like tumblr blogs and such too#like if it's your literal job that's one thing but like#lotta the time I see it it's just like not#and like#we live in an age where we're literally drowning in media to consume#if you're burnt out or need a break you can just like#find something else to occupy your time#nobody's paying you you can just leave#the self is constantly changing#ever-shifting like water#it's ok if your interests do too#if it sucks hit da bricks#and all that#pun's text posts
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Beginning to really wonder how much of my financial concern is manufactured and handed to me as opposed to something I'm genuinely concerned by
#bc like. i'm getting by just fine. i don't have anything to be reasonably worried about#but also when i was a kid my father would break down my mother's paycheck and basically explain how broke we were#and that May Have Affected Me Somewhat#as well as just. the way you consistently see the advice to just save! don't get takeout! necessities! and i'm not intent on living like#a monk nor am i intent on being on that grindset for financial gain#it's like i don't intrinsically care but i have so many messages given to me about how i need to care a lot and it puts me in a weird spot#i am simultaneously standing still and moving at mach speeds#i mean right now i just need a safety net while in between jobs; after that i need to save up to move out of state bc the uh#political situation and upcoming presidential election don't seem very sustainable for someone like me anymore#they weren't to begin with but i don't wanna stick around to see how bad it's gonna get#but it's like. okay and then what? save for what? going back to school i guess? idk#i feel like i keep asking myself what i'm trying to accomplish and keep trying to force myself to have answers#here and now when i have to be okay with taking things one step at a time instead of having everything here and now#it's simultaneously fine and terrible and i am holding two conflicting yet equal truths#i feel i may have a clearer head once i leave my current job. i'm trying to look but nothing feels appealing given how#burnt out i already feel. i dread going back into my workplace and i fear it's showing to the patients and i don't want that#i want a month off to rediscover who i am as a person outside of getting yelled at in retail and then pick something back up#could be feasible. genuinely could be. i need to sort out the health insurance aspect but. that's lowkey the plan?#to construct a financial safety net and then slam on the breaks for a while; see if i can strike up a deal with the staff about me#coming in for specific tasks bc we already know i'm quick and efficient with the inventory so i do have a little leverage#you know what. this is getting some of it off my chest and i'm starting to feel confident again lmao#i won't be doing weekends starting either next week or the week after so that's a start! i just think i want everything done right now#bc i'm afraid i won't have the chance again but i will. i definitely will#i just need to let myself get to that point; it's just the immense drain from the register work and the Everything that comes with retail#also having to accept that it's okay to leave this; there's not something wrong with me like. ''not being able to handle it'' or w/e#no mindfulness or detachment could've saved me; it was shit and i'm hitting the bricks and that's all there is to it#i've been thinking a lot about it all lately bc it's what's most prominent in my life rn of course#idk. pondering. introspecting. as i am wont to do#anyways if you've read all this you're a real mvp and i am kissing you on the hand#shai speaks
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Request idea:
Your darling, adoring, wonderful boyfriend Jason sits you down And solemnly confesses that he is red hood. He’s been dreading this day for months. If you want to leave, he’ll understand and wait—-
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU KNEW THE WHOLE TIME?
Jason thinks he’s in an angst fic. The reader is in a rom com where her boyfriend has been a ridiculously obvious superhero, but she’ll let him tell her when he’s ready.
Maybe some shaningany flashbacks where you’ve helped to keep his identity secret (stalling so he can change, giving alibis) while he was oblivious.
- Batchilla
To Wait and To Love
Hi Batchilla! Hope you enjoy! ♡ ~1.5k words
Your boyfriend is a vigilante, Red Hood, to be exact. You know this. He's just not aware you know this.
It's obvious, really, and kind of cute the way he makes excuses to leave. Sure, before you put two and two together, it was starting to seem like he was just dragging you along. But it all made sense when you caught sight of the helmet poorly concealed under his bed.
It makes you wonder if he wants to get caught. Especially when he brings you flowers from the shop you just saw him save from Poison Ivy on TV. Or freezer-burnt cartons of ice cream from your favorite ice cream shop, which was buried under piles of snow courtesy of one Mr. Freeze only twenty minutes ago.
You offer him big smiles and kisses of thanks, and your heart melts a little at how relieved he looks, how baffled he is by your understanding. And you do understand. To tell someone you run around in spandex and leather every night is a big risk, especially for someone who used to run crime in Gotham.
You're no angel yourself, even if he does call you one, and it's endearing to watch him scramble for excuses. It's even more endearing that he tries so hard to make it up to you when he's late, when he has to leave early, when he comes back battered and bruised with flimsy half-thought out explanations.
You'll let him take all the time he needs to tell you, and it's almost funny how easily you've come to cover for him.
"Jason? Oh, he's changing his suit. Someone knocked into me and I spilled my drink all over his jacket. How embarrassing," You laugh out, answering the reporter's question over Jason's absence from the latest Wayne Gala. It's only half a lie, you might not have spilled your drink but he's definitely changing his suit. It's just not the suit anyone would expect.
Once whispers of a break-in at Gotham National Bank started circulating the Gala, it wasn't hard to miss the meaningful glances between your boyfriend and his family. Sometimes you wonder how no one's noticed it before.
You smile brightly at him once he comes back, smelling like gunpowder and leather, and you let him kiss your knuckles while he mumbles apologies over getting caught up with an old friend. You don't imagine Riddler is exactly an old friend, but you teasingly tell him how he owes you a dance for making you wait. He smiles back, his own grin even brighter than yours, as he leads you to the dance floor.
You're opening the door to your apartment, chatting lazily with your friend after a night out.
"Is your boyfriend here? I remember you saying you two were practically living together," they ask, eyes trailing around your living space.
You hum thoughtfully, "We pretty much are. I think he might be sleeping or out looking for the stray cat we saw the other day. It had a bad limp." It's not a hundred percent a lie either, there was a hurt stray. You just know that Catwomen already picked it up, after a text Jason sent to Bruce Wayne's current girlfriend, Miss. Selena Kyle. Which would have been more of a surprise if you didn't already know who Batman was.
But it definitely isn't the truth, because you did catch sight of a red helmet following you and your friend back from the club. (Gotham never felt safer, than when he was watching over you.)
Your friend coos and starts to respond, when a thump sounds from the fire escape. They jolt, "What was that?"
"The cat, probably," You say quickly, letting out a laugh, "it's, uh, pretty big. Has a limp. Hey, did I show you the flowers Jason got me?" You gesture towards the bouquet behind them, and you both focus on the pretty blossoms.
Within minutes, you hear your bedroom door open and close. "Hi, baby," Jason drawls, looping an arm around your waist to pull you to his side, "Sorry, I fell asleep, how was your night?"
You pretend not to notice the limp he's nursing, one you're certain he should be resting, and tilt your head up to kiss his jaw, "It was fun. Missed you."
"I missed you too," he echoes fondly, and the three of you fall into an easy conversation. You distract your friend when you all go to sit on the couch, and if you choose to avoid sitting on his left side, it's certainly not because Red Hood hurt his leg fighting Killer Croc earlier this week.
Jason has never said your name like that before. His eyebrows are knitted together. He's kneeling in front of you, his hands clasped over yours as you sit on the bed.
"I love you and I– I have something to tell you," he chokes out, strained, "please, just– just, hear me out."
It clicks. This is it. He's going to tell you.
You smile and nod, it'll be nice to finally air out this secret. And maybe he could help you work on your excuses? It'll be easier if you're working as a team. You reach out and brush his hair back, unfazed and delighted he's trusting you enough with this, "Of course, Jason. Anything you need to tell me."
Jason is going to throw up. He's finally gotten his act together enough that he's going to tell his partner he's Red Hood. His stomach is churning, it's agony, knowing he could lose them over this.
They're so good to him. So understanding and patient and kind. He has no idea how he got so lucky. And he loves them. It's scary sometimes, how much he loves them. He wants this to last so badly. So, he has to be honest. Has to tell them he isn't what the world says he is.
He's a vigilante. Was a crime lord. He hurts people to save people. He terrifies the trash that calls themselves human. He's not good for you, but he tries. He wants you to still love him.
He wants you to stay so much. Even if he's not good. He wants you. You deserve so much more than the excuses and lies he gives. Jason's wanted to tell you for weeks, but he chokes on his words every time. He's never been so afraid of doing something. Not when he was a kid on the streets. Not when he was Robin. Not as Red Hood.
You look so perfect, sitting at the edge of your bed and smiling at him. He almost flinches when he thinks this could be the last time you smile at him.
He's on his knees. He's prepared to beg. He would beg to keep you.
He says your name, he tells you he loves you. It might be the last time he gets to say that to you. The thought makes him even more nauseous. He tells you he has something to say.
You brush his hair back and keep smiling. He wants to sob. You don't know. You don't know what he is, what he's done.
"I'm Red Hood," he gasps out, voice ragged.
A beat. You're still smiling, you still look happy, and you're nodding at him.
He blinks at you, "I'm Red Hood," he repeats, "I know that- I know it's a lot. I understand if you never want to see me again, but, baby–"
You lean forward and kiss him. He's more than just a little dumbfounded. "Jason, I love you too. I'm not leaving you. I, um, kind of already knew you were Red Hood?" You say, a sheepish smile coming over your face.
"You– what?" Jason stumbles out. You're still here. Still touching him. You kissed him. You look relaxed. Happy.
"I saw your helmet under the bed. Everything clicked after that," You tell him gently.
"And you're okay with that? You're okay with me?" He asks, tone betraying his desperation.
Concern flashes in your eyes, "Of course I'm okay– I'm more than okay with that, Jason. I love you, tights or not."
He lets out a laugh, and his stomach swoops, the tension dissipating throughout his body, "Yeah?"
You grin at him, cupping his face, "Yeah, but you're going to have to show me how you swing around rooftops."
He gets off his knees to kiss you again, he doesn't think this moment could get any better, "Is that all?"
You giggle, at the pure elation in his eyes, and he grins widely at your joy. Then, the moment does get better, "Well, I'm kinda interested in the car Batman drives around you."
"I could make that happen," he murmurs, and seals the promise with another kiss, "You wanna see the batplane too?"
Your eyes light up, and Jason thinks he might be addicted to the mischievous glint that flickers in your gaze.
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Reader who whenever on break or on leave or whatever would cook for the whole task force because he can't STAND British food. like whatever they serve in the mess hall he'd definitely eat it but when it's reader's off day or the whole tf141 is having a break he'd refuse opting to cook himself.
And when he does it's a blessing to the task force, they'd wait patiently for the next time they can go on leave just so they can have reader's cooking. Like I bet some of those mfs would still like some beans on toast or some shit but they'd want reader specifically to cook for them (says it tastes better when he makes it)
They pay by being the ones who buy groceries and materials for you to cook, it's like you're their personal chef and they love you for it.
Can you just imagine the domesticity of it all? Where you cook doesn't matter, it could be on base or your own flat.
You're watching over the stove, multiple dishes cooking at the same time to make sure you could fill up the bellies of five (including yours) grown men.
Gaz usually being the most helpful out of the bunch. Like you're too busy fussing over the steak that's searing on the pan he's making sure the fries don't burn.
Ghost would only be allowed on ingredient prepping duty, like chopping vegetables or grating cheese because he almost burnt the kitchen down with his mishandling over the stove.
Soap being the one who'd get whatever ingredient you need, like if you need to add more salt he'd dash from where he was sitting to right beside you with the salt shaker.
And with all that going on of course the dishes would pile up and Price would do the dishes, in between the cooking and after eating.
Idk I'm sorry this became a weird thing abt how the others would behave when you lot cook together I'm just brain dumping 😔
#guri brain dumps#cod x male reader#cod#call of duty#john price x male reader#john price x reader#soap x male reader#tf 141 x reader#x male reader#tf 141 x male reader#john soap mactavish x male reader#john soap mctavish x reader#simon ghost riley x male reader#simon ghost riley x reader#kyle gaz garrick x male reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#i dont know what i was trying to write honestly.#alamak
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Just a dream // OP81
| pairing: oscar piastri x reader
| summary: reader has a bad dream that oscar gets hurt and goes to him for comfort
| warnings: reader is implied female, use of y/n(i rlly tried not to i swear)
| authors note: wrote this instead of studying for a final :D
You're standing in the garage, your heart pounding in your chest as the roar of the engines reverberates through the air. Oscar's car zooms past in a blur of papaya and black. Everything is perfectly normal until it isn't. Taken over by an uncontrollable lockup, the car suddenly veers, tires squealing against the asphalt as it careens off track. Time suddenly moves in slow motion. You watch in horror, unable to move, as the car flips, the sound of metal crunching and the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. You're screaming his name, but no sound leaves your mouth. The world tilts on its axis as you hear them announce a red flag and medics storm the accident scene. You can't move, your body frozen in place. And worst of all, you know you can't reach him.
You wake up with a gasp, chest heaving as if you've just run a marathon, tears streaming down your face and hands trembling as you clutch the blankets around you. The guest room in Oscars Monaco apartment is dark, the faint glow of the moon streaming in through the curtains your only light source. But the feeling of the nightmare lingers, both vivid and suffocating.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the images to fade, but they don't. All you can see is the mangled car and the unbearable thought of losing Oscar. Your heart aches, feeling as though it's just been ripped out and stomped on, panic still fresh and raw. You need to see him, reassure yourself he's okay, even if you know it was just a nightmare.
Before you can second guess your movements, you're throwing the duvet off yourself and padding quietly down the hall to his room. You've been best friends with Oscar since you could walk, since the days of sharing snacks and playing hopscotch, even his move to the UK couldn't sever your bond. Staying at his place in Monaco felt natural, as did staying at his place in London, it felt like slipping back into the comfortable rhythm of sleepovers from when your were just a couple of little kids, but after that dream comfort was the last thing you were feeling.
His bedroom door is slightly ajar (something he insists on doing in case you need him, to which you always laughed at until tonight) and you push it open gently, trying not to make a sound. The room is dim, lit only by the same moonlight that was filtering in through the curtains in the guest room. Oscar's sleeping form was a shadow under a pile of blankets, his steady breathing a stark contrast to your own racing heart. Just seeing him alive and at peace and, most of all, safe eases some of the tension you were feeling in your chest.
But as you take a step closer, the floor betrays you by creaking, the noise disrupting his steady breathing.
"y/n?" his voice is laced with sleep and groggy but it's more than enough to break the dam that was previously holding back your tears.
"I..." your voice cracks, and you quickly scrub at your faces trying to stop the tears but it's to no avail. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, this was stupid." you rapidly apologize.
He sits up at this, covers falling to lay across his hips, "Hey, hey, hey, no I promise it's not stupid." he coos, his concerned tone tugging at your heartstrings, "what's wrong?"
You hesitate, still feeling ridiculous, even more so with his attention directly on you. But the nightmares grip on you still hasn't loosened. "I had a nightmare," you admitted, voice quiet. "I just... I just needed to make sure you were okay."
Oscars expression softens, scooting over patting the empty space beside him, "Oh love, come here."
Trying to ignore how the name made your heart skip in the best of ways, you slowly make your way toward his bed. slipping under the covers hesitantly, but being encouraged by his soft gaze.
The warmth of his body and duvet surrounds you and the familiar scent of him fills you with a comforting warmth. Oscar shifts closer, his arm draping over your shoulders as you pulls you into his chest.
"It's okay," he murmurs into the crown of your head, "It was just a dream."
You nod against his chest, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heart. It's grounding, acting as a reminder that he's here and safe. "It felt so real," you whisper into his chest, "I saw you crash, and I couldn't do anything, I was stuck. I thought... I thought I lost you."
His hold on you tightens, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath while resting his chin atop your head, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise," he says firmly.
For a while, neither of you speaks. The soft sounds of the city outside and the rustle of sheets the only sounds filling the silence. The two of you just enjoying the warmth of each other. Slowly but surely, the pain in your chest ebbs, replaced with a new anxious feeling—one that you've been feeling for years but never brought up.
"Osc?" you say softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Yeah?" his eyes filled with warmth, focused on you and you only.
You take a shaky breath, heart pounding for a reason entirely different from when you first stepped in here. "I don't know what I would do without you," you admit softly, "You mean so much to me."
His gaze searches yours, and for a moment you begin to panic that you've said too much, but then his hand comes up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that was on your cheek. "You mean everything to me," he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Your breath catches as he leans in close, lips capturing yours in a kiss that begins as soft and gentle. as if he's testing the waters but deepens as he feels you respond, fingers threading through his soft hair, years of unspoken feelings between the two of you spilling out.
When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless, eyes sparkling. He presses his forehead against yours, a small, youthful and disbelieving smile on his lips. "You've got no idea how long I've wanted to do that." he admits.
"I think I do," you giggle, pulling him in for another quick kiss that becomes not so quick.
He finally pulls back again, shifting to pull you tight to his chest as you nuzzle into his neck, "We should get some sleep," he says, "I'm okay and I'm right here with you. I promise," he eases your lingering fears without you even having to ask.
And for the first time that night, you feel safe. Laying there with his arms tightly wrapped around you, the steady beat of his heart beneath you, and him pressing a soft kiss against your head, the nightmare feels like a distant memory. You close your eyes with a smile on your lips as you drift off, comforted by the fact that you know he's safe and that he's now yours.
#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 imagine#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri fic#op81 imagine#op81 x reader#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri fanfic#op81
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seekest thou the road
summary: a random thursday turned into a strange series of happenings which meant certain clarity for you and your mother. but that clarity also meant the start of a new journey, the revelation of true feelings, and a quest for one's desires.
fic type: angst
pairings: agatha harkness x teen!reader, rio vidal x teen!reader, teen x teen!reader
word count: 6.7k
series masterlist | masterlist
It was a normal Thursday morning for Agnes and her daughter Y/n.
You trudged out of bed, blanket wrapped around you as you made your way downstairs to see your mom, Agnes O'Connor, making her morning coffee none too happily.
“Good morning,” you said, smiling a little as you sipped on the cup of coffee she had kept ready for you, in response to which you recieved a short grunt.
Agnes O'Connor really wasn't a morning person.
The sound of rain broke the silence that hung heavy between you both, and as the chill seemed to only increase, you pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders, feeling your hands tingle with the warmth of the cup in them. The sharp ringtone of her phone made you jump a little, but her chatter faded into the background as your attention went to the kitchen window.
The fog lay thick, same as when you had woken. However, it seemed to strike a chill down your spine which stood out from the cold of the season. Through the pattering of rain on glass, you could hear loud T.V static, the sound of canned laughter. Normal but...foreboding.
Your gaze darted behind to where the T.V was, but the flat-screen was dark, inactive. The sound was from right where you had been looking before--outside. You squinted through the gaps the raindrops left on the glass, to see an old-timey T.V right there in the middle of the street, showing a black-and-white sitcom. The words were not clear, same as the faces of the characters, but you felt like you'd been there before. Not like reminiscence, not like déjà -vu. Just...familiar.
You blinked rapidly as everything came back into focus. Your mom looked happier than she had in maybe weeks, and you didn't want to ask about phantom T.Vs in the fear of maybe wrecking this strange sense of happiness she seemed to have.
"Get in the car, kid, you're coming to work with me today," she said, tossing her keys up and catching them with an audible jingle.
You groaned. You did not want to spend several hours just sitting in her office, watching her play Candy Crush.
"Great," you grumbled sarcastically, going upstairs to change your clothes. Pulling on plain, comfortable clothes, you discreetly stole her green flannel shirt and pulled it on, combing your hair carefully. You were a lazy teen, yes, but you weren’t an animal.
The car rolled down the empty road, the haze seeming to part like the Red Sea, while the view beyond the windows warped with the raindrops running down it. You rested your elbow against the glass, head resting on your palm as you scrolled through a website on your phone, the rumble of the car pairing with the pattering of rain to create the perfect ambiance for silence.
“So,” your mom said, breaking the somewhat comfortable quietness that had settled. “What’s the latest hyperfixation?”
“Still history,” you said in a bored monotone.
“What’cha reading about on that tiny screen anyway?”
“The Salem Witch Trials,”
Agnes rolled her eyes subtly, which you ignored, and shrugged, “You realise none of that matters anymore, right?”
“You mean the repression of women and the deprivation of knowledge they faced due to the fear of being burnt at the stake under the accusation of being a witch just cause she can count to ten? Yeah, pretty sure that matters,” you deadpanned.
“Jeez,” she scoffed.
You rolled your eyes. She’d been sour and irritable for months now, especially after her riding the desk period.
“I don’t get why I have to come,” you said. “I’m seventeen, the worst thing I’ll probably do is watch A-rated stuff on Netflix,”
“Yeah, well I needed your true-crime expertise,” she said curtly. “And you gotta spend your suspension productively somehow, don’t you?”
“Well if the police system in Westview wasn’t so shit, maybe you wouldn’t even need a seventeen year old to help you solve a murder. And for the last time, my suspension is actually invalid, unlike yours,” you rolled your eyes, earning a sharp flick on your temple from her.
“Don’t even start,” she scowled. “We’re shorthanded here,”
“Sounds like a you problem,”
“Sounds like a week of no phone if you keep up with this attitude, little miss,”
The silence settled again, broken by only the sound of her humming a strange, soft tune. You liked it, but you weren’t going to admit it, no way.
Your eyes caught sight of a car wreck just on the side of the road, which was concerning because they weren’t any skid marks from what you could see through the watery glass. You shook your head. You’d clearly been watching too much true crime lately.
The car halted, and she exited, holding the two coffees she’d bought, nodding at you to get out which you reciprocated with an eye roll.
The air was colder here, the chill of a murder hanging in it, standing out deliciously. You noticed a dark, smoky figure dancing in your peripheral vision, but you blinked and it was gone. Shaking the strange feeling, you shoved your hands in the pockets of your jeans, standing beside Agnes.
“Another beautiful day,” said your mother.
“Hey Herb,” you nodded at the man, who stood behind the yellow tape.
“Hey, neighbour,” he nodded at you both, gaze shifting over to Agatha. “Surprised to see you out here, Detective,”
“Oh, and the sixteen year old isn’t surprising?” She scoffed, earning a shrug from him. She shook her head and continued, “There I was, sitting on my duff, playing Candy Crush, happy as a clam, enjoying the fruits of my undeserved disciplinary action—“
You scoffed and rolled your eyes, kicking at a stone on the ground. “Beg to differ,”
“You punched a suspect,” Herb deadpanned.
“Oh, now a convicted felon. I can’t be right and wrong at the same time,” she shrugged.
“Debatable,” you singsonged quietly, earning a kick to your shin.
“Yes, you can,” he confirmed.
“When the Chief calls and tells me, ‘Hibernation’s over. ‘Got a case only you can solve.’,” sensing his skepticism, she added, “Direct quote,”
He sighed with defeat and pulled up the tape, allowing you both in. You chuckled softly and patted his shoulder with sympathy, earning a soft laugh from his end.
“Playing hooky, Y/n?” He asked as you walked beside him.
“Suspension,” you grumbled. “Punched a kid in the face,”
“Moving on from the start of your delinquent career,” Agnes interrupted, prompting Herb to continue.
“Jane Doe. Found her down here by the water. Dispatch was tipped off by an anonymous call,” he explained.
“Basic,” you rolled your eyes. “Lasting evidence?”
“This is all she had on her,” Herb handed over an evidence bag with something in it—a library card.
“What’s this? From a library book?” She asked, snatching it away.
“No shit, mom,” you scoffed, looking around the area for clues. “And real mature for a 50 year old,”
“Watch your mouth,” she snapped.
“Westview branch,” Herb interjected.
“Cause?” She asked.
“Blunt force trauma,”
Blunt force trauma? Unless she’s been clocked over the head at the library with a dictionary, you didn’t see any cliffs she could’ve been thrown off of.
As if she’d read your mind, your mother said, “Not much of a drop around here. She fall?”
“She was crushed,” he sighed.
Crushed? Even better. Where could you find boulders in a creek where the biggest stone was probably the same size as your hand?
“By what?”
“Something big. And heavy,”
“So she didn’t die here,”
“She is dead, though, isn’t she, Herb?” She asked, brow raised.
“Oh, she’s really, most sincerely dead,” he confirmed.
“You never know,”
The body lay face down beside the creek, and you could’ve sworn you saw that same shadowy figure, this time with a flash of…green? It vanished before you could make sense of it.
The woman wore a hoodie and slacks—house clothes, suggesting a home murder? Maybe? This case was too complicated. Blunt force trauma with nothing in particular, a library card, and clothes which resembled a breakup uniform. It made as much sense as a toddler’s handwriting.
Your mother had vanished somewhere, looking for clues, leaving you alone with forensics and the body, surrounded by yellow tape.
The air grew another chill, separate from the one caused by the rain. You felt someone breathing down your neck, and turned sharply to check who it was.
Strangely, nobody.
Your head gave a sharp stab of pain, and you winced, the voices in your head growing loudest, but still giving way to one, familiar voice. And all it said was a single sentence. ‘Snap out of it,’
There was a snap of someone’s fingers near your ear, and the voices went back down to whispers in the back of your mind.
Agnes knelt beside the body, freshly rolled over.
“Who are you?” She asked quietly. “What happened to you?”
“You okay, Agnes?” Herb asked, concerned.
“How do you mean?” She snapped.
“You don’t seem like yourself.” He said nervously.
“For starters you’re asking a dead body for answers,” you smirked, poking her cheek.
She smacked your hand away. “Oh, yeah? And who is that exactly? I’ll try to be more cheerful for you next time,” her tone was bitter as she stood up. “But right now this unidentified woman lying dead in a creek has just got me down in the dumps,”
“Jeez, looks like someone’s hormonal,” you rolled your eyes, bumping her shoulder as you walked past her. “I can’t tell who’s the teenager here,”
“Shut up,” she snapped at you, turning to Herb. “Let me know when the dental records come in,”
You sat in the car with her again, on the way to the library. Yet again, there was that silence—that uncomfortable, thin-ice kind of silence which frankly drove you up the wall. There was a time where you would make jokes with her, a time where you both would sing to shitty music on the radio, but that was long gone. Now, all you both did was sit together, a cavernous distance between you two which, in reality, was just a few inches apart.
You loved your mother, of course you did, but it was at times like these where you felt she didn’t feel the same.
“What do you think, hm?” She asked at last—that same, irritated, clipped tone breaking through your thoughts.
“About what? If it’s your fashion sense, I think we could use some work—“ you began, judgement evident in your own tone.
“About the case,” she sighed. “Cut it out with the sarcasm,”
“Hey, all I’m saying is that the broke noir-chic is starting to look a little bit more divorce-chic except you’re not getting the benefits,” you shrugged. “But as for the case, there’s definitely more to it,”
“Okay, and?” She prompted.
You paused, gathering your thoughts. “Well, for starters, the method of killing is hazy. She died of blunt force trauma, but that was inflicted by crushing, but this is Westview. The biggest boulder in the creek is probably a skipping stone. And you can’t crush someone with that. Not their whole body, definitely,”
She hummed thoughtfully. You hated how the only time you talked was about cases. It was never about school, or football, or anything else. Always murder, crime, arrest.
“Whatever, anyway,” you rolled your eyes. “We’ve reached,”
The library had a stupendously long queue, and you were about stand in it, only to have Agnes grip your wrist and pull you forward.
“Ah. Official police business. Excuse me, excuse me,” she said, pushing past them all, earning disgruntled comments from them all.
“You use that line at the supermarket checkout, too?” Dottie, the library clerk asked.
“It’s embarrassing,” you sighed, avoiding eye contact with Agnes.
“Only suckers wait their turn,” your crazy mother replied haughtily.
“How can I help you, Agnes?” Dottie asked, sighing softly.
She produced the library card, the packet crinkling as it hit the desk. “Found this on a victim,”
“Ooh. Who’s the victim? Is she dead?” The lady asked.
“Now, why do you assume it’s a woman?” Your mother frowned.
“Exactly,” you frowned. “Statistically, males are more subject to be murder victims, given that on an average, only 30% of victims are women,”
The lady gave you a prompt side eye, saying, “I don’t know. Sounds more titillating,”
She took a look at the card, shaking her head, “There are no names on here,”
“But there are dates,” Agnes interjected.
“We don’t use cards anymore. Everything’s digital now. Sorry,” she grimaced.
“Well, thanks a bunch for your help, Dottie. You’ve been an absolute angel. Incidentally,” Agnes’s voice rose to a shout as she added, “Where were you last night between the hours of 1:00 and 3:00 a.m.?”
You put your head down, covering your ears and groaning. “You’re an embarrassment, mother,”
Just to shut her up, thus sympathising with you, Dottie calmed her down, “I guess I could run the book title,”
“Oh, can you?” She snapped sarcastically. “Come on, Y/n,”
“No, no, no,” you shook your head, evading her attempt to yank you in the library. “It’s time for you to be an adult and give me some money for ice cream after I just suffered second hand embarrassment at your hands,”
“Fine,” she conceded, after holding your gaze for a good ten seconds, handing you some money.
“Thank you,” you said firmly, marching out of the library.
You heaved a sigh of relief, as if you'd exhaled a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. The sun shone down on the pavement, casting sharp shadows as you walked down the street to your favourite place--the coffee shop where you and your brother would participate in open mic nights. You remembered how well he'd sing with you accompanying him on the guitar...
You shook yourself out of your thoughts. You hated thinking about Nicky. It always ruined your mood. More so than your mother.
You entered the shop, sighing in relief at the familiar scent of chocolate chip cookies and ground coffee beans. The owner of the shop was a sweet old lady and her husband, both of whom were perhaps the kindest people in Westview.
"Hi there," you smiled, handing her the money. "Can I have my usual, please?"
The lady, Mrs. Jackson, smiled before saying, "Oh, that nice young woman over there already asked for one, paid for it, too,"
You turned in the direction where she was pointing, seeing a shockingly familiar woman in police attire, her hair pulled back in a low, loose bun at the nape of her neck, the top two buttons of her white shirt opened, while the sun glinted off the badge she had hung around her neck.
She beckoned you over with the curl of her finger, and you went over, sitting down in front of her.
"Hi there, Detective Vidal," you smiled slightly.
Rio chuckled softly, pushing the cup of coffee towards you. "I see you're still stuck,"
You frowned a little at that. "Pardon?"
She shook her head. "Here, in Westview. I'd have thought your mom would've gotten sick of this place by now,"
You inhaled deeply, sipping the coffee happily. "Wishful thinking," you said. "That lady is fucking crazy. So...what brings you to town?"
"You know why I'm here," she nodded. You liked her for this reason. She was straightforward, just as enigmatic as a detective should be, yet she spoke with a kind of firm kindness which few could master.
"You're here to...get under mom's skin?" You tilted your head, curious.
She laughed, looking down as she shook her head. "I've been assigned to help with her...case,"
"Oh she's going to be pissed," you giggled, fingertips running along the edges of the saucer your cup was on. "But is this case really FBI worthy?"
"Well, it's worthy of federal intervention," she nodded. "But that's not entirely why I'm here,"
You nodded a little dejectedly. "Oh. You're not here for too long, then?"
"Just until this whole matter clears up," she shrugged. "Shouldn't be a while. But we can go for ice cream sometime. How're you holding up here?"
You paused, meeting her gaze fully for a good minute. An aura danced along her outline--black and hazy. Your fingertips tingled against the warm ceramic of the cup, and you felt that same stab of pain in your head like you had in the morning.
"Easy," Rio said softly, her fingertips tapping on your wrist. "Think through it, you're still stuck,"
The world bend out of shape for a good moment, the only thing remaining constant was her face. You squeezed your eyes shut, hearing the cup on the table tremble as the voices began to scream.
"Come on, nena," her voice was soft, quiet. "Snap out of it,"
You heard the snap next to your ear again, and when you opened your eyes, you saw through the veil for a moment. She was dressed in black, you could see the bones...
Down came the veil, and with it the voices quietened. Her face was normal again, soft jaw, sharp smile.
"You've got it in you, Y/n," she said softly, her hand still tracing your wrist. "Just snap out of it,"
You blinked, and she was gone.
The next morning, you woke up dazed. It was a similar morning like the previous day's--foggy, cloudy, confusing, gloomy. You avoided your mother completely, she seemed to be a little more off her rocker than usual.
"I'm assuming you're taking me to the office again?" You sighed softly as she grabbed the car keys.
"Yes ma'am, get your ass in the car in five," she said, heading out.
You squinted at said 'car'. It was...a broom on a desk in the living room? But you shook your head, going back to normal. It was just the same old Honda Civic she'd been driving the last few years you had been in Westview.
The station was radiating depression as per usual, and you groaned to yourself as you walked past the Chief with a brief good morning.
She settled in her chair while you sat on the couch, reading your book quietly.
“You hear what happened at the library?” Agnes asked the Chief.
“No, I—“ he began, but she cut him off.
“Somebody torched one of the stacks, like, took a flame thrower to it.”
“Oh, yeah?” He asked, distracted. “I’ll have one of the guys follow up. But listen, Agnes—“
“You got a spot on your shirt,” she pointed out.
“Oh—“
“And your tie,”
“Mom will you cut it out?” You asked, irritated with her constantly making the poor guy conscious.
“You makin’ breakfast smoothies again, Chief?” She asked, none too kindly. “You know you’re supposed to put the lid on before you blend it,”
He sighed, fully used to her antics. “Yes, I know. Um…listen, Agnes…”
She sighed deeply, irritated. “You’re about to tell me somethin’ I’m not gonna like,”
“Soil samples from under the fingernails and toenails of the Jane Doe came back,” he started, peaking your interest. “They don’t match the soil she was lyin’ in,”
“That’s no surprise. We assumed she’d been moved,” she said, nodding.
“Yeah, like perp probably carried her off,” you said.
“There were traces of a particular microbial sediment only found in Eastern Europe,” he sighed.
“That sounds like a hell lot of work for a perp,” you chuckled.
“Now get to the part I’m not gonna like,” she said, looking at him sharply.
He stepped aside from the door, and your expression brightened as a familiar woman entered the room.
“Here I am,” she said, her demeanour badass as per usual. “Hey, trouble,” she winked at you, earning a rare smile from you in return.
“You always find new ways to piss me off, don’t you, hon?” Agnes addressed you deadpan, her eyes fixed in Agent Vidal.
"Me? I'm an angel," you rolled your eyes.
“Okay,” Chief sighed.
“Fancy dirt always attracts the attention of the Feds,” Agnes scoffed disdainfully.
“Agent Vidal is an asset here, Agnes,” he reasoned. “More brain power and more resources mean you get to the finish line faster. Strength in numbers. Teamwork makes the dream—“
“Eat my ass, Chief,” she interrupted him.
“You’re just throwing a hissy fit because you’re not gonna be alone in the paper headlines,” you chuckled, earning an eraser chucked at your face.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Chief said simply, exiting the room.
“It’s been a long time,” Rio said, taking a seat in the sofa, playing with your hair gently.
"What are you doing here?" Agnes asked, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned back in her chair.
"My job,"
"You wanna take control of my investigation,"
"No," after a brief pause where her tongue pushed against the inside of her cheek, she said, "If you wanna be in control, you can be,"
Your brow raised, but you went back to your book, as Agnes continued speaking. "She…The body was moved across state lines. Is that your play?"
Rio took a moment to look around, sighing softly. "Is this really how you see yourself?"
You looked at her, head tilted, and brows furrowed. She continued her movements, her hand gently stroking your hair. You noticed the voices had quietened down significantly...
"Sure. Let’s talk about the case," she said eventually, resignation clear in her tone. "What are your theories? How’d she end up in the ravine? Trouble?" Her gaze went to you.
"My guess is she was killed elsewhere, probably rolled down the hill," you shrugged.
"No drag marks. Thinking the perp carried her," Agnes said.
"Uh… Seems logical, but you don’t really believe that because…" She stood up, placing the file down with pictures on it, taking a perch on the corner of Agnes' desk. "Oops. No tracks for the perp. Not a leaf disturbed before Forensics showed up. It’s almost like she just magically appeared," her voice took an odd tone, somewhat...coaxing?
"Let’s stick to reality here, yeah?" Your mother scoffed.
"Who hurt you? Whatever happened to alternate possibilities?" You rolled your eyes. "Like, who shat on your creativity?"
Rio stifled a laugh, earning a sharp glare from Agnes. She cleared her throat, "Sure,"
"If there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that these cases are always about the place," Agnes' tone was clear with the taste of theory within it, the backing of facts, the slight hint of senility. "The specific small town, the history of it, the people in it, the secrets buried beneath it. That’s where the answers lie,"
"Well, who better to solve the mystery than one of Westview’s very own?" Rio shrugged, moving off her perch. "Yeah, you’ve lived here your whole life. Isn’t that true… Agnes?"
The pause was jarring, carrying notes of coaxing again, the same tone she'd used at the coffee shop.
"I don’t want you here," Agnes scowled.
"Yeah, because anything even remotely comforting in my life you seem to hate," you scoffed, looking at Rio. "I'm sorry about her, she keeps waking up on the wrong side of the bed,"
"It's all good, nena," she nodded, before leaving the files on the table for Agnes. "I'll get you ice cream sometime before I leave town,"
You nodded, high-fiving her, before she nodded at Agnes. "Te veo," she said, leaving.
Your gaze snapped to her, angry. "What is wrong with you?"
"Me? What's wrong with you? Getting all mushy-mushy with the feds," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.
Maybe because she actually cares about me more than you, you wanted to say.
"I dunno, maybe because her helping with your investigation might mean I'll be free to do what I want," you scowled. "But obviously, you wouldn't care about my happiness, would you?"
You saw a flash of anger pass over her face, and you felt a sick sense of satisfaction. Maybe she finally understood how you felt, maybe this was hint enough—
"We're going to the pawn shop, come on," she snapped, standing up and grabbing her jacket.
No such luck.
You rolled your eyes and stood up, shrugging, "Sure thing,"
The pawn shop was musty, dank, and none too welcoming. You hated it.
“Is it real?” Agnes asked him.
“Oh, it’s real, all right. And it’s a beaut,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”
“Mind your beeswax, Norm,” she snapped. “Where’s it from? How old is it?”
“A picture of politeness and ladylike behaviour,” you rolled your eyes, playing around with a vintage puzzle box.
Norm chuckles in agreement before nodding, “North American. New England, maybe. Late 17th century, I guess. It’s made from cowrie shell,”
“What’s a cowrie?” She frowned.
“Sea snail,” he turned the brooch around and showed it to her, pointing at the ivory figures. “And these hotties here. That’s Triple Goddess. Maiden, Mother, Crone,”
“Common figures in witchcraft, late 17th century lore,” you added.
“What, no Working Professional Goddess?” She scoffed.
He chuckled and the brooch opened with a click, revealing a strand of hair. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Looks like your brooch is a locket. You looking to sell it, Agnes?”
She raised a brow. “How much you offering, Norm?”
“For you? Two hundred,” he shrugged.
“I smell bullshit,” you singsonged, grinning at him cheekily.
"Great. Now I know where to start the bidding on eBay," she snatched it back. "Come on, Y/n,"
"No, save me, Norm..." you mock-wailed, saluting him with two fingers as you exited the shop.
The sun went down and the moon came up, rising slowly in the sky as the nightly autumn chill set in. You napped on the couch, thoughts racing and mind a jumble of scenes and words while she worked.
"Go home, Agnes," Said the chief. "Or atleast call a cab for her," he nodded at your napping form.
"I am home, Chief," she said dismissively. "And I'm sure she's fine,"
The Chief switched her office lights off, earning a disgruntled noise of, "Hey!"
"Go home," he said forcefully.
You blinked sleepily as she shook your shoulder, groggy and tired.
"Come on, kid, we're going home," she said gruffly, grabbing her keys and her jacket, waiting for you.
You drowsily sat in the car, elbow leaning on the windowsill as you rested your cheek on your fist, dozing off slowly. You felt Agnes ruffle your hair gently.
“You did good today, kid,” she said quietly, as a quiet song played on the radio.
You smiled a little, tilting your head to fix your gaze on her. “Careful, you might say you love me, next,” you half-joked, earning a gentle punch to your shoulder.
She parked the car and got out of the driver’s seat, humming to herself still as you followed, still sleepy. You rested your forehead on her shoulder, slipping your hand into hers slowly. She sighed softly at that, but allowed it.
The house was quiet, you could sense some kind of odd energy around it—just like you’d felt an odd energy around everything else after meeting Rio at the cafe.
Almost like nothing was real…
You felt Agnes pull her hand from yours, saying, “I’ll set dinner in sometime,” she kept the distance between you both again. She went in his room, her movements slow and slightly sluggish.
You hated that room.
You heard a knock on the door as you lounged on the couch peacefully.
“What?” Came Agnes’ irritated voice.
“Did you know that it is a universally acknowledged truth that a lady cop cannot be good at her job and have a healthy personal life at the same time?” Came Rio’s voice. You heard the sound of pizza in a box. “Hungry?”
You sat up instantly, making space for Agnes on the couch, grinning when Rio came in.
“Hey, trouble,” she winked, taking a seat in the armchair, her blazer set aside and sitting in a comfy position, one leg perched on her knee, elbows resting comfortably on the armrests.
“Hi,” you smiled at her.
Agnes came with two beers and a bottle of cranberry juice for you. You accepted it with a slight smile towards her, still annoyed by before.
Soon, she started telling Rio cop stories like she used to do for you and him.
“So she’s a rookie, granted, but I say to her, ‘Has the suspect been seen in the last 24 hours?’” Agnes narrates, a laugh in her tone. “And she says, ‘Only on TikTok.’ And then I say, ‘Well, did you learn anything?’ And she says, ‘That I was totally using the wrong foundation brush.’”
You had taken a seat on the carpet in front of Rio, your back resting against her leg as she used her free hand to toy with the soft strands of your hair. You heard her chuckle and glanced up right when she smiled. You liked that expression. And when you heard Agnes laughing you liked it even more.
“Anyway…I have a lead in the case,” Agnes said.
“Oh do you? A lead which who gave you?” You raised a brow.
“Take it easy, trouble,” the FBI agent smiled. “That’s not why I came over,” Rio said. But she paused, before nodding. “But go ahead,”
“There was a car wreck, about an hour before time of death,” she stated.
“Where?” Rio asked.
“Eastview.”
“Eastview? See, I thought you turned into a pumpkin that far afield,”
She smirked. “Hey, I travel. I’m worldly,”
Rio chuckled. “Where have you traveled?“
You felt the answer on the tip of your tongue, but strangely you couldn’t tell past last year when you’d gone for a summer camp past Eastview.
Sensing the sudden shift in focus, Rio brought you both back. “Okay, so what about the car wreck?”
“Bloodstain in the back seat,” she stated, an odd look in her eye.
“You think that’s how they moved her?”
“Front two airbags deployed,”
“Maybe two perps?”
“Maybe,”
Rio squinted. “But you don’t like it,”
“My gut tells me they’re related,” Agnes shook her head, “But I can’t shake this feeling I’m seeing it wrong,”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,”
“Do you remember why you hate me?”
A pause. An uncomfortable, odd pause.
“No,”
“Are you hiding evidence?” She raised a brow.
“No,” she sighed.
“Well, you’re only lying to yourself—“ before she could finish, there was a loud clatter from upstairs. You moved to go investigate with her, but she shook her head.
“Stay here,” she scowled. “I don’t want you getting hurt in case the guy’s armed, that more paperwork for me,”
“Oh how thoughtful,” you rolled your eyes.
As she went upstairs to investigate, you sat on the couch again, patting it for Rio. “Wanna sit?”
She chuckled. “Sure thing,”
You turned on F.R.I.E.N.D.S, letting it play on a low volume, resting your body against hers. You lay your head in her lap eventually, letting her hand gently rub your arm soothingly.
Her voice was soft as she spoke. “Nena,” she said. “How’re the voices?”
“Loud,” you mumbled, shifting your knees up to your chest a little, an arm wrapping around them.
They got steadily louder as she spoke, making you wince and squirm slightly.
“Easy,” she warned.
“They’re so fucking loud…” you hissed, irritated. The objects in the room began to rattle slightly.
“You’re still Y/n,” she said softly. “But not this version,”
“The fuck do you mean?” You asked, irritated.
“I mean that she kept you trapped,”
“Who? Mom? Yeah no shit,”
She chuckled but shook her head. “No, not her. You remember her name,”
Flashes of something went through your mind—you saw everything in black and white at first. You felt the world tilt and bend, felt nausea rise at the back of your throat.
“She’s kept you in this prison,” she said softly. “She’s just kept you like this—docile, dormant…”
“No, no,” you shook your head. “Mom said the voices are just some psychological thing—“
“Listen to the voices,” Rio urged. “Hear them closely,”
Another flash of something—an empty street, crying boys, a woman in red with hair the colour of…scarlet.
“Wanda—“ you choked out, gasping. The voices slowed from a cacophony to different voices, familiar voices from your past.
All screaming into your ears one thing: Snap out of it.
“That’s right, nena,” she whispered. “Keep trying,”
Your eyes went dark, black throughout the whites and irises, smoky black magic curling at your fingertips. You looked around you at the still-bending reality.
“What’s real?” You gasped out, feeling the magic pulse with your blood. You felt complete for the first time in three years.
“She’s kept you imprisoned for three years, locking away your ability,” Rio said. “You’re not just angry at Agatha for these centuries of hurt, you’re angry at Wanda for making you feel…”
“Powerless,” you completed. “I’ve been feeling powerless because of her,”
She nodded, a sly smile on her face. “You wanna try something with me?”
You nodded, grinning somewhat evilly. “Sure,”
“First, I’m gonna have to project on your mom’s mind, wanna help with that?”
You nodded, devious smile on your face. “I thought you’d never ask,”
Her smile matched yours instantly. “That’s my girl,”
You saw Agnes entering the room with a random boy, making you frown in utter confusion, before you used your power to help Rio get in her head. While you did so, you felt clearer on your own powers.
You were just like Mami.
Dark magic, soul magic. The kind where you could stop a person’s breathing and pluck the very thing that made them human right from their system. The kind where you could change your face to anyone who’d had a beating heart at will. The kind where you could shake the devil’s hand while playing with the angels.
Life and Death, you were the balance.
You felt time ticking by slowly but surely, you headed up to your room in a daze. You saw it clearly now—you understood just how senile you and your mother had been acting the past few days.
“Sleep,” you heard Rio’s voice in your head.
You did.
The next morning you woke up to sunlight streaming through your curtains, the day was warm. You squirmed out from under the covers, noticing yourself in the mirror. You smirked a little. You looked visibly warmer, as if lifting the spell had breathed some extra life into you. Ironic.
Just to check if last night was real, you moved your fingers like your mother had taught you, lifting a pencil and placing it down simply. You grinned with clear, childlike excitement.
“I’m back, baby,” you smirked.
However, your thoughts were interrupted by a loud, angry scream from downstairs.
You nearly fell as you ran down, knife in hand already. It lowered instantly as you saw Agatha in the room.
Naked.
Your own scream matched hers as you covered your eyes with your hands. “Mom get some fucking clothes on, you disgusting woman!”
“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes. “I assume she got you out, too?”
“Obviously,” you grumbled.
“What’s up your ass this morning?”
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that the first thing I see upon being fully conscious is my mother standing in the living room stark-staring NAKED?”
Before you could comprehend her fast reply, she had dashed out of the house, making you groan in annoyance. You ran out after her, but not before you pulled on a jacket to hide your face with.
“Mom, mama, mother, please—“ you pleaded, looking through her rather than at her, trying to fix how awkward this was.
“Oh! Whoa!” You heard Herb exclaim. “What? What is going on? Hey, Miss Agnes, you—you feeling okay today?”
“Stop talking,” she snapped. “How long have I been here?”
“Uh… What?” You saw him put his hand up to cover…things from his vision.
“How long have I been living in this cesspool of a town?” She asked none to politely.
“You don’t remember?” He asked, baffled.
“Yet you remember and retain the same attitude as ‘Agnes’,” you scoffed.
“Catch me up,” she scowled, ignoring you.
“About three years,” he nodded.
“Three years?” She exclaimed. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she realised. “Wanda,”
“We try not to say her name,” he mumbled.
“Ugh!” She exclaimed. “Because you’re cowards, because you’re sheep. What have I been doing all this time?”
“Being bitchy to really nice people, for starters,” you rolled your eyes.
Herb chuckled but continued just as nervously. "Well, you’ve mostly been a good neighbor. A bit too casual with your boundaries…"
Triggered, she snapped, "Call me “nosy,” I’ll cut out your tongue."
"How polite," you grumbled.
"Yeah...you haven’t been yourself the past few days," he admitted. "Almost like you got bit by the true crime bug. Now that's normal for Y/n, obviously, but you? Nah,"
"So…So what? I’ve just been spouting nonsense and you’ve just been humoring me?" She scowled.
"I mean, folks been trying to help out, you know, stopping by and bringing you groceries and checking up on you," he explained, his eyes not meeting hers.
"Oh, I get it," Agatha chuckled sarcastically, her eyes on Dottie and her husband, who were trying to get their daughter back inside frantically. "Librarian. Chief of police," Her eyes landed on Norm, who jogged backwards upon meeting her gaze. "Oh! Jeweler,"
As she spoke, Herb tried covering her up with his jacket--a futile thing, really, since she threw it off her body instantly.
"This is where hope goes to die," she sneered.
"You know, um...besides the fact that you’re, um…" he gestured at her with his head. "You seem pretty lucid for a change. Aggressive, even. Powerful."
"Oh god, please don't feed into her ego," you begged, irritated.
"What did you say?" She asked softly, eyes drifting to him.
"I said, “Powerful,” but look, Agnes, if…"
"It’s Agatha,"
"Agnes' more annoying, bitchy counterpart," you interjected, earning a smack upside your head.
"Okay. Agatha. Yeah," he nodded, awkwardly. "Can you put on some clothes?" She groaned angrily and stalked off into the house, with you following in embarrassment. "‘Cause you… ‘Cause you’re naked..."
You stormed after her in anger, slamming the door shut behind you. "Mom, we need to talk--"
"No. No!" You heard her exclaim as you noticed how her hands were devoid of one very, very familiar thing. Her purple.
You shook your head. Inside, you were a mess of emotions. You were shocked, scared, angry, confused, and exhausted all in one. You hated this. Hated how she still didn't give you the time of day, how she constantly went after the same thing over and over again. Like always. You grabbed her wrist sharply.
"Mom stop!" You exclaimed, holding her back.
"Did she take yours, too?" She cut you off, her hand yanking away from your grip.
"No, I can, unfortunately, still see the dead, feel the dead, and control...hm...oh yeah, the dead," you rolled your eyes. "But that's not the point! The point is--and she's gone."
Agatha had gone back down to her basement, which, in Wanda's hex, was a whole witchy lair. Now it was just the laundry room. The pentagram was gone, your special little 'quiet corner' with barricade runes was gone, the comforting scent of incense and magic was overpowered by the smell of washing machine grease and Tide Pods.
You saw a bunny hop out from under the washing machine, and Agatha was quick to lift him up and cuddle him close. "I got mugged, mister. She took every little bit of power I had and left me with household appliances,"
Her gaze landed on you. "We gotta get back on top,"
You rolled your eyes. "So much for a normal suspension,"
From upstairs, you both heard a loud thudding noise, and immediately, you ran up and yanked open the coat closet door to see...a boy? With duct tape on his mouth and legs?
"MOM!" You exclaimed, horrified. "Come ON! Have some basic human sense!"
Nonchalantly she shrugged, "So that arrest was maybe more of a kidnapping,"
"You think, lady?!"
"Keep it civil, little miss," she warned, before pointing at the boy. "But if you’re real and not a figment of my imprisoned mind, then that means…"
The door burst open, splintering and completely broken off its hinges, making you duck and cover your head, grabbing Señor Scratchy, and holding him tight to keep him safe. You placed him under the hallways table, keeping him away from the broken glass and wood. Agatha got blown back by the force of the impact, falling in a heap on the floor.
“Shit. Mom!” Your exclaimed, about to help, but she put a hand out to stop you.
“Don’t!” She snapped, making your features darken, as you stopped.
You saw a figure clad in black, a familiar woman, and your heart leapt at the sight of her. She flew at your mother before she stood with her knife poised at the base of Agatha’s collarbone, the woman pinned with the force of it, where her pulse beat steadily against the skin.
“I’ve missed you,” Rio giggled diabolically.
“I hate you,” Agatha snarled.
“Just like you do everyone you love,” you scoffed, shrugging. “Hi, Mami,”
“Hey nena,” she replied, eyes fixed on your mother. “How long has it been, Agatha?” Rio asked, pushing harsher against her grip.
“Not sure,” she groaned, you could sense her seething.
“Since you acquired the Darkhold, you hid behind all that dark magic, but then you lost it, and now…” she chuckled darkly, the tip of her knife kissing the skin of her collarbone, making Agatha wince. “Touch. You’re vulnerable,”
She eased, “Only physically,”
In moments, she grabbed Rio’s head, slammed it into a wall, making you wince as the knife clattered to the side. You winced as Agatha gripped the blade against Rio’s blow, the blood in the xarpet smelling metallic and nauseating.
“Do you remember pain?” Rio gasped. “It kind of tickles, doesn’t it?”
Chuckling dryly, Agatha panted, “Coochie coochie coo,”
After a good minute of them struggling like cats, with Agatha pinning Rio down by the throat, you made a slight attempt to help.
You grabbed your mother by the shoulders and held them apart, angry.
“Will you two hopeless lesbians just cut it out?!” You asked, your palms pressed against each of their chests. “This is fucking infuriating!”
“Stay out of this, Y/n,” Agatha snarled, her eyes on Rio.
“It’s best for you, nena,” added Rio.
“Well how about we be a normal family and perhaps go for dinner instead of you trying to kill each other!”
“You can’t kill me,” your mom hissed at Rio. “You can’t kill me. It’s not allowed,”
“Maybe I can’t kill you,” Rio said, angrily, blowing her back into the cabinet. “But I can make you wish you were dead,”
Agatha groaned, sitting up. “Wait, wait, wait,” she gasped. “This isn’t what you want. Me without power,”
You shrugged at Rio, mumbling, “Maybe it’s better if she didn’t have any power, selfish bitch,”
Agatha laughed, glaring at you just a little. “This is undignified,” she looked at Rio. “Don’t you want me at my best?” She stood, you noticed her her voice droppin to that horrible, infuriating, manipulative whisper. “Admit it. You prefer me—“
“Horizontal?” Rio interrupted. After a pause, she added “In a grave?”
“Formidable,” Agatha corrected.
“So take my power,” she shrugged.
Your mother chuckled humourlessly, nodding at her. “That’s cute. But you know that would kill me. Just…let me get my purple back. And then come find me,”
“I am not the only one that wants to see you dead,” Rio scoffed. “Wants to see you burn. Or hang or drown.”
Disconcerted, Agatha tried to lighten the statement, saying, “There are no new options?”
“I could just sit back and watch,” Rio shrugged.
Slowly, like a cat prowling to its prey, she approached her, voice but a whisper. “Come on. You love it. The anticipation…”
“Okay, Agatha,” Rio conceded, looking down and shaking her head with a chuckle. “But I’ll be sure to tell them where to find you.”
“Who, specifically?” She and you asked in unison.
“Mmm! The worst of them. The Salem Seven,” Rio said. Noticing your panicked expression, she added, “Not you, nena. Just your mother,”
Turning back to agatha she shrugged. “I expect you’ll see them at sundown. After all these centuries, Agatha Harkness will finally meet her end. Ugh! It really warms the heart,”
“You don’t have a heart,” Agatha snapped.
Pulling her close all of a sudden, Rio spoke in a low voice, full of conviction. “Yes, I do. It’s black. And it beats for you,”
She lifted the hand from which blood was dripping and in one long, clean swipe of her tongue, healed it.
You made a face with disgust. “Mami, ew,” you muttered. “You’re so gay, my god,”
Rio laughed, shooting Agatha a look, squeezing your cheeks with one hand gently and quickly before she whispered, “I’ll see you sometime soon, nena.”
As she went to the doorway, she glanced at Agatha, shrugging, “Te veo,” before leaving.
You both stood there in silence for a good moment, before you asked awkwardly, “So…what do we do about the door?”
She looked at you, baffled, her chin held delicately between her thumb and forefinger in thought. “The door?”
“Yeah, she blew it off its hinges,”
“Do you see the state of my sitting room?”
You glanced around at the catastrophic sight. She had a point.
“Yeah, I’m grabbing myself some breakfast, it is far too early for me to deal with…this,” you shrugged, going to the kitchen. “You want anything?”
Agatha didn’t respond, clearly thinking about Rio’s appearance. With a frustrated groan, she was about to stomp away, when she heard some indistinct mumbling from her closet.
Yanking it open, with you behind her, cereal bowl in hand and munching on Lucky Charms, she sighed at the sight of the boy with his mouth and limbs taped up.
“Oh, right, you,”
@eletricheart , @misty-melody , @mmemalwa , @skittlebum , @lexietargaryen , @natashasmuse , @angelbeingatitspurest , @skittledemon, @wandasreallover , @gaylorvader , @lovelyy-moonlight , @lizziescutiepie , @rosierogie , @lanadelreyaesthic, @circe143 , @babybeeelle
hello my bao buns! sorry for the delay, i hope you liked this one! let me know what you think <3
love, jaya
#agatha all along#agatha harkness#fem!reader#agatha harkness x reader#agathario x reader#mom agatha#mom rio#agathario X teen!reader
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Thinkin’ bout me || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader
gif by @chenslucy
Summary: inspired by the lyrics of “thinkin’ bout me” Morgan Wallen 🤗🤗
Warnings: slight angst ig
Word count: 1,964
A/n: I rlly wanna do one with a Zach Bryan song but the ideas aren’t coming to me 😔
MASTERLIST
divider by @h-aewo
Don't know where you at, don't know where you've been. Don't know nothin' 'bout that boy you're into.
It had been two months since you’d left, pulling yourself out of Rafe’s orbit so completely that he’d almost started to believe you’d vanished for good. Then tonight, here you were, mingling at the yacht party like nothing had happened.
Only now, an unfamiliar blonde had his arm wrapped casually around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your hip as you leaned in close to hear him over the music, a bright, carefree smile lighting up your face. Rafe’s stomach twisted at the sight.
He couldn’t hear what you were saying, but he could see the way you laughed at something the guy said, your head tipping back as if his words were the funniest thing you’d heard all night. The version of you he saw now felt almost foreign to him—like he’d been replaced by someone who wasn’t weighed down by your shared past.
Maybe you really were happier, but seeing you with someone else so soon cut deeper than he’d anticipated. It was the smile that got to him the most—the one he remembered as his—now aimed at someone else.
Don't feel bad for you, but I feel bad for him. And all the hell you gon' be puttin' him through. Probably tell him we're a burnt out flame. Probably tell him that I ain't been on your mind. How I ain't nothin' but a long gone thing. You can cuss my name, but baby, don't you lie
The unfamiliar blonde looked wildly out of place in the gleaming luxury of the yacht party, as though he’d just wandered into the wrong scene altogether. He had a wholesome air about him that felt like it belonged more to a Kildare bonfire than this slick, exclusive gathering. Rafe’s jaw clenched as he watched the guy, wondering what you could possibly see in someone so blatantly average.
“Who are you staring at?” Topper’s voice broke into his thoughts, a teasing chuckle in his tone as he followed Rafe’s gaze. He spotted you almost immediately, his eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Oh. She looks good—”
“Shut the fuck up, man. Don’t wanna hear it,” Rafe muttered, not breaking his stare. He didn’t need anyone telling him how good you looked; he already knew. Topper just threw his hands up, backing off with a smirk. Before Topper could throw in another comment, you shifted, turning around just enough to spot him.
Rafe’s lips curled into a smirk, catching the way you froze for a split second and in that instant, he saw the flicker of nerves in your expression. Rafe’s lips curled into a smirk, watching the way you subtly fidgeted under his stare. He could practically see the wheels turning in your mind as you quickly turned back to the guy beside you.
The blonde followed your gaze, catching sight of Rafe and Topper watching. His expression tightened just slightly, his eyes darting back to Rafe every few seconds, clearly trying to size him up. Rafe’s smirk widened; he knew exactly what was going through the guy’s mind. You were probably telling him some watered-down version of what you and Rafe had been—a burnt-out flame, a chapter you’d left behind.
Maybe you were painting Rafe as the villain, the one you’d gotten over, glossing over the parts that didn’t fit. Even cussing him out just to make it seem like you’d moved on. But he saw right through it. He knew the kind of hell you’d probably put this guy through, the stories you’d tell him, the ways you’d pretend you’d forgotten.
He’d been in your life long enough to know you, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor bastard. He didn’t feel bad for you—not anymore. But for the guy who thought he’d won you over? Rafe almost pitied him. He had no idea the hell you’d eventually put him through, just like you’d put Rafe through.
When you're tastin' what he's drinkin', are you thinkin' 'bout me? When you're ridin' where he's drivin', are you missin' my street?
Rafe’s eyes lingered on you, the smirk slipping into something colder as he watched you lean closer to the blonde, your laughter ringing out over the music. But he saw right through it. He knew you well enough to pick up on the tiny tells—the way you glanced over your shoulder just slightly, probably checking if he was still watching.
You were putting on a show, and he knew it. He could almost picture it: you, lifting a drink to your lips, tasting the same burn of bourbon he used to pour you, and wondering if it would ever hit the same. Or maybe it was later, on some midnight drive as the blonde took you back home, the car turning down familiar roads but never quite the right ones. He could almost feel that ache settling in you when his road, the one leading up to Tannyhill, passed by without a pause.
You might be so close, just one turn away, and yet still missing that feeling of belonging you’d only ever felt pulling into his place, the street you’d once called home. He could feel Topper glancing his way, but he didn’t care, didn’t let up. He wanted to make sure you knew he was still there, that he was watching you, and that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t just erase him. Not from those old habits, not from those half-forgotten memories that clung to you like shadows.
And even as you turned back to the blonde, pretending you didn’t care, he could tell. Somewhere, deep down, he knew you’d feel that same hollow ache—the same one he was feeling right now—whenever you tasted what he was drinking or found yourself driving down a street that just didn’t feel the same.
Every time you close your eyes, tell me, who do you see. Comin' over tonight, wish that truck in your drive was mine. Just like you know it's supposed to be
Every time you closed your eyes, he wondered if it was his face you still saw, if memories of him filled those moments you tried to shut out. He imagined you lying awake, maybe with that blonde by your side, but when you let your guard down, it wasn’t him you’d see. It was Rafe, pulling up to your place, the sound of his truck rumbling in the driveway as he walked up to your door, familiar and steady as if he’d never left.
He could picture it so clearly—his truck parked outside, headlights washing over your front porch, the way he’d make himself at home in your space without a second thought. Rafe knew you could pretend all you wanted, but when you closed your eyes, he’d be there, waiting in those memories you could never quite shake. And somewhere, deep down, he knew you’d feel that pang of regret every time you wished that truck in your drive was his.
When you're up in his bed, am I up in your head? Making you crazy, tell me, baby, are you thinkin' 'bout me?
He couldn’t help but wonder if, in those quiet hours of the night, when you were lying beside him, it was his name that slipped into your mind uninvited. When you were up in that guy’s bed, was it him who filled your thoughts instead—if the memory of his hands, his voice, his presence stayed just beneath the surface, making it impossible to forget. He wanted to know if he’d left a mark, lingering even now, pushing you to the edge of madness as you tried to convince yourself you’d moved on.
Rafe moved in quietly, blending into the crowd, making his way closer as he watched the blonde step away, leaving you alone for the first time all night. He didn’t hesitate, just closed the distance, eyes fixed on you with that knowing look you’d tried to ignore. Reaching for a glass, he pretended to pour himself a drink, but his attention was fully on you, his voice low and taunting.
“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, “are you thinkin’ ’bout me?” The words hung in the air between you, his gaze steady, daring you to look away. He didn’t need to say anything else. The challenge was in his eyes, his tone, the slight smirk playing at his lips as he watched your reaction. He knew he was under your skin, that no matter how hard you tried, memories of him had a way of creeping back. And now, standing close enough to feel the tension humming between you, he was waiting, pushing just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever really left your thoughts.
You swallowed, eyes narrowing as you tried to brush off the effect he still had on you. But the heat of his presence was unmistakable, almost magnetic, pulling you into that familiar territory you’d been trying so hard to avoid. His eyes searched yours, unreadable, but you caught the flicker of something darker beneath the surface—a mixture of anger, curiosity, maybe even the smallest hint of longing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, keeping your voice steady, forcing a smile that you hoped would mask the way your pulse quickened. But Rafe’s smirk only grew, as if he could see right through your act. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Sure, keep tellin’ yourself that.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in as he stared at you side profile before chuckling to himself.
“But we both know who’s really on your mind tonight.” You felt a shiver roll down your spine, his proximity making it impossible to ignore the pull between you, the way his presence filled every corner of your mind despite the months apart. He lingered there, eyes never leaving yours, daring you to deny it, to keep pretending he was just a part of your past.
“You look good,” he added, voice soft, with just the slightest edge. “But maybe that’s ’cause I remember how you used to look at me.” The words hit harder than you’d like, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that left no room for anything else. You wanted to come up with something quick, something sharp to throw back at him. But for a second, you just stood there, caught in the moment, feeling the weight of every memory between you—the late nights, the laughter, the arguments, the way he’d looked at you like no one else ever had.
#rafe cameron#outer banks#rafe cameron x reader#fanfiction#rafe cameron x you#obx fanfiction#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron au#rafe cameron x fem!reader#rafe cameron x kook!reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe cameron x oc#rafe cameron x smut#drew starkey x female reader#drew starkey#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey x y/n#drew starkey x you#drew starkey fic#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron obx#rafe cameron outer banks#outer banks fanfiction#outerbanks rafe#outer banks au#outerbanks fanfiction#rafe fanfiction#rafe imagine#rafe cameron angst
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higher than heaven
bucky barnes x reader
word count: 5.5k - my masterlist
summary: bucky's first time smoking 🍃 since the 40s. bucky finds you smoking alone one night, leading to two of you growing much closer.
warnings/tags: use of marijuana, language, brief use of alcohol, nightmares, ptsd, anxiety, pining and tension, heated kissing, friends to lovers, pretty fucking fluffy, no use of y/n, fem reader, 18+ only
author's note: no smut? gasp! everything else i've written for bucky has contained smut so bare with me, i just wanted to take a break for some fun and fluffy (but still tension-filled) toking.
a/n 2: bucky and reader smoke in this, but i wouldn't say that's the main focus of this fic, just something that brings them closer together. i tried not to focus too much on that aspect, and also tried not to give too vivid of descriptions of being stoned so hopefully readers who don't smoke 🍃 can still enjoy this fic for the fluff and feels. however, if this is a triggering topic for you in any way, please be careful and read at your own discretion 🖤
The Avenger's compound truly has everything you could ever need. A state of the art gymnasium and training center, indoor and outdoor pools, beautifully maintained grounds with walking trails and lake access.
And, one of your favorite things, no shortage of secluded smoking spots.
Tonight's choice? The roof directly above the living quarters. This is likely the spot that you frequent the most, out of sheer convenience.
You keep a couple of extra folding chairs stashed in the stairwell, for the rare occasions that you can convince Natasha or Wanda to relax enough to join you.
Tonight, like most nights, you're by yourself. You don't mind - you enjoy this alone time. You usually come up here after missions to unwind before passing out in your bed.
It’s a chilly night, with temperatures finally dropping down into the low fifties as the early days of fall approach. You're bundled up in an oversized hoodie, sipping on oolong tea to warm you from the inside. In your left hand you clutch the warm mug, and with your right you pinch the tail-end of a burning joint between your thumb and index finger.
You've been up here long enough to have already burnt through one joint, and you now take slow, heady hits of a second as you wait for the meteor shower that's expected to begin over the northeastern United States any minute.
The creaking of the large metal door that leads to the roof startles you, causing you to break your gaze away from the stars littered above you in the New York sky. All the times you've come up here to watch the sunsets over the lake, no one has stumbled upon you. You're surprised by who emerges from the doorway a second later.
Bucky freezes in his tracks when he notices you sitting just a few yards in front of him.
“Oh, sorry,” he pauses, seemingly glancing around the roof to see if there's anyone else here with you. “I didn't expect - I didn't think anyone would be up here right now,” he stutters out.
“You're good,” you smile at him over your shoulder before turning your attention back to the sky. “Trying to get a good view of the meteors?”
“Yes, actually,” he says, surprised. You hear his boots scratching the pavement of the roof as he walks closer to you. You look up at him when he comes to a stop right next to where you're sitting.
“Well, you've come to the right place.” You gesture towards the scenery in front of you - the endless inky sky overlooking the lake next to the compound. “There's some extra chairs stashed in the stairwell, if you'd like one.”
“I didn't know that you smoke,” he says curiously, eyeballing the blazing joint still clutched between your fingers. He visibly sniffs a couple times, as if to confirm that he is indeed smelling what he thinks he is. He doesn't acknowledge your offer of a chair, instead choosing to sit directly on the cement, criss-crossing his legs at the ankles.
“Are you going to tell on me?” You ask as if what you're doing isn't perfectly legal and your friends don't already know.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he smirks up at you, eyes flicking between you and the joint.
“Want a hit?” You offer, extending your hand towards him. He hesitates, uncertainty blooming across his features.
“I haven't smoked since the forties,” he starts with an awkward laugh. He reaches up, carefully taking the joint from you and pinching it between his own two fingers and inspecting it. “I still remember the last joint I smoked before finding out that I had been drafted. If I had known it was going to be my last, I would've appreciated it a lot more.” There's a hint of nostalgia in his words.
You picture it - baby-faced Bucky, in his early twenties, with glossy blue eyes and a lazy, content smile. The thought makes your cheeks warm, and a small, sad smile spreads across your own face. That was a literal lifetime ago, and you didn't know if he had felt as carefree since then.
“Well,” you begin after a sip of your tea. “You're no longer property of the United States Army, or HYDRA, or any organization. So if you want to smoke, then smoke. And if not, that's okay, too, but give me my joint back because you're burning perfectly good weed right now.”
He chuckles at your scolding before bringing the joint up to his own lips and taking a slow, long puff. There's a sharp inhale before he erupts into a coughing fit, smoke billowing out in a cloud in front of him. You give him a few awkward pats on the back while he works through the burn that he is undoubtedly feeling in his esophagus.
“Damn, I've missed that,” he sighs once he has regained his composure. He holds the dwindling joint back up to you.
You shake your head. “Finish it off,” you insist. “I've already had one tonight. It’s all yours.”
You expect him to argue but to your surprise, he takes a second hit. And a third, and fourth, while you sit next to him in an amicable, comfortable silence. Soon, there's nothing left but a small roach that he stubs out against the cement next to where he sits.
“How're you feeling?” You ask, knowing that his tolerance has to be in the negatives if he hasn't smoked in over seventy years.
“If twenty-two year old Bucky knew that I was this stoned off half a joint, he'd never let me hear the end of it,” he says with an amused smile, propping back on the palms of his hands to stare up at you.
“Well, I think one-hundred and six year old Bucky is doing just fine for himself,” you muse. “Twenty-first century weed has got to be more potent than whatever dirt weed you were smoking in the forties, so cut yourself some sla–”
“I did not smoke dirt–”
“Look!” you exclaim, cutting him off as you point up at the sky. He goes quiet, following your gaze.
You both watch in awed silence as flashes of bright white-blues and purples begin to dash across the sky above you. At first, there's a bolt here and a bolt there - but before you know it, there's dozens - too many meteors to count, here and then gone in the blink of an eye. Where one disappears, another takes its place.
You lose track of how long the two you sit there, on the roof, under the shower of the shooting stars - and it has nothing to do with being stoned. They are just that mesmerizing.
“I think we’re supposed to make a wish,” you murmur after a long while, remembering the old legend about shooting stars. You watch the last few meteors as they burn out, and then the sky goes dark once more. When he doesn't respond, you glance down at where he sits to find that his eyes are closed.
You smile to yourself - you didn't actually plan on making a wish, and you definitely didn't expect him to. You figure that he is just humoring you, but you can't help but think how adorable it is nonetheless. You can't stop yourself from snorting a laugh, causing his eyes to snap open and up at you.
“What? Did you make your wish?” he demands, his tone serious.
You hum. A familiar, glowing warmth grows from your lips and down to your toes despite the chilly night air as you stare at him. You tell yourself it’s a physical effect of the marijuana.
“I think I’m good, actually.”
••••••
Every year, a different member of the Avengers chooses a charity to hold a gala in honor of.
Sam's choice last year, Homes For Our Troops, build specially adapted, custom homes for severely injured veterans. Natasha's choice the year before that, Children of the Night, is a non-profit organization dedicated to rescuing and rehabilitating children who have been victims of prostitution.
Always funded by the Stark Relief Foundation, always held in the most high-profile and illustrious venues that money can buy, and always filled to the brim with every philanthropist and major news reporter in the state of New York.
This year, for the first time, it was your turn to select a charity. You decided on Women For Women International - a noble and worthy cause that you are proud to raise awareness and donations for. However, now that three hours into the gala, you are fucking burnt out. From the moment that you and your teammates arrived at the venue, guests and reporters began forming lines for their chance at interviewing you or getting their picture taken with you. You feel like you’ve talked to every person in the building, except for the one person that you truly wanted to. Add in a ten minute long speech addressing five hundred plus guests, you are drained. Physically, mentally, and socially drained.
“You did incredible with your speech,” a soft voice says from behind you. “All that worrying for nothing.”
You're exhaling a sigh of relief at the familiar voice before you've finished turning around to meet his dimpled grin and deep blue eyes. You think he might just be as ready as you are to get out of here with the way he's already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his tux. His hair is tousled - though you haven't had a free moment to speak with him since the car ride over here with Sam and Steve, you have no doubt that he's ran his fingers through the short locks a few dozens times throughout the evening - a habit that flares up every time he's out of his element. With this being the first gala he's attended as an Avenger, and possibly the first gala he's ever attended, you're surprised he has any hair left.
“I wouldn't say for nothing,” you turn back to the bar in front of you and wave a singular finger to the bartender, signaling your desire for another drink. “I stuttered at least eight times, and lost my place on the page twice. I felt like I was going to puke shrimp cocktail and espresso martini all over the podium.”
You can see him grimace from your peripheral vision. He pulls out the barstool next to where you stand, and then takes a seat. You're pinned between the chair on the opposite side of you and his thigh, the cool silk of his pants tickling the bare skin of your leg where your dress cuts off just above mid-thigh. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiate from him and smell the essence of his piney aftershave. Subconsciously, you relax for the first time all evening.
“You are your own worst critic,” he reminds you, repeating the sentiment that he’s been saying to you for the last few weeks, anytime the gala or your speech would come up in conversation. “No one else noticed if you stuttered. They’re all too full of liquor, or too concerned with getting their photo op with Iron Man or The Hulk..” he trails off, glancing over his shoulder at where Tony and Bruce are both striking signature poses for some selfies with guests.
“And what about you? Have any of your fangirls begged you to take a picture with them?” You smirk at him as the bartender slides your martini across the countertop. You angle your body so that you’re now turned to face him, leaving practically no space between the two of you.
“More than I can count,” he exhales, and you force a laugh to not roll your eyes - not that you were surprised or that you could blame them for wanting their picture taken with him.
“Well, I’m glad that we were able to raise so much money,” you sigh into your drink. “But I would be lying if I said I’m also not glad that it’s over with. I’m ready to get these shoes off, submerge myself in a hot bath, and then sleep until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Always the introvert,” he murmurs, a sly grin appearing on his face. He carefully tugs the lapel of his jacket to the side and reaches his flesh hand inside, pulling out a tin of wintergreen Altoids. You look at him curiously as he gives the small container a shake. It makes no sound, seemingly empty of mints. You cock an eyebrow at him, about to ask him what the deal is, when a familiar, earthy scent wafts towards you.
“What’s in the tin, Buck?” you ask rhetorically, as if the odor isn’t a dead giveaway.
“Just a little something I’ve been saving for when I could finally get you alone tonight,” he shrugs, slipping the tin back inside the interior pocket of his jacket. Your heart skips a beat at the possibility that maybe he’d been wanting to talk to you, see you, spend time with you as much as you had him.
“I’m just happy to see that you finally have your own weed,” you tease, trying to polish off the remnants of your drink so that you can get the fuck out of here. “Now you can stop smoking all of mine.”
You’re just giving him a hard time, of course. You’d lost count of how many times the two of you have smoked together since the night of the meteor shower just two months ago, and you were more than happy to share your supply with him - he gives you a lopsided grin that tells you he knows you don’t actually mind.
“Hence why I have pre-rolled three joints just for you,” he quips back. “One for how much time and effort you put into this event, one for conquering your fear of public speaking, and one for how much of your weed you have let me smoke.”
Your cheeks warm at the thoughtful gesture. You swallow the last swig of the brown liquid and slide the glass back across the bar.
“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go get a cab.”
Half an hour later, you and Bucky are in the backseat of the taxi that drives you away from bustling downtown Brooklyn and towards a park that Bucky had instructed the driver to take you to. You didn’t object, trusting that he knows this area of New York better than you do.
The driver comes to a stop next to a nearly desolate sidewalk that appears to lead to a waterfront walkway. Bucky hands the driver a handful of cash, tells him to keep the change, and hops out of the cab before extending a hand to you as you scoot across the seat to follow his exit. You mumble a quick thanks to the driver as he helps you onto the sidewalk and shuts the door behind you.
You pull your coat tighter around you, attempting to shield yourself from the chill of the November air. Fall is now in full swing in New York, and the short cocktail dress that you wore to the gala does little to protect you from the night air.
“Me and Steve used to come to this park all the time,” he tells you as he pulls the Altoids tin and a BIC lighter from his jacket. “I vividly remember having to break up a fight he got into just past that fountain when we were teenagers,” he motions towards a large granite fountain ahead of you, “when some asshole stole a kid's frisbee.”
You laugh as he passes you a joint and the lighter, able to picture the memory he describes clear as day. It's far from the first time he's told you about a time that he had to get pre-serum Steve out of trouble.
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you mumble as you pinch the tail of the joint between your lips, inhaling as you hold the flame up to the opposite end. A wave of smoke instantly fills your esophagus and lungs with a familiar, comforting burn and you pass the blazing joint back to him. “He’d still do the exact same thing, too,” you add as you exhale the thick cloud of smoke that mixes with the cold air. “Only difference now is that he can handle any fight that he gets himself into.”
“Some things never change,” he says before bringing the paper up to his own lips. You follow as he guides you across a small grassy area and to the walkway that runs alongside the river. Truthfully, it’s too chilly to be on a park stroll at this hour in your current attire, but with Bucky’s body heat radiating from directly beside you and the buzz you feel from the weed, you’re surprisingly comfortable.
“One thing that has changed however,” he continues as you’re inhaling a second hit, “is how well I’ve started sleeping on the nights that we smoke together. On those nights, I don't wake up over a dozen times. Hardly ever even have nightmares anymore.”
Your skin tingles at his admission - a whole flight of butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach that you push down. You know that he means this because of the weed, not because of you, but for some reason - maybe it's the way his arm keeps bumping against yours or the way the moonlight reflects in the pools of his blue eyes as he glances over at you - you let yourself believe, even for just a split second, that you're aiding in bringing him peace on those evenings spent together. On the roof above the living quarters right before bed, or at the edge of the lake's water when you stop after a late run to watch the sunset, or -
“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful that I found you up on the roof the night of the meteor shower,” he continues when you don't respond, his voice now possessing a nervous edge. Your mouth suddenly feels dry - the worst cotton-mouth you've ever had times ten. “For more reasons than one.”
You both gradually slow until you've come to a complete stop in front of a boat dock. Between the martini you had before leaving the gala, the effects of the marijuana, and the way he's looking at you while standing so close, you think it's a miracle that you haven't tripped in these ridiculous chunky heels and fallen into the East River. You clear your throat, hoping that you don't sound like a lovestruck teenager when you speak.
“I'm really glad too, Bucky.”
••••••
You stare down at the picture displayed on your phone screen as you and Natasha take the elevator up to the compound's living quarters.
Rolled and ready for you to be home reads the text attached to the picture of the joint pinched between the thumb and index finger of his flesh hand that Bucky had sent you ten hours ago, before your flight from Arizona to New York was supposed to depart.
Our flight has been delayed due to a thunderstorm. No current ETA your reply reads with a frowny face emoji at the end.
Now, at 2:16 in the morning, you are finally back home hours later than originally expected.
You were sure that Bucky was asleep by this point, and you didn't blame him. You wished you were asleep right now, too. Natasha slept the entire plane ride back to New York.
You, on the other hand, may or may not have spent the plane ride reading back over recent text messages between you and Bucky and zooming in on the picture he had sent you because for some reason you really like his hands. Both of them.
You were acting like a goddamn fifteen year old.
“What are you grinning at?” Natasha's voice snaps you out of your trance. You quickly shove your phone into the pocket of your duffel bag.
“I'm not grinning,” you lie, but it's Natasha - of course she sees right through you.
“You were grinning,” she shrugs with a knowing smirk. “But it's okay. We'll chalk it up to sleep deprivation.”
“I am sleep deprived, actually. Someone snored the entire flight back home.”
“For someone who wasn't grinning you sure are being defensive right now,” she retorts with a shit-eating grin as the elevator dings and the door slides open. You roll your eyes as you both step out into the hallway that leads to the living quarters. You turn to the left, towards your bedroom, and she takes a right but then comes to a sudden stop, calling your name. You freeze, turning to look at her with a raised brow.
“For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. It's obvious to everyone around you two.” She looks at you expectantly.
“Get some rest, Nat,” you huff a small laugh under your breath, and try not to smile. She doesn't press the subject any further.
Before reaching your bedroom, you pause at the door to Bucky's room. You don't knock, but wait to see if you hear any movement from inside. All that you hear is a loud static from his white noise machine.
Although you expected him to be asleep at this hour, you couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment that you hadn't been able to get back earlier. You knew you would see him tomorrow (well, technically later today), but you hadn't gone this long - a mere three days - without seeing Bucky since the two of you had become close months ago.
You quietly make your way into your bedroom and toss your duffel bag onto the end of the bed before stripping off the dirty, sweaty tactical suit that you'd been wearing since the early hours of the previous morning.
In your bathroom, you turn the faucet handle to the hottest setting and watch as the small room fills with steam before stepping under the showerhead.
You think about what Natasha said as you scrub your body clean and let the harsh but satisfying stream of water relax your aching shoulder muscles.
You wanted to go for it. Goddamn, you wanted to go for it. Every time you are alone with him - whether he's helping you train with target practice, or you're paired up together for re-con, or you're just simply eating breakfast together in the common area - you want to go for it.
All you have to do is stare at his stupid, pretty pink lips for a split-second too long and you're thinking about going for it.
But for so many reasons, you don't.
Though your heart wants more, you love your friendship with him, too. And you would be devastated if you tried for more and it didn't work out and you lost that friendship altogether.
You also don't know if Bucky wants more. Natasha says that everyone around you sees it, but he's never directly said it. You know there's an undeniable chemistry, but what if you're the only one experiencing it?
You watch the last few suds of your body wash go down the drain and turn the shower off, deciding that it's too late and you're far too tired to be thinking about this right now.
You speed through your post-shower routine, desperate to feel the silk of your bedsheets against your clean, freshly moisturized skin as you drift off to sleep.
You're rolling some deodorant under your arms when a deep, loud cry thunders from somewhere outside of your room causing you to let out a shocked gasp. You drop the object in your hand immediately and it falls to the floor as you rush out of your bedroom, wearing only thin cotton shorts and a matching tank top.
As soon as you step into the hallway, you are able to identify where the screams are coming from. Pained, booming yells originate from behind the door directly across from your own.
Bucky’s room.
You don't hesitate to twist the doorknob, letting yourself and shutting the door behind you.
The pale orange glow of a small table lamp in the far corner of his bedroom illuminates the room enough for you to make sense of what is happening. The sight before you makes your heart sink to the floorboards.
He's asleep - his eyes pinched shut and his brows furrowed together in obvious agony. He's shirtless, and his skin looks pale and clammy with thick beads of sweat littered from his forehead to his torso.
There's a meek voice in the back of your mind that tries to remind you that you don't know what you're walking into, as you've never encountered Bucky while he's having a nightmare before but he looks so fucking pitiful that your only concern is alleviating him from whatever prison of torment his mind is currently trapped in.
You rush over to the side of the bed, nearly tripping on the comforter that he's apparently through to the floor in his sleep. Both of his hands form tight fists, his knuckles strained pale. He lets out another guttural yell that causes you to instinctively flinch away.
“Bucky,” you say, attempting to keep your voice from breaking. “Wake up, Bucky. You're having a nightmare.”
He gives no indication that he can hear you, his head thrashing violently and fists slamming down against his mattress as he makes a pitiful whimper.
“Bucky,” you repeat, leaning down to perch on the few inches of free space on the side of the bed. You reach out to place your hand on the flesh of his bicep, about to attempt to gently stir him awake, when he shoots straight up in his bed. You flinch again, but don't move from your position next to him, firming your grasp on his bicep in an effort to ground him. His blue eyes are as wide as saucers and his chest heaves as he takes in his surroundings.
“You're okay,” you assure him in a soft, uncertain voice, rubbing your thumb in circles against the skin of his flesh arm. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is–”
“I could have hurt you,” he interrupts you, his voice faltering on the last word. “I could have–”
“You didn't hurt me,” you interrupt him back. “You're okay, and I'm okay, too.” He nods, and you can tell he's trying to convince himself that the words you say are true.
You quickly glance around his room until you find what you're looking for. Strewn on the floor next to his bedside table, you see a black t-shirt. You reach over, picking it up. You hesitate for a moment before slowly extending the fabric to Bucky's face, where you delicately wipe away the thin layer of sweat that glistens on his forehead. He relaxes into the movement, his eyes closing until you pull away.
“I'm sorry that I woke you up,” he murmurs after a moment of heavy silence.
“You didn't wake me up,” you assure him quickly. He watches you with something akin to guilt across his features. “I had just gotten out of the shower. We didn't get home until half an hour ago.”
He glances down, noticing your attire. You suddenly feel naked in only the thin gray shorts and tank top. You awkwardly clear your throat, reaching to place the t-shirt on his bedside table when something catches your eye. Bucky follows your gaze to the joint laying on his bedside table.
“I tried to wait up for you,” he exhales a soft laugh. “Ended up passing out around midnight.” Your whole body warms at his admission. The idea that he tried to force himself to stay awake just so he could see you when you got home makes you feel dizzy despite the fact that you're sitting down.
“Do you want to now? To help you sleep?” you ask, gesturing towards the joint. You don't even care that it's three in the morning and that you're borderline delirious from lack of sleep.
He takes one of your hands in between his own and brings it closer to him, giving it a tight squeeze as he shakes his head.
“No, I know you're tired. But could you just..” He trails off, bringing your hand clutched between his up to his mouth to rest his lips against the skin of the back of your hand. It's not quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps across your flesh nonetheless. You're holding your breath without realizing it. “Could you just lay with me for a while?”
You nod your head in agreement without even thinking about it. “Yeah - yeah, of course,” you answer, hoping that you don't sound too eager while simultaneously knowing that your voice has risen several octaves.
You lean over once again, grabbing his comforter off of the floor as Bucky scoots towards the middle of the king sized bed to give you room to crawl in beside him. He extends his flesh arm away from his body, a clear indication that he wants you to lay in the space between his arm and his chest. You lay down, tucking your head under his chin so that your cheek rests against the mildly clammy but soft skin of his chest. He helps you tug the thick blanket across your bodies before bringing his arm around your abdomen, pinning you to him.
Luckily, you’re far too tired, and he’s far too warm for you to overthink it.
“You smell really good,” he murmurs into your hair and you hope that his preternatural abilities don’t pick up on the way your heart skips a beat. “I probably smell like sweat.”
You hum a laugh against his chest, sniffing the skin next to your nose without thinking about it.
“You don’t smell like sweat. You smell just as good as you always do, somehow,” you assure him, reveling in his unique scent of vetiver and something citrusy.
You’re both quiet for a moment, sleep threatening to overtake you at any moment when he brings two metal fingers to the underside of your chin and gently tilts your face to look up at him. Your breath is trapped in your chest at the close proximity of your lips and his.
“Remember the night of the gala, when I told you that I’d started sleeping better and having less nightmares since we’d started smoking together before bed?”
You nod, not trusting your voice to answer verbally. He’s so fucking close, you can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste from when he’d brushed his teeth hours ago.
“That was true,” he continues, looking down at you with an indiscernible expression. “But what I’m now realizing is that I don’t think it has anything to do with the weed,” he pauses, a small smile forming across his face. “It’s just you.”
You can’t stop the smile that blooms in return, just as you can’t stop what you do next.
Closing the distance between your lips and his own, you kiss him as you’ve thought about doing for months now. You’re hesitant at first, worrying that you’ve crossed that line that you can never go back over - but then he’s moving his mouth with your own in a synchronicity sweeter than you could have dreamed.
His arms dart under the comforter, wrapping around your body and pulling you even tighter against him. You bring one of your hands to cup his face as he sweeps his tongue along the swell of your bottom lip. You open up for him, letting him inside your mouth as you move your hand from his jaw to his hair - lacing your fingers through the short brown locks as he explores your mouth. Your thigh hooks around his, and it takes everything in you to hold back - to not swing yourself over him and lay the full weight of your body flush against his.
He’s just had a nightmare, and it’s late, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to move this sweet, special thing that you have too quickly.
He pulls away, and you fight against whimpering at the loss of the sensation of his soft lips.
“The night of the meteor shower,” he starts, his voice strained and his pupils dilated. “You told me to make a wish, and I did. Now that it’s come true, I can tell you what it was I wished for,” he pauses, running his metal thumb across your kiss-swollen bottom lip as you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “I wished for as many moments like that as I could possibly get with you.”
Your heart swells in your chest. You're convinced that you're asleep because this is something straight out of your dreams. You remove your hand from his hair, placing it directly above his heart to make yourself believe this is real.
“Speaking of meteor showers,” you start as you trail the tips of your fingers over the defined planes of his chest. “There's supposed to be a cool show at the planetarium in Manhattan this weekend. Do you want to go with me?”
His answer is a soft smile before attaching his lips to yours once more.
thanks so much for reading! as always reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated. i hope you enjoyed 🩷
other recent works by me: love language • delirium • it's nice to have a friend
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x you#bucky x you#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes oneshot#bucky barnes one-shot#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic
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Cleaning Up
Pairing: Mingi x f reader
Genre: angst, eventual fluff and smut
Word count: 7.7k
Summary: Months after being convinced to join Mingi on tour, you can't help but ruminate on the events of the last year of your life. Despondent, you start making choices and saying things that just aren't like you. In the heat of the moment everything comes out, not in the way you wanted; but maybe, it was just the way things were meant to unfold all along.
Warnings: MDNI, smut, reader is depressed, Mingi and reader argue, unprotected sex
A/n: I don't usually write things this angsty but the idea came to me after finishing Making a Mess and I just couldn't stop writing it. I hope you enjoy! <3
This is a part 2/expansion of Making a Mess, which is linked here so you can read it for some context if you'd like. This can also be read as a stand alone fic just fine! (I think, lmk if this isn't true)
<^><^><^><^><^><^>
You walk down the hallway of the hotel, the florescent lights making you squint to the ground. Another night of tour, another pounding headache. And here you were trudging to your room, sure to find a mountain of texts and emails in need of responses, another random hotel room bed waiting to embrace you. You're sure this one has pillows that will leave your neck a knotted mess in the morning, just like all the others. You're tired of this, tired of your body feeling like it has one use and one use only, tired of feeling like it's falling apart on you. This was supposed to be a break from monotony, an exciting new change. A chance to both rest and do exciting things.
Pulling out your key card you slot it through the lock, the light on the handle lighting up green. You push it open, almost dropping your bag as it slides off your shoulder and catches painfully on your upper arm.
"Ow," you mutter, crumpling to the floor in lieu of setting it down. The room is mostly dark, illuminated only by the city lights outside. You see through the window that next door is another hotel. Another hotel. You'd truly had enough. It was time to switch up the routine, at least a little. You couldn't bare to spend another night struggling to fall asleep in a hotel you didn't deserve to be in.
Leaving your bag behind you make your way back to the elevator, back to the lobby. The front door swings open and a chilly breeze hits you, making you shiver instantly. Your shorts and t-shirt might not be the most comfortably at this hour, but in your mentally exhausted state the shiver feels good. Any sort of feeling, really, was good. Anything new, anything different.
You bust through the doors, greeted by the cool night air, gripping your phone and key card tightly as you snake past a group of obviously tipsy businessmen. One says something to you but you don't even make out the words, trembling as you stalk by them without looking up. Harsh, fierce anxiety lances through you and suddenly you feel scared, like something terrible is about to happen. You know you're in the nicest part of the city, the streets well lit and a team of security always present outside the hotel. It isn't a rational feeling, the impending doom that's hitting you. But it's there and it's crushing, making your breath shaky as you walk down the street towards nothing in particular.
It was nearly five months ago that the two of you met, at a party thrown after the biggest fashion show you'd ever worked. It was supposed to be the highlight of your career as a makeup artist and up-and-coming designer, but truthfully you were so burnt out by the time it happened, so completely exhausted by your boss, that the whole event had passed you in a blur. You couldn't remember a single thing about that day but the dread you felt at the sound of your alarm, the panic staying with you all day even as you sipped a sweet cocktail, mingling in a way you really didn't want to but knew you should. For the betterment of your career, which you thought you so cared about.
And in the middle of the terrible day turned terrible night, there Mingi was. The group of designers he had come with were fretting around him, making their way to the bar to order their drinks. You hadn't moved far from the bar after grabbing yours, unable to actually make yourself go and introduce yourself to people like you said you would. Like you'd promised your boss you would. Your mind was so blank you weren't sure you'd even be able to form a sentence. But then he spoke to you, this striking stranger with the deepest eyes you'd ever seen, eyes that made you want to dive in and explore the entirety of his head.
Sure, the sex that night was amazing. It truly was, you shouldn't undersell it; but really the thing that stuck with you was what he said afterwards, while you both were tangled up in the sheets of your bed. Why are you doing it if you hate it? he'd asked you. And you'd explained that really you didn't hate it, you just hated your boss, your fashion company. You loved fashion and makeup and everything about that world, but you couldn't take another day of watching every one of your coworkers go home crying, your cruel boss tearing everyone down in front of you constantly. Except you, for some reason. I don't deserve her kindness, I don't know why she likes me, you'd said. No, she doesn't deserve your talent, he'd replied.
And then when he was leaving, his final parting words; You deserve so much more than that woman. Oh, it was simple platitudes. An easy thing for him to say to a girl he'd just been fucking, a girl he might want to still be able to fuck in the future. You knew that was probably the case, that he just wanted to play nice. It's no fun when your hookup starts telling you how fucking depressed she is, how beaten down by her job she is. Immediately upon him leaving you spent the night bashing yourself, screaming into the void that you never should have brought it up. Why am I always such a blabbermouth after sex? you thought. You spent days feeling regret, which finally turned to just embarrassment. But then he texted you, and you'd gone and had a late dinner, you both completely exhausted from your inhumanely long work days. In your delirious state you laughed together, grabbing desert on the way to your place, where again he fucked you senseless, his eyes boring into yours afterwards in the complete silence. You'd never had someone look at you so much during sex, or after, and it was exposing. He saw you. He saw in. And finally you had the courage to say fuck it, fuck her, and emailed your boss that you weren't coming back. He celebrated with you that day. Such an intensely intimate moment for two strangers; but really, he didn't feel like a stranger at all.
So the friendship grew. You picked up some freelance makeup work to keep yourself afloat, finally working with a friend on a project he'd begged you to join for months. That was fun until it wasn't, just like every little job was, and you were thankful that you didn't have to stay at any of them for long. You made it work for a little while, your rendezvous with Mingi the true highlight of most of your weeks. Your mind was still elsewhere, still swimming in the clouds as your body went about your life, as you felt like a shell, like someone pretending to be you. Only maybe when you were with him, when he was deep inside you, did you feel present. You could feel like yourself again, if only for a few moments. And god did you need that.
Come with me on tour, he'd said one night, his impending months of travel hanging in the air between you. You laughed, you laughed hard. What a ridiculous notion. But he didn't let it go, not for a second. It was late at night, your post coitus talk drifting off into the darkness as you repeatedly made each other yawn. I'm serious, I need you, he'd said. Again you laughed, how could you not? You weren't dating; this thing between you was very casual, and though you knew you might be dipping into dangerous waters by not defining anything you really couldn't be bothered to care in that moment. It's not possible, though, you'd replied. And then he'd vehemently explained to you how it absolutely, definitely was. It'd taken another week of thinking it over, but then you'd said okay. The opportunity called to you, the chance to get out of the place you'd been grinding in for the last few years and travel the world a bit, with this new friend, or whatever he was. In the end it wasn't that hard of a choice, as the life you were leaving behind wasn't really holding you anymore, wasn't really much of anything. And that did make you sad when you thought about it for too long, so you pushed the feeling down and surrendered instead to the excitement of the new opportunity. You'd lied to your mom, saying you were employed as a makeup artist for the tour; it made you a little sick to lie to her, but you didn't know what else to say. The guy I've been fucking wants me to come? I hate my life so I agreed to? You didn't want to break her heart or make her worry. Even with some of your friends you skirted around the truth, not wanting them to worry either.
And now as you walk down the street, as your legs shake in the night, you really wish someone knew just how awful it all felt. Just what a dumb situation you'd gotten yourself into. Day in and day out he'd fuck you, often in the completely exposed hallways of the arenas, making you come repeatedly while looking into your eyes deeply, making your stomach clench with feelings you really, really didn't want to admit you were having. Though you got along well and could talk for hours, it was clear to you that it really was just sex to him. Since tour started you'd barely spend a day together that didn't involve him inside of you, and you'd begun to resent the time you spent with the actual makeup team for the tour. You'd been grateful for their company at first, especially one woman you'd clicked with immediately, but slowly you couldn't avoid feeling jealous at how well they were all treated by their boss, jealous that they could pursue their dreams and it wasn't crushing them. And then there were the members of staff that had stumbled upon you and Mingi in the act, who looked at you completely differently now, like you were sick or disturbed. It all began to eat at you, especially that you found the humiliation and the intensity of it desirable, that even though it pained you, you couldn't stop craving the public sex, already horny for him before his break in the show was even close. You felt so fucking shameful for doing what you had done. Touring with a band, just so that one of the members could fuck you when he pleased? How had you ended up here? A quick thought of childhood you, of her hopes and her dreams of success in the industry, made tears instantly form in your eyes and begin falling. Stop it, stop crying, you begged yourself. The lights from the corner store blurred between your tears, and suddenly you realized you'd walked further than intended, and you didn't know where you were.
Opening your phone to pull up a map, you saw the text.
Mingi: I'm coming over, be there in like 10
Sent almost ten minutes ago. You held your breath for a moment, waiting for another text. But it didn't come. And then the anger came, boiling up inside you. How fucking presumptuous, you thought. Sure, it wasn't that strange. He'd sent almost identical texts about a dozen times throughout tour. But now it smacked you so plainly, that he just expected you to always be there. Just waiting for him, whenever he wanted you. Like it couldn't be possible you maybe didn't want to see him.
y/n: Don't bother, I'm not even there
It only took a few seconds for his text to appear.
Mingi: Are you okay?
I'm fucking great, actually, you wanted to say. You rolled your eyes, feet stuck to the sidewalk, the line of trees you were under feeling like good protection.
y/n: yes
That was all you had, even though you knew it was betraying everything you felt. It was way too weird of a response, too short. Somehing was obvious wrong. You groaned as you saw his call coming through, your phone lighting up like a beacon in the dark night.
"Hi," you say, not even trying to make your voice sound bright or normal.
"Y/n, where are you?" Mingi asks.
"Why do you care?" you respond, already feeling embarrassed by your behavior.
"You don't need to be nasty with me, I'm just checking on you," he replies, keeping his voice steady.
"I told you I'm okay," you respond, sighing heavily.
"You obviously aren't, you're not acting like yourself," he says, his tone hard to read. All you can think is that he's disappointed, mad that you're not where he expected you to be.
"You say that like you know me well," you respond, huffing.
"I do..." he trails off, voice low. Like he's contemplating how to respond to you, how to continue this conversation.
"Fucking me doesn't really equate to getting to know me," you say, your tone laced with anger. "I just felt like going for a walk tonight, I've spent so many evenings in hotel rooms recently and a midnight walk just sounded nice. Like I said, I'm fine."
"You're walking outside?" he asks.
"Mm-hmm," you respond, your tone unkind.
"By yourself?"
"Mm-hmm."
"You shouldn't be out there, you promised me," he says, sighing deeply.
"Mingi, I really don't get why it matters. I'm a fucking adult, I can go for a walk when I fucking feel like it," you retort, even angrier. How dare he tell you what you should or shouldn't be doing.
"I'm coming with Yubin to get you," he says, and you hear the elevator opening for him through the phone.
"Can you just let me do what I want, for once?" you groan, crouching down to put your head in your hands, unsure what to do with all of the frustration you're feeling.
"You're being a real asshole right now, and I don't know why, but I'm not letting you get lost in a fucking foreign country. Tell me where you are," he spits, finally losing control of the even tone he'd kept so far.
"I. Don't. Know. Mingi," you say slowly, like he's stupid. God it's embarrassing, the way you're being so uncharacteristically nasty, but you just can't help it. You feel so genuinely out of control, your entire body shaking with anger and dread. He had been there with you to help you finally quit your horrible job, been there during the tumultuous time afterwards while you jumped from job to job, trying every day to assure yourself and everyone else that you were doing fine. The money might be less, but you were actually eating and sleeping enough most days, and that had to count for something. You'd been connected to him then, had those little moments of support. And that was why you'd come on tour, or at least part of the reason. Now he'd been much more distant, not a conversation between you that remotely resembled your old talks. After sex he'd be running back to stage, or passing out in your hotel bed instantly, the exhaustion from tour clearly affecting him. You could understand it from an intellectual point of view, but it didn't mean your feelings weren't hurt.
"I could fucking kill you right now," he sighs through the phone, the sound of the elevator arriving on the eighth floor coming through too. "Look for some street signs, find the cross streets," he demands, softly. "Y/n please," he begs, your quiet resolve breaking, the tears threatening to come again.
"Fine," you say, squinting out towards the intersection ahead of you, the street names hard to read from so far. "Um, one is Rolling.. Heels? Or no, Hills, I think. And the other must be, fuck, whatever street our hotel is on. I can't remember."
"Thank you," he says, the words clearly painful coming out of his mouth. "Promise me you won't move," he sighs, his hand knocking on the door of his manager's room.
"I promise," you sigh, your tone sounding sarcastic.
"Y/n, I swear to god..." Mingi groans.
"I promise, I mean it," you respond, your tone more solid. You really do mean it, you really will be here waiting. Because even if you're pissed at him you're thankful someone is coming to your rescue as you shiver, your body feeling so weak you're not even sure you could make it back to the hotel. As you trudged down the street you hadn't noticed how exhausted you were, your head full of every memory of the last year. It wasn't until you were on the phone with him that it hit you.
"Okay, we'll be there in a few minutes, don't move an inch. And call me if anything weird happens," he says before saying goodbye, hanging up as you hear him start to tell his manager Yubin what's happening.
It takes mere minutes for them to reach you, and you climb into the back seat behind Mingi, behind the passenger side. Neither of you say a word as you climb in, the click of your buckle loud in the tense silence of the car. Slowly Yubin presses on the gas again, gliding back down the road towards the hotel. Mingi reaches his left hand back around his seat to grab your angle gently, sighing at the contact proving that you're fine, that you're here with him. Even if you're not saying a word and clearly pissed at him, the dominating emotion he's feeling still is fear, worry that something's terribly wrong. And at least now he knows you're physically okay, that no one's taken you. When you exit the car, having finally parked in the underground garage, Mingi unzips his hoodie and wraps it around you, hating the way your body subtly fights his every movement even though you're clearly so cold.
In the elevator you still didn't speak a word to either of them, your eyes glued to the floor. When the doors open to your floor you step out quickly, relieved that you'd finally be able to be by yourself again, to bury yourself in one of your books or just bury your face in the pillows, to just be. For a few steps the relief washes over you, until you realize that Mingi is following close behind, his whole being looking ragged with exhaustion and anger.
"Why are you following me?" you spit, not bothering to even look back at him. You unlock your door and he slips inside behind you, closing it gently. With a long sigh he turns to you, your arms crossed as you stare at him, petulant.
"I'm staying here with you tonight so you don't run off again," he states, like it's plain as day.
"But I don't want that," you snap, the anger boiling over now. "Do you ever consider what I fucking want?! Does the thought ever cross your mind that maybe I have feelings?!"
"I get that you don't want me here right now, I'm getting that loud and clear, but you just went walking off in a foreign country in the middle of the night without telling me. And I'm the reason you're fucking here, so I kind of feel responsible for your wellbeing. We can book you a flight home tomorrow, or I can give you space for the rest of tour, or whatever it is that you want, but I will not let you go walking off like that again. You don't know this city, you don't know anyone who lives in this city. That was fucking stupid, what you just did," he says, his own arms coming to cross over his chest. Now yours fall, in defeat. It pains you because he's right, but the idea of admitting that makes you feel edgy, like you'll fall to pieces in an instant.
You groan into your hands, sitting down at the breakfast table in the corner of your room, on one of the grossly fancy chairs. The wood armrests feel cold against the side of your thighs, your elbows resting against the table as you run your hands through your hair in frustration, your head coming to rest on the table too. Already your anger is morphing into just exhaustion, just upset. Tears are coming again, and you try to sob silently, try not to make a big scene in front of him. But your sniffles give you away, the way you're wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie, burying your head in your arms.
"Y/n, what's wrong?" he asks, standing against the wall as far from you as he can be in this room. His arms are still crossed over his chest but you're not even looking; from the sound of his voice, though, you can tell he's far away. Suddenly you feel like a bomb about to go off, like he's avoiding you for fear of triggering the explosion. It makes you even more ashamed, that you're acting out, that you aren't holding yourself together like you usually do. That you're so obviously falling apart in front of him.
"I'm exhausted," you manage, between sobs.
"Then why don't you lay down and get some sleep?" he asks gently.
"I can't fucking sleep!" you snap, finally looking up at him with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I can't sleep, that's the fucking problem, I'm so fucking anxious every night," you spit, your breaths shaky as you let the tears keep falling.
"Y/n..." Mingi replies, sighing hard as he stares into your eyes, your head clearly full of worry and pain and every other bad feeling. He doesn't know what to do or say to make it better, but he feels his body pulled towards yours, like coming closer must be the correct thing to do. You stare him down as he walks closer, as he sits down to the side of the chair you're in, grabbing one of your hands and putting it between his own. He stares at it for a moment, seeing how rough and battered your nail beds look, and the healing cut on your pointer finger that you got two weeks ago when one of his rings slid past it in just the wrong way. When he looks up at you to meet your gaze you see the glint of possible tears forming, his head swimming with worry too. It makes you feel things too deep in your chest, too painful for you to bear it.
"Stop," you say, but it's so soft and lacking in strength that you clearly don't mean it, at least not entirely. You bury your head in your hands again, as Mingi keeps staring up at you, his chest pained at how you just reeled away from him.
"Do you want to go home tomorrow?" he asks, to no response. You're silently dealing with your rapid heart beat, dealing with the way that his look made you teeter on the edge of emotional collapse. Not even a grunt escapes your lips, as you mull over what he had just asked you. Why the hell could he read your mind so easily?
"Y/n, please talk to me. Please tell me what's going on," he pleads, a hand on your ankle like it was in the car, anchoring him again with the knowledge that at least you're here in front of him.
"You don't want to hear it, I promise you," you respond, sharply inhaling and slowly letting it out.
"Why is that?" he asks.
"Cause it's gonna piss you off, probably," you say, a few tears running down your cheeks again.
"I figured this was about me," he says, still looking up. Your head snaps to him again, your face stony.
"Um, yeah," you say, proud of yourself for not also adding a duh.
"So tell me what I did," he says, his grip on your ankle tightening slightly.
"No, stop," you squeak out, the tears turning to sobs in a moment as you crumple in on yourself again. Your shoulders heave and you breathe deeply as you try to not start full-on wailing. You're in no state to talk, no state to answer him, and with your head spinning the way it is you have no idea what nasty, vitriolic language might spill out of you if you do. As embarrassing as it feels you hope your tears will make him at least stop pressing you, maybe even totally step away and leave you be, finally.
"No," he replies sternly, much to your surprise. "I need to know what's going on. I- I told y- you promised me, that we would talk if you weren't feeling well on tour or if you were mad at me. I told you that would have to happen, cause it always does on tour, everyone is so exhausted and the highs are high so the lows are low, and people always fight. It happens every fucking tour, I told you it would. But you promised me you'd talk to me, and, I don't know if you remember, but you also literally promised not to do exactly what you did tonight. You promised not to go out by yourself anywhere at night." Your sobs haven't ceased, but you feel momentarily some clarity about everything, thinking back to the very conversation Mingi just brought up, and how happy you felt when you finally agreed to come with him. How thoughtful he'd seemed then, how mature your conversation was. And now everything felt stilted and passive aggressive, you totally unable to be honest with him in the way you thought you could be.
"I- I didn't realize it would be like this," you sob, pulling your knees into your chest.
"Like what?" he asks.
"I didn't realize I'd start to feel so used," you manage through shaky breaths.
"Why do you feel used?" Mingi asks you, a look of what seems to be genuine confusion on his face. It makes you so angry.
"Mingi, oh my god," you mutter, your sobs giving way now to angry breaths.
"What?" he asks again.
"Oh my god, is it not fucking obvious?! You fuck me night after night in the middle of fucking arenas! And then I have to hobble down to the closest bathroom and clean myself up with shitty one-ply toilet paper, cover up the smell of your fucking cum with perfume that I fucking hate, and walk back to the greenroom like everyone doesn't know what just happened. And then after the concert just, wait around in another fucking hotel room so you can come and have me again before passing out, your five alarms waking me up so that I can't even get a full night of sleep, and then I have to get myself up, get ready for a plane ride, arrive in a new city and do it all fucking over again. How the fuck do you think that makes me feel??" you scream, completely unaware of just how loud you're being. Now that it's finally coming out it's surging, the anger that had been building for weeks (and honestly your whole damn life) finally breaking free.
"I-" Mingi stops himself, feeling like he was just smacked in the face with the force of your words. "I thought you liked doing semi-public stuff," he says, speaking slowly and clearly trying to choose his words carefully.
"Yeah, well, the novelty of that has worn off now," you sob, staring down at him. "It doesn't exactly feel good having everyone look at me like I'm fucking crazy," you continue, wiping the snot and tears form your face with your bare hand.
"I knew it was- god- I knew it was a lot for you. I could tell, the look in your eye..." Mingi trails off, himself curling into a ball. "I- you know I'd never make you do something you didn't want to, right? I thought, I really thought you liked it like that..." he trails off again, failing at trying to find the perfect words for the situation. "I don't know what to say, I'm just so sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry- god, I- never should have asked you to come with me, I should have known it would be hard on you. I- I should have known that I'm not fun to be around while I'm touring. I'm fucking exhausted myself. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." His apologies make your chest ache, that feeling deep within you beating on the walls of your heart to finally be let free. But you still suppress it, still you push it down. Just because he's apologizing doesn't mean he feels the same, and you spiral with the knowledge that in your burnt out state you got yourself into a situation that's almost surely about to blow up in your face.
He looks up to meet your eyes, your entire face flush with red and your eyes and nose puffy. Some snot is falling out of one of your nostrils, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you try to control your breaths, your body still shaking and your tears still falling fast. Your mind is obviously running a mile a minute still, and behind your eyes he can see just how truly exhausted you are.
"Listen, I'm gonna talk to whoever is giving you weird looks and making you feel crazy, cause that's not fucking cool. I-" A yawn hits him, his whole body shaking momentarily with fatigue. It makes you yawn too, your head feeling so heavy that you might pass out right there in the chair. "We need to talk more about this, but right now you need to get some rest," he says, slowly standing and putting out his hands in an offering of help. "Come on, what would help you sleep?" he asks, leaning down to just pick you up out of the chair when you don't move to grab his hands. Slowly he places you down on the bed, untying your shoes and gently removing them, then removing your socks and placing them on the small pile of dirty clothes already gathered to the side of your suitcase.
"Do you want different shorts to sleep in?" he asks, knowing your activities earlier already ruined this pair. You just whine and take them off yourself, flinging them to the side, your center on full display to him, an obvious line of dried cum snaking down your leg from the small nest of hair. It's so fucking hot, he can't lie, but knowing now how you felt earlier he feels sick inside for liking it. He takes off his own shoes too, removing his shirt and pants before climbing into the bed beside you, turning off the light and lying on his side a good two feet away, gazing intently at your face.
"Hey, get under the covers," he says, tugging on the duvet and forcing you to lift your hips so he can pull it down and then over you.
"Can I hold you, would that help?" he asks, pulling it up over himself as well. You just roll to face him, snuggling your face into his bare chest instead of answering him. He comes to wrap his arms around you, his embrace tight and full of care, and it makes the tears start flowing softly again. He feels them on the skin of his chest, holding you even closer as he kisses the top of your head, wrapping his legs up around yours.
"Have I told you lately how much I appreciate that you came with me?" he asks in to the darkness of the room. You shake your head, sniffling as more tears fall. "I'm- I'm sorry, I should have said it more. I think it every day," he says, his voice shaky. "I think about you every day. I- don't know what my life would look like right now if I hadn't met you. I care about you, so much, seriously. The last thing I want is for you to feel like I'm just using you for your body, or for a release. I just want to- I want you to have fun, with me, to forget about the serious things. You think too much, you exhaust yourself, and I want to distract you from that. So that you can just live. That's why I asked you to come on tour with me, that's why I've been fucking you backstage, not just because I need it but because I thought you did too. But now I see I wasn't thinking about everything else. I didn't think about just how busy I'd be and how distracted I'd get and how you might feel like I'm not even thinking of you..."
He lets the silence envelop you both, as he holds onto you tight, feeling you still shake.
"You being here has made things so much better, I could never thank you enough for it. I-" he pauses, and you feel his body tense up. "I really care about you, I care so much. I want you to feel that, to know that," he says, sighing softly when he's finished.
You can't help but wonder if he really meant to say another four letter word, that it was there on his tongue but he chickened out, and the thought makes your insides melt. Because that's the four letter word that you've continually buried deep within yourself, the word you've associated with him for several months now, if you were honest. You really didn't think it was likely that he felt the same, even if he did seem to care about you as a person. You just couldn't be sure; maybe it was the mental state you were in, the way everything was filtered through your foggy thoughts, the way nothing felt concrete or knowable. You'd been swimming in confusing feelings ever since you quit your old job, the feelings about him feeling unimportant compared to everything else that was so serious. But now, curled up in his arms and finally letting out all the pent up anger and sadness, your feelings towards him felt like maybe the most important. The way you could just break down, the way you had yelled earlier and he hadn't panicked with you, that he'd stayed grounded and helped you come back down to earth, that seemed like the thing you should be paying attention to. The way you were so comfortable with him, that you'd let him have you in public. Because even today in that all too familiar hallway, as you entered the bathroom to finally clean up, he'd made you feel better in an instant, just by simply kissing your nose. And maybe it was brief, the relief you felt in that moment, but it was there. It was real. That, you could be sure of, despite the fogginess of almost everything else.
Finally your tears had ceased, your body no longer shaking. You felt like a total rag doll, your energy so completely spent. You pulled back your face from Mingi's chest, wiping away the tears and snot from your cheeks, looking up at his barely visible face. He leans forward and places a gentle kiss on your lips, tasting the saltiness of your tears that had been falling for the last little while.
"Do you feel any better?" he asks you, stroking a hand across your cheek, wiping the remaining tears away.
"Mm-hmm," you murmur, but the look in your eye is still not completely void of pain.
"You still mad at me?" he asks, smiling.
"Mm-hmm," you pout, staring up at him with your big beautiful eyes, his body reacting involuntarily to just how adorable you look. And you know exactly the affect it has on him, when you look at him that way. You just didn't know that it's elevated now with your nose red from crying, the way you look like you so desperately need his care.
"Y/n..." he murmurs, fixing you with a soft gaze. "Don't look at me like that..."
You giggle, your head swimming with complicated feelings. Because even now, even after all of that, you can't deny how good his strong thigh feels between your legs, or how much you like it when you feel his eyes on you so attentively.
"What can I do to make it up to you?" he asks, and you giggle again, turning your face into the pillow. "Aren't you, um, exhausted?" he asks, chuckling himself. He knows exactly what that giggle means, he's known you long enough to pick up on that.
"Well..." you respond, looking at him again with that expectant look. Even in your haze of exhaustion you want him, especially after all of those sweet things he'd just said.
"Y/n..." he trails off. The room is dark, so he can't make out everything about you, only the way you giggled and the look in your eye. "You really want that right now?"
He could take you at any time, at the drop of a hat, honestly. But if you felt used earlier, how would it feel now? He'd come to your room tonight to fuck you again, you both knew that. He would be getting what he'd wanted all again, and this time he felt unsure if you really wanted it too, or even if it was a good idea.
"Mingi, please," you whispered, his resolve crumbling in an instant. Those two words were all you had to say and he'd do anything for you, anything at all. He kissed you deeply, your bodies still entangled in a tight embrace, the kiss feeling more full of emotion than any previous one you'd shared. You felt his heart beating against you, like it was the first time all over again, like he was nervous and unsure of what he'd do next.
Suddenly he pulled back with a deep sigh. "Before we do that, just, I need to say one more thing. I chickened out earlier, I wanted to say it, and I didn't, I don't know why. I fucking love you, if that wasn't already clear. You need to know that."
Oh how good it felt to be right. Your heart clenched in your chest, your heart rate picking up the moment he began talking. You could feel it coming, but you weren't prepared for how good it would feel to hear those words from him. It was like flowers were blossoming in your body, like the whole world was made of rainbows and butterflies. You felt something release deep inside you, like a kink in your neck had finally relaxed, and the relief was all-consuming.
"I love you too," you say, tears brimming in your eyes again, this time from the pure unadulterated joy you were feeling. Mingi's lips were back on yours, his kiss firm and possessive, slow and deliberate. It took your breath away, the way he was holding you close to him so tightly, the way his mouth roamed over yours like he owned you. You could feel his hips pressing into yours, his obviously hard length putting pressure on your core, and it added to the feeling of possession, like his was the only cock meant for you.
"I want you to be mine," he murmurs, pulling away momentarily to climb on top of you, his lips crashing down on your neck in mere moments. You sigh at the feeling, a quiet moan coming from deep within you.
"I am," you whisper, your hot breath fanning past his ear and making him shiver. His hand comes down to push down his boxers, pulling his cock free desperately, rubbing the tip along your slit and circling your clit gently, loving the breathy noises coming from your lips.
"You're so wet, god, you're always so fucking wet for me," he groans in your ear, making your whole body jitter with pleasure. This time it feels so different, like you're truly about to make love, even if it's in your own freaky way. Sex could never be just sweet and calm between you, you knew that. And you liked that, cause sweet wasn't exactly what you needed when it came to sexual pleasure. The things he whispered in your ear always had you coming so fast, and it had never been like that with any previous partners. As he slowly rubbed himself against you, your clit electric with pleasure, the feeling enveloped you; you were made for each other, lock and key.
"Fuck, I love you," he moans as he enters you, his words fanning over your face, making your heart sing. "I love your pussy, god, it's so fucking perfect," he continues, the words spilling out of him in his exhausted and delirious state. You have nothing in you to respond; you never usually do when he's fucking you, because the way his huge cock stretches you open makes it impossible to think straight.
"No one's ever fucking you again, you're mine forever," he says, his thrusts picking up speed, his arms around you holding you tight. "No one else," he mutters, and you pull his face to yours to kiss him again, your tongues sloppily licking each other's faces as his movements become more erratic, the whole moment feeling alluringly primal. Already you're coming, from the way he's talking to you, your body shuddering in its fatigue and pleasure. "Fuck, baby, god you're so fucking perfect. I love when you come so fast like that," he groans into your ear, his breaths ragged.
"Mingi, mingi...." you whimper, coming down from your peak and already feeling like another is building. Your words barely come out, they're almost incoherent with how warbled they sound, but he can read everything about how you feel from the sounds.
"I know you love it, when I talk you through it," he says, one hand moving to your hip as he thrusts his hips even harder. "You love that I can tell when you're coming, when you're about to come. Fuck, your pussy is made for me baby, it's so fucking perfect. And you love taking it so hard, don't you?"
Another orgasm blooms in your core, your tight walls squeezing down on him again, your legs shaking as you grip onto him desperately. His pace is just perfect, despite how wild it is, and you feel the pleasure through your entire abdomen, intense warmth also emanating from your chest and making you feel entirely complete. Your eyes are completely closed as you take in the feeling, your head drifting farther and farther from the anxiety and anger of earlier and moving towards that palpable warmth. Soft moans leave your lips at every thrust, the sparkly pleasure growing each time, your body taking him in so easily.
"Fuck you're gonna make me come," he groans in your ear, and somehow again, even in your exhausted state, you feel yourself racing towards your own peak yet again. "God I love how you come so much," he whispers, your orgasm hitting you hard. The sounds you make are whiny, pathetic, and it makes his hold body lurch, his movements stuttering as he finally starts hitting his own climax. "No one's ever made you come like this, have they baby?" he says as he comes undone, your head shaking side to side as the last of the tears left in your eyes leak onto your cheeks. He kisses you deeply, as you feel him cum fill you up, your body racked with exhaustion, your energy completely spent. With heavy breaths he falls to the side of you, grabbing you to hold you tight once again, your own breaths uneven as you recover from everything that's just happened. The whole day washes over you; the morning, the way your head pounded and your neck ached when you woke, the way your stomach churned as you sat waiting for him backstage, the way you walked out of the hotel, your head spinning uncontrollably, and the way he came to you, saying everything you'd hoped he one day would. It was all too much to process, and you continued to shake in his arms as you tried to calm down, still feeling your heartbeat in your clit.
"Let me clean you up," he gently says, a hand running down your back in slow stokes.
"Okay," you whisper, your eyes still closed as he gets up, the bed sagging momentarily when he sits on the edge. Quickly he is back with a wet washcloth, his hands working deliberately to wipe down your core and thighs. Suddenly your eyes feel so heavy, your body turned to the side exactly how you always sleep, and then you're out. After cleaning himself up Mingi heads back to the bed, wrapping himself around you, your soft even breaths calming the part of his heart that still felt shattered at everything he found out today. Gently he pulls the covers over you both, his body wracked from the day and from his release, and soon his breaths are steady like yours, the two of you lulled to sleep in the perfect haze that your proximity always brings you.
It was all said in anger or in lust tonight, but you both know that things have changed between you, that the words said tonight were completely true regardless of the circumstances. Finally your feelings were out in the open, and finally you could move forward without any doubt. The gentle dawn of the morning brought both of you out of your deep slumber, the exhaustion hitting hard after the previous day's fight. But the parts of you that had been confused were settled now, and the relief that gave you won out in the competition for your attention. It was a brand new day, a good day with the man you loved by your side, and you couldn't be more excited for the rest of tour, and for whatever the future had in store.
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chemical override (5)
Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader
a/n: the support for this fic has been amazing, so trust me when I say that I take no pleasure in all the angst and heartache that follows (or do I?) I'm sorry, readers. I'm sorry, Ewan. We'll sort this out somehow - all my love, Freyja <3
series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist
A beginning. A first date. Whispers, sightings abound. Falling in love. A necessary lie. Hearts breaking. An end.
Ewan stands in a studio backlot in LA, bouquet of flowers clasped in one hand while the other is nervously stuffed in his tracksuit pocket.
He's itching for a smoke, but he stops himself from doing so, in some lovesick attempt to keep himself as clean and nice-smelling as possible when he sees you again. He already mentally kicked himself for not dressing better, clad in his staple Adidas blacks. But he couldn't wait any longer.
His flight from New York to LA hadn't been the most pleasant. His mind raced for hours, the thought of you being his only consolation. His meeting did not go well.
But enough of it. There is you, here, now.
In this moment, you are all that matters.
The first couple of workers make their way out the studio doors, chatting enthusiastically despite their tired faces. Ewan shuffles on his feet, keeping an eye out for you. Soon enough, your assistant Clara exits, and he waves in an attempt to get her attention.
"Ewan!" she greets brightly. "She'll be out in a while. Are those flowers?" A blush materialises on her face, and she looks so excited Ewan awkwardly thinks she would take them for herself.
"Yeah, do you think she'll like them?" he asks, giving the bouquet a once-over. The classic dozen long-stemmed red roses, kept together with black-dyed muslin wrap.
"She'll love them!" As if perfectly timed, the doors open again, and they spot you walking out with several of your co-stars. Clara smiles to herself as she walks away to give you two some space.
When your eyes land on him, it's like everything falls into place, the ear-splitting smile you give him enough to quell any worries he might have. You meet each other halfway, melding together in an embrace so tight he nearly drops the flowers to the ground.
"Look who it is," you say, still wrapped in his arms, "the internet's babygirl."
"Just your baby, darling." He pulls apart, but only just enough to look at you. "I missed you."
"Mmm, I can see that."
You're about to comment on the flowers, but he can't hold back any longer.
And so your first proper kiss happens behind an LA studio, adjacent to the parking lot and surrounded by prying eyes. The burnt orange haze of the sunset peers from the horizon, casting a glow on the scene. And it's perfect. His lips are gentle as they dance with yours, his warm breath fanning your face when he breaks apart for mere milliseconds, only to resume the kiss as if he can never get enough.
A moment later, there's a couple of woohoos from a distance, your costars oooing and aahing at the sight, making you giggle against Ewan's lips.
"Shall we, then, darling?" Ewan asks.
"Shall we?" Your brows raise, mirroring his question.
"Our first date." He takes a step back, but only to ceremoniously hold his hand out for you to take. "Will you do me the honour?"
"Why, good sir, are we going on a regular date or some super fancy ball?" you laugh, lacing your fingers with his anyway.
He only smiles, planting yet another kiss on the corner of your mouth. "God, I missed you."
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You can't help but cast glances at him every now and then. Ewan, effortlessly cool as he drives the both of you across LA, with one veiny hand gripping the steering wheel while the other envelops yours on your lap.
His thumb draws circles on the back of your hand, and you're thankful for it; you need the comfort because you're growing nervous. A first date.
A first date! And not just with anyone.
"What is it?" he smirks, his eyes finding yours as the car idles at an intersection. There's a smugness there. He caught you staring.
You avert your gaze, a pleasant wave of heat rising to your face.
"Hmm?" he leans across, pecking your cheek and resting his forehead against your hair, eager to get a rise out of you. "I mean, I've been told I'm handsome, darling. You already know, something of a babygirl. But it's even more special that you think so."
The light turns green. You grab his jaw, and lightly push him away, raising your eyebrows. "Careful, baby," you smile knowingly. "Your Aemond is showing."
"Oh, yeah?" The car revs up again, rows of palm trees speeding past in a blur. "Does that - uhh - turn you on?"
Your head snaps to him at his bold insinuation. He gives off an unaffected air, smirking to himself in an undeniably hot what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it way. But you make him nervous too. He swallows, and clears his throat, anticipating your response.
"Maybe," you bite your lip, squeezing his hand harder, "but you don't need to put on your Aemond to turn me on."
"Just me, then?" he chuckles lowly, feeling lighter.
"Yup," you shrug. "But if you ever wanna put on a blonde wig and an eyepatch, I won't stop you."
"For when, darling?" Oh he knows what you meant. It's been a constant on his mind too. He's lost count of the nights when thoughts of you consume him, and what happy news it is that you might have been going through the same.
"Mmm... " You look out the window innocently, but you guide his hand higher up on your thigh, allowing his fingers to splay open and squeeze at the flesh covered only by the material of your jeans.
A minute passes. Driving past a street of exclusively only mansions and expensive cars. Then downtown, low-rise buildings as far as the eye can see. Another minute, slow and steady.
Then he says, "You're going to fucking drive me insane, baby."
A soft sigh escapes your lips. "Well, you started it."
He sneers, accompanied by a humourless shake of his head. "I think you overestimate my self-control." The air is thick, but it's quickly diffused when he pulls into a clearing. You realise you're out of the main road, the car slowly coming to a halt in an empty lot beside a low brick building.
"We're here, darling," he says, but he gives you a look that clearly means this matter isn't over. You have something of his, and he's going to claim it.
He half-jogs over to your side, opening the door for you and taking your hand in his.
"Where are we?" The building is nondescript, with a plain white facade, a small cafe and a laundromat on street level, both of which happen to be closed.
"Had to call in a favour from an old mate of mine. His family moved here from Derby a couple of years ago, and they own that laundromat over there," he explains, leading you inside through a door in the side alley.
You're met with a narrow flight of stairs and he gestures for you to go ahead. "What have you got up your sleeve, Mitchell?" you ask, excitement taking root as you climb up to the very top.
It only takes three floors before you reach the heavy steel door of the roof deck. He shuffles to your side, one hand on your back to keep you steady, and pushes the door open which relents with a loud squeak.
You're met with something you have only seen before on Pinterest boards - the rooftop is softly aglow from hanging string lights. In the far side, a screen projector is set up, and in front of it is a low plush sofa cocooned amidst throw blankets and cushions. There's a wooden tray on one on the blankets, containing treats of all sorts and a bottle of wine glistening in its ice bucket.
You take in the magical ambience of the scene with widened eyes. The haze of faint LA sunlight only serves to make everything more beautiful, though it seems hardly necessary.
"Do you like it, darling?" he asks and what a ludicrous question it is. Do you like it?
He continues, "I admit I didn't have to lot of time to set it up, and I had a bit of help but - mmmpph - "
You lace your hands around his neck, silencing him with a searing kiss. He moans unto you, his tongue dipping past your lips as he nearly relinquishes control. He could forget about the set up, the date he had planned, and just take you here on the rooftop. Would you let him?
"I take it that everything is to your liking?" he purrs, watching you in adoration as your head swivels on its own accord to canvas the scene yet again.
You spot something in the corner - a bouquet of fresh flowers surrounded by some lightweight paper lanterns.
"Oh no!" you moan. "The flowers you gave me... I left them in the car!"
He laughs fondly at the sheer panic on your face. "Don't worry about them, my love. I've got more flowers for you here." He points to the bouquet you just saw.
"But those ones... won't they wilt or something? I don't want them to go to waste."
His heart swells at your genuine concern. The furrow between your brows, the way you chew on your lip in worry, your fingers absentmindedly clutching his wrist - it all makes him fall even harder.
"They'll be fine, darling."
"Are you sure?"
He nods once, pulling you in, "Mhmm, just... come here, please." Another kiss, gentler this time.
This is bliss, he thinks, sweet solace after his days in New York, days he aims on forgetting from now on.
You eventually find yourselves on the velvet seat, the tray of food nestled on your laps. He pours wine into the paper cups as you reach for a chocolate-covered strawberry and bring it to his lips.
"Thanks, love," he mumbles with his mouth full.
"Oh, baby, you've got chocolate on there," you motion to his bottom lip.
He sets the cups of wine on the tray, making a move to wipe it off, but just as his fingers hover, his mind takes on an alternative action.
"You do it, then," he leans close, tilting his jaw.
"Okay." With a smile, you begin to oblige him, but you halt when he playfully says, "Not with your hands, darling."
You feel your heart race at his teasing, and at the way he stares at you with blatant desire. Never mind the fact that you were just making out moments ago. The rush of being with him has not subsided. Maybe it never will.
You kiss him, paying mind to the smudge on his lip, licking your own lips afterward to savour the taste.
You pull back slightly. "All better," you say, patting his cheek lovingly.
"Hmm," he hums, "I suppose I'll just have to make a mess of myself more often."
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Nightfall had already descended when the credits to The Princess Bride start rolling, dotting the sky with twinkling stars.
Ewan has his arm wrapped around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, before he declares, "If they ever do a remake to this film, I'll only take the role if you would be my Buttercup."
"As you wish," you smile, nuzzling closer against his black hoodie. "I remember watching this when I was a kid. Believe it or not, it was one of the films that inspired me to get into acting."
"Did you wanna be Buttercup, my Buttercup?"
"No," you respond. "I wanted to do what Inigo Montoya was doing. He's so insanely cool."
"Of course you did," he says affectionately, "my darling."
"What about you, hmm? Did you always want to be an actor?" you ask. You might have read an interview of his where he explains something to that effect, but he doesn't need to know that now.
"As far as I can remember, yes. It was always going to be acting for me. Even when everyone laughed it off when I brought it up in primary school." He shakes his head, the once bitter memory reduced to an anecdote. "I... I find purpose in what we do, being able to slip inside different skins, different lives. It allows me to explore the human psyche, you know, and to make sense of all this madness."
You listen intently, in awe at his words and his sheer sincerity. The world is made better with Ewan able to live his passions. And you feel fortunate that his life is one he may be willing to share with you, if everything goes well down the line.
"I almost forgot - you have to tell me about how your big meeting went."
He shifts slightly, eyes darting downward as he pouts on instinct. He realises he can no longer keep the subject under wraps.
You sense his reluctance, and immediately try to soften your approach. It could have gone either way, and though rejection is part of an actor's bread and butter - you certainly would know - there are some instances where you just let it get to you.
"Is this producer as scary as they say?" you ask lightly, poking his chest.
He smiles, but his expression is still clouded. "You know those mafia dons in Scorcese's movies? This guy practically inspired them, I'd say."
"Goodness."
"He did try to give off a welcoming air, but there was still something... sinister underneath."
"I suppose when anyone is afforded this much power..."
"Especially in this industry..."
"Mhmm." Face half-burrowed in the soft material of his hoodie, you tilt your head up at him. "So it was a bust, huh?"
He shrugs, "The role just wasn't for me. It's all for the best, I reckon."
You hold his hand tight, eager to soothe any worries he might have. "That's a shame. They would have been damn lucky to have you."
He smiles, flattered by your comment. "I am lucky to just be here with you, darling."
You smile in return, tilting your lips to his, coaxing him to lean in close and seal the kiss.
And he does.
And this is the most perfect first date there ever was or ever will be.
"Darling?"
"Hmm?"
"I think I've fallen in love with you."
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The next few weeks pass blissfully slowly, you and Ewan caught in the euphoria that only a fresh relationship can bring.
Rehearsals for your upcoming movie had ended, and you get a month off before filming begins in Atlanta. Ewan also stays in LA, keen on spending every waking minute with you. His team takes advantage of the situation, booking him for several interviews and a feature with Esquire. You were more than happy to accompany him - or rather, distract him - on these occasions.
Once, the team even jokes that you had to stay in the other room because Ewan keeps looking over at you behind the camera and forgetting what to say. Ewan, of course, quickly protests. "My girl stays with me," he confidently says.
It doesn't take long for news to spread. Rumours, at first. Allegations bred from blurry fan photos and supposed encounters with yourself and Ewan while out in LA.
They were holding hands!
They're not just friends, I swear. He was kissing her the whole time in the restaurant!
What about her and Jacob? I thought they'd been dating all this time?
House of the Dragon stars spotted on a date in Hollywood!
Headlines. Gossip fodder. Statements made by people who claim to have seen you.
Sure, you do meet some of the sweetest and friendliest fans during all this, who only gush at the sight of their favourite actors getting together.
There are others, especially online, who are less pleasant, accusing you of cheating on your supposed lover Jacob Elordi.
Jacob, already used to rolling with the punches, gives you a call so the two of you can laugh it off together.
"I'm happy for you, mate," he expresses, voice muffled from the other line. "You and Ewan... you guys just make sense. Do you remember that night when he stormed in all jealous like? Holy shit..."
As if on cue, Ewan shifts underneath the sheets from behind you, peppering your naked back with soft kisses. "Tell him I said hi," he whispers, his tone doing nothing to mask his possessiveness.
And so the days roll on, and it couldn't be more perfect.
That is, until the first cracks started to show. As they always do.
You're in a meeting with your publicist Mallory, at one of the many quaint hipster cafés in LA, discussing your upcoming filming schedule and the other things you have booked in between.
"You've got a busy few months ahead, but the film is of course top priority," she says. "It's slated to be the top rom-com of next year."
"That's great, Mal."
"I mean, I think you know that Ewan was meant to lead that romance-fantasy franchise? That's a big deal, and people are saying it'll be bigger than Twilight!" she gestures wildly with her hands. "But since he had a falling out with Bruce Haversham - and trust me, if he ever sets up a meeting with you, you do not want to go against him - what was I saying? Oh yeah, the release for that will be delayed so your film will get prime spot for a summer premiere."
You grow apprehensive at her words. Ewan never got into detail about that meeting, and you didn't really want to pry. But if that producer's reputation is indeed accurate, it doesn't bode well for Ewan's career that he might have done anything that displeased him.
With a sickening dread, you realise that Haversham might have something to do with Ewan failing to book the two films he went for in the past month. Despite the fact that the local casting director practically raved about his audition, and stated that he pretty much had both of the roles in the bag.
"Mal, you know Donna right? Ewan's publicist?" you ask, knowing that she and Donna are under the same agency. "Does she talk to you about Ewan at all? About what went down in New York?"
"A little, honey, yes," she admits. "But about that meeting, I thought you would know. He didn't tell you?"
"Not in too many words, no. Just that it didn't work out, and that the film wasn't meant for him."
"Oh, I see," she smiles, almost ruefully, like she feels sorry for you. That look compels you to ask, "What do you know, Mal? Tell me."
Her hand reaches and clutches yours atop the table. "From what I heard, he refused the role because of you."
"What?"
"It's rare with young actors like you guys, to be so devoted so early on."
Growing impatient, you say, "Mal, please, what are you saying?"
"Look, I don't know the details of it. But apparently Haversham wanted him to get into a PR stint with his love interest for the film, and to hide whatever real relationship he has going on with you. This ordeal was going to be more restrictive than the arrangement you have with Jacob, which is more or less over at this point."
"I didn't know that," you whisper hoarsely.
"Honey, don't worry about it," she consoles you, taking a sip of her coffee. "Like I said, I don't know much. I can get you in touch with Donna if you want to speak with her? I'm 100% positive it's not all bad. There's one thing we can be sure of, at least!"
You look at her expectantly, unable to formulate a guess.
"That boy loves you!"
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With only a few days left before filming, you had begun to make the final preparations before moving to Atlanta.
It's a late night, one laden with anxiety and nervous jitters, and the several shots of whiskey you had just taken do little to keep the walls from closing in.
Although, perhaps, it is better if they do. If they imprison you, even just for tonight, to keep you from whatever it is you plan to do.
It's for the best. I have to do this. I'm doing this for him, you keep telling yourself. You keep repeating the lies, letting them bounce relentlessly in the walls of your mind, until you fool yourself into thinking them to be true.
You had met with Donna a few days prior, and the whole situation was made clear to you. You didn't know for certain when the decision formed in your mind, but it's there, as real as the love you feel for Ewan.
The love you will have to bury.
He picks you up in his rental Rover, after you told him that you wanted to go for a drive. But you ask him to park his car behind the private apartment building where you're staying.
The car grinds to a halt, like a signal for you to get it over with. There is no going back now.
"Ewan... I - " You can't push the words out, more so when he reaches for your hands and squeezes. He looks at you with those eyes, expecting anything but what you're about to say.
"I'm sorry," you try again, and your voice breaks. His face slowly drops, the mood instantly changed, but the worse is yet to come.
"What are you sorry for, darling?" He rubs his thumb along your cheekbone, the sensation willing you to just abandon your plan completely. To abandon the lie.
"Whatever happens..." Just get it over with. "...I want you to know that I'll always be here for you. We are friends first, aren't we?" Peel the bandaid. Rip it off. Let it bleed.
"I'm afraid I don't follow," he says.
You sound robotic, emotionless. But one wrong turn and the floodgates may break. There's a lump in your throat and you push it down. Reminding yourself to act - use your fucking acting skills if you actually have any. Now's the time. "We can't be together, Ewan."
There it is, sounding itself into existence, ruining the love you have in front of you.
His hand drops, as if he recoils back into himself. Away from you. It's cruel, but you know you will have to do more damage. You have to make it stick. This becomes clear when he says, "No", with conviction. "No, darling," he repeats. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Ewan - "
"You're not being funny, darling." He tilts his head, testing you, giving you the chance to retract your words and start laughing at your twisted joke. Darling comes out a mockery, something to say out of spite.
He takes a deep breath, leaning back in the driver's seat. "I don't... I don't accept this." He looks straight ahead, his lips pursed and jaw taut. "Fucking... why ?"
"I just... don't think it's going to work out."
"Bullshit."
Your words come out rushed, "You should take that role. I don't want you to hold back just for me. This could be something really great for you, Ewan. This could be it! Most actors pray for an opportunity like that to come along and I wouldn't want you to - "
"That's the reason?"
" - refuse it because of me. So we should - "
"Stop."
" - end this."
Silence. Not a single sound in the near-empty parking lot. No sirens in the distance, no pedestrian chatter. Just slow, heavy breathing in this rental car, both of you looking out the windshield. It feels stuffy all of a sudden, and not in the heated way when your limbs entwined in a jumble in the backseat a mere week ago.
"Please. I... I don't want to end this," he pleads. His knuckles are bone white, harshly gripping both sides of the steering wheel in an attempt to anchor himself. He shakes his head, and with some sense of hope, he says, "I don't care about that role. Okay? It's not the end of the world if I don't accept it. Have some faith in me, darling. I'll make it work. Surely there are plenty of other things down the line."
"Ewan," you whisper. You knew he would say this, which is why you prepared something worse. If that were even possible. You suck on your teeth, pulling on whatever poison you keep hidden away. You sigh and look away, a gesture that lets him know nothing will change your mind. "This fucking PR relationship business... it gets to you, you know? We don't know any better. I for one never expected to feel this way about - "
"About?" he finally turns to shoot you a look of betrayal, the pain in his eyes clear as day.
"I might have feelings for Jacob," you lie, "or I might not, I don't know. But there's something there, and I... I can't let this - us - go on while I'm conflicted about everything. It wouldn't be right."
Nothing about this is right.
But you go on, "I'll be off filming, with him, for a couple of months. And it's only going to make everything more confusing, and it wouldn't be fair to you, I know that - "
"I love you."
It's the first time he ever utters those three words, completely and without any doubt. He says them, despite everything you said before. And he means it.
A tear falls down your cheek, and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep the rest at bay.
"I'm sorry," you look at him, in finality, and you want nothing more than to passionately kiss him hard on the mouth, to hold on to him tight and plead for him not to let you go. With your quivering form, you amble out of the car. Every step worsens the weight of what just transpired. His side of the car opens, and he calls for you, but you can't bear to look back.
He catches up to you, breathless and with a wild look in his face. His blue eyes swell with tears, but his brows are scrunched down as if he isn't bothered by them.
"I want you to look me right in the eye and tell me we don't matter. I want you to tell me you don't love me," he says, and it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him. He searches your eyes for something, anything to hold on to. Part of him is still desperate enough to grasp at straws, on the hope that you will change your mind.
But the other hardened part, has become angry. Indignant. Because how could you do this to him? The only girl he has ever loved. So he needs to hear it from you, clearly. He needs you to drive the final nail on the coffin.
"I do love you," you croak, and you do nothing to stop your tears from flowing freely.
"Darling..."
"But I can't be with you," you turn away, one last time. "Goodbye, Ewan."
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Some time ago, during the meeting in New York...
The lush office was laden with expensive wooden furniture, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.
The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.
After all, they were going to help each other out a lot...
(to be continued)
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Update! Read the second bonus chapter here ~
💌 next chapter
HOW DARE YOU, reader. How dare you.
The gif above paints a clear picture of Ewan's heart breaking in the car 🥲 just in case you guys needed a visual aid 🥲🥲
Next chapter - the meeting in New York, the reader's conversation with Donna, and.... we see them move on from each other (?) You know these bloody actors, one relationship in the first half of the year and then another right after...
Feel free to come for me in the comments <3 it was the most heartfelt chapter, after all. Also, let me know what yous want the bonus chapter to be about!
#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell x reader#ewan mitchell imagine#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen#chemical override
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Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks
Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian!Reader. No pronouns so can be read as any gender!
Summary: Meet-ugly with the Red Hood due to a gas station robbery gone wrong.
Word count: ~2k
(I'm branching out to other fandoms, apparently. Let me know if you want a sequel. Enjoy!)
You weren't born in Gotham, so it sometimes still surprises you that you had adjusted so well to its particular brand of crazy.
You're from somewhere a little more south of New Jersey, although most places in the U.S. are a little south of Jersey unless you're a lobster farmer from Maine or a tree hugger from Vermont.
Both of those descriptions sound critical, but they weren't meant to be. Right about now you're seriously considering taking up lobster farming.
No one sane ever moves to Gotham. Everyone knows the stories, and even if most of the country didn't believe all of them, most people aren't stupid enough to disregard them. And you certainly weren't stupid. But rent was dirt cheap for a city, and so was tuition for GU's vet school. So you thought to yourself, "How bad could it really be," bought pepper spray and a taser, and accepted the admissions offer.
You'd always liked iced coffee more than green bean casserole and peach cobbler, anyway.
Reading news articles hadn't been enough to prepare you for the utter insanity of Gotham City, unfortunately. But you adapted. You always did. Upgraded your taser, memorized the bus schedule, learned the less sketchy areas of town, did your best not to get caught outside after dark. Kept your head down, ignored the crime lords and genetic experiments gone wrong and lunatics and vigilantes scurrying along the rooftops, and you'd survived for almost two years without many incidents.
But you'd gone to the library because you were critically unable to work in your apartment, gotten distracted by panicking about how little you really knew about next week's test content, and stared at the pages of your textbook for almost an hour as you fought back tears. So now you were running late and it was dark as you walked home because the buses were down. Of course they were. That lunatic that thought he was a crocodile had smashed a bunch last week and they hadn't been replaced yet.
Goosebumps prickle on the back of your neck, but you tell yourself it's nothing. Keep your head down. Criminals target the people that look most obviously paranoid first.
You're just burnt out. Severely. But the end of your sophomore year of veterinary school was looming, which meant you would have a relaxing three-month vacation before the next one started.
And no, you weren't thinking about next year's summer 'vacation' of clinicals. Because if this year was bad after a year of summer vacation, what will it do to you to have no break at all?
That's a future you problem, thankfully.
You're still feeling sorry for yourself when you reach the gas station right next to your apartment building. You walk right by it, remember what's in your fridge or pantry—thanks, grocery store self, thinking you don't need any snacking foods—then backtrack.
Since starting vet school, you've tried to be healthier with your eating habits. Brains lacking in nutrients absorb information less efficiently, after all. But you're still a sucker for Cheez-Its and energy drinks.
You won't drink it tonight, obviously.
Right as you put the items on the counter for the bored-looking cashier to scan the barcodes, something cold presses to your temple.
The cashier freezes, eyes blown wide with panic.
"Easy there," someone says to your left. A man, voice oily in a way that sets your teeth on edge immediately. "Do what I say, or I blow their brains out, then yours."
A gun.
A gun is pressed to your head.
Because of course it is. A shitty way to end a shitty day. You should have kept walking right past the gas station.
Before you moved to Gotham, you might have screamed and panicked, but you know better now. You know to stay calm.
You clench your fists to stop them from shaking so noticeably, but otherwise don't move. You've seen hostage situations before, because this is Gotham, but you've never been the hostage.
The gun feels heavy. And so cold, like it's sapping all the heat from your skin.
"Okay, dude," the cashier said soothingly. "You want the money in the register?"
The robber scoffs. "Obviously."
"All right." The cashier's voice is even and soft, unthreatening. You wonder if training for situations like these are required for cashiers in Gotham. It certainly hadn't been for your old job, although that hadn't been in New Jersey, and it hadn't been at a twenty-four seven gas station, either. "I need to get a key to unlock it, okay? So I'm reaching below the counter."
"Just get the key," the robber demands. The gun shifts against your temple. You fantasize for a half-second about acting like an action hero, disarming him and taking him down all on your own. But you're not a vigilante and you've never been in a real-life fight before. You don't think you're fast enough to get out of the barrel's way before he pulls the trigger. If you managed to shove it away, what if he fired and hit the cashier instead?
Then comes the sound of another gun clicking.
Great, you think half-hysterically. Just what we need. Even more deadly weapons.
"Lower the gun," growls a modulated voice, and everyone freezes.
The Red Hood is standing behind the robber, also pointing a gun to his head like the meme of people lined up in a church with guns aimed at the person in front of them.
The robber lets his gun dip a little bit. Distracted enough that it's not pressed directly to your temple anymore.
Not to brag, but you recover the quickest. It's probably the adrenaline.
Thank God you keep your keychain in hand while out at night. Your fingers shake, but you have your pepper spray up in a second, and the robber's turning to look at your sudden movement when you squeeze down on the nozzle.
The spray hits him directly in the eyes, and his howl of pain is immediate. But you don't stop spraying, even when the cashier starts to splutter and your own eyes water.
The gun goes off, once in the robber's hands, and a second time when it hits the ground because he's dropped it in favor of clutching his burning face.
You stop the stream of pepper spray, because now the air is spicy when you breathe, but can't force yourself to lower your hand. The Red Hood quickly handcuffs the would-be robber, which is only difficult because he's clawing at his eyes in pain, and executes a tricky-looking martial arts move to get him on the ground.
Despite everything, you're impressed.
The Red Hood is bigger than maybe anyone you've ever seen before. He could have punched the robber in half like paper, probably, but you appreciate the finesse a little bit more.
"Hey." A gentle voice, and gentle hands, take the pepper spray out of your grip. "Quick thinking there," you're complimented. By the fucking Red Hood, one of Gotham's most infamous crime lords. The first time you read about him in the papers, he was chopping off people's heads, and every story since has been similarly alarming. But he's not supposed to be here; the Red Hood stays in Park Row, which locals call Crime Alley, apparently, and you've always steered very clear from that part of town.
"Can you look at me?"
You do. Maybe he won't chop off your head if you listen well enough.
"Are you okay?"
You blink. That... does not compute.
The Red Hood doesn't save people. And he doesn't leave Crime Alley. So what's he doing outside of Crime Alley, saving people?
The robber is still screaming, eyes screwed up in pain. He's handcuffed on the ground.
"You should probably let him wash out his eyes, at least," you tell the cashier. "Pepper spray is pretty painful." You'd sprayed yourself once out of curiosity, realized how much it burned, then sprinted to the shower to rinse it off. Which, pro tip: not a good move, especially with warm water. Water reactivates it by opening your pores, or something, and when you're in the shower it just spreads all over your body.
Your eyes are watering. The Red Hood sees that, because he tells you, "Let's get some air," and tugs you out of the gas station.
He's right. The cool night air does feel good. You blink away the stinging in your eyes and he repeats, "Are you okay?" His voice is robotic from the mask, but kind of pleasant at the same time. You'd never guess just from listening to him that he's a killer.
"Yes," you say automatically. "Thanks," you add. You're lightheaded for some reason; you sway on your feet.
"You sure?" he asks critically. "You look... pale." Judging by the pause, 'pale' wasn't the word he really wanted to say. The red helmet tilts. "You weren't shot, were you?"
"I don't think so," you shrug. Then you look down at yourself and realize that there's a large bloodstain on your hip. "Never mind. I think I was."
"Jesus!" he yelps at the sight. It's kind of funny, actually, this grown man built like a brick shithouse yelping at the sight of blood. "Why didn't you say anything?"
You shrug and peel your sticky shirt away from the wound to inspect it. "I thought I just bumped something." Sure enough, it's just a graze. You weren't sure which shot had hit you, but you'd honestly been injured worse. Plus, supervising surgeries at the animal clinic you'd worked at for years has desensitized you to the sight of blood. Maybe it's also altered your perception on what 'serious injuries' count as; the amount of times you've been bitten by startled dogs...
"You need to go to the hospital."
"It's just a scratch," you argue. "I can't go to the hospital. I need to feed my cat."
"Your cat can wait. You're bleeding a lot."
"I'm already late, and if I miss dinner, he'll start pissing all over my apartment."
The Red Hood sighs. "Where do you live?"
Your mouth opens to answer on instinct. You snap it shut just in time and glare. "Why?"
"So I can feed your cat for you while you go to the hospital."
It's nice of him to offer, but... "No."
"No?"
Maybe it's not the best idea to refuse Gotham's most prominent crime lord, but it would also be pretty stupid to tell a strange man where you live. Especially when he happens to be said crime lord.
"Look," you sigh. "I'm a vet student. I have surgical tools at home to treat myself with, and I promise, under the blood, the bullet barely hit me. I've been hurt worse by Chihuahuas that hate the vet."
"There's no way I can convince you to change your mind?"
"It's been a long day," you sigh. "I really, really just want to go home." And he's blocking the path. Your apartment building is directly behind him, just calling your name.
"At least let me walk you to your building." He holds his hands up at your suspicious look and assures you, "I won't ask for the apartment number."
"I'm literally right there." You point.
He turns, sees how close you are to being home, and says, "Seriously?"
"Seriously. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were some kind of villain."
"I'm reformed," he grumbles.
"Well, good for you."
You make sure you have your keys and your wallet, then step around him and make it all the way to your building's door before he calls, "Wait!" The Red Hood's jogging to catch up to you, holding the box of Cheez-Its and energy drink you'd almost died for. "You forgot these," he says.
"Thanks," you say, taking them. It would have been a shame to waste four dollars.
"You're welcome," he says. There's something odd about his voice, but you attribute it to the mask, scan to be let into the building, and make sure it's fully closed before heading to the elevator.
Your cat is unhappy about dinner being an hour late. He weaves between your feet, making his protests loudly and viscerally known. You wince. He's worse than the dogs that bark in this building sometimes.
Your poor neighbors.
You give him his wet food, then hop in the shower to clean off your hip. It bled a lot, but once the blood washes away, it's actually not as bad as you thought. You've stitched up animals before, but never yourself, and decide against trying tonight. If it heals a little unevenly, who cares? No one will see it, anyway.
You pad the wound with gauze, tape it over, and fall into bed. Staring at the ceiling, you're forced to admit to yourself that you may be looking up more in the future. Just to see if anyone in a red helmet is running on a rooftop nearby.
It was a long day. But, strangely, almost dying wasn't the worst part of it.
Actually... it may have been the best part.
~~
Forever tag list:
@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101
#jason todd x reader#jason todd#reader insert#jason todd fic#jason todd x you#jason todd x y/n#meet ugly
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DO ART FOR YOU! 🫵
FUCK EVERYONE ELSE!!!
Seriously.
I'm so sick and weary of logging on here and seeing creators I adore, and people I don't even know alike, apologising for not uploading or basically begging for a break like they're not a human with needs.
You're literally a human being, with thoughts, feelings and emotions. You're not an art factory, you're not some positivity pump, you're nothing other than a genuine human being living a genuine life experience.
SO GO LIVE IT!!!
YOU OWE THE INTERNET NOTHING!!!!
There should be, and realistically is, no shame in just fucking leaving if you want to. There's no contract you signed, there's no permit you bought or lease you hold. You're a person who decided to share their art with the world, FOR FREE, and garnered an audience of faceless people behind screens who enjoy that art because YOU wanted to make it and share it.
Let me be frank as best I can. You owe the internet nothing, you owe the world nothing and you owe yourself EVERYTHING. You are the only person who can live your life, you are the only person who can create the things you create and you are the only motherfucker that should matter to you when you create those things.
Art is supposed to be a wondrous joy that inspires the mind and indulges ideas that other creatures can't even comprehend. It's supposed to be a magical and fun fantasy land where anything is possible because you make it possible. It's not a 9-5 unless you make it one, so stop making your hobby a 9-5 unless you're getting paid for it, and even then put in limits because no job that you choose to do should end in you burnt out and wishing you'd never started in the first place.
Remember when we were all kids? When we all drew and wrote for fun simply because we could? We'd show people are shit and be like "Mama look!" and she'd clap her hands all proud. But she wasn't why you picked up that crayon, you just did it for you because you wanted to make some shit.
That's how it should be. That's how it is unless you let those fake ass numbers on a screen rule your life. It's all meaningless, the praise may be genuine but that doesn't mean you should spend your whole life running in circles and performing for an audience.
Be a human being! Be an artist! Fuck everyone else!
Just be yourself <3
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Lego still not sponsoring me (dark!Konig x fem!Reader)
Konig is a nerd who needs to get sprayed with water for being a fucking creep. You're an adorable cashier at the Lego Store in Berlin who doesn't know any better and is too nice to lose. He will have you. Mostly because he wants someone to do his Lego sets with.
Details count: 2922 AO3 TW and Tags: Dub-con/Non-con, age gap, size difference, kidnapping, awkward colonel Konig, nerd Konig, hurt/comfort, Konig's POV(mostly), awkward German, yandere Konig.
You didn’t want to build Millenium Falcon with him.
You didn’t want to shower or eat, you didn’t want to do anything besides crying, and even though your tears, as he expected, were beautiful and adorable, it was kinda hard for König to take care of your mental and physical needs while he was rock hard from watching you cry so sweetly.
König is patient, kind, and a model citizen through and through. Why are you upset? He is doing everything he can, just to make you smile! Seriously, Schatzi, the desire to make him as miserable as you possibly can doesn’t make you pretty or cute or even the least bit adorable. Good thing that he is used to feeling sad and kinda of bullied – you’re lucky he doesn’t even try to feel good anymore. Not in his destiny book to live a good life. — I brought food.
You groan lightly, whimpering somewhere in the corner of his basement. To your justification, his basement is a bit dirty. He forgot to visit the house for months after deployment, which was never enough to fill out the blanks of loneliness in the empty rooms. His dogshits methods of choosing decorations also made the mere existence in the house a hard mission even in itself. He looked at the anime posters in the guest rooms, which made him want to sell the property to anyone willing to pay 50 Euros for the processing fees. The posters(Sword Art Online because why the hell not, he likes cool swords and a power fantasy about a loser getting the chick) and artwork of his queen and savior, The Busty Blond Lady From Fate because, unlike those waifu-obsessed freaks, he did have a life and not enough time to actually remember her name. Something about light sabers. Or cats. — Are you going to kill me?
He sighs because you sound like a broken record. All the time – the questions about his intentions, like you can’t see the tent in his pants every time you open your eyes, about letting you go, about at least allowing you to text your family that you decided to change your country of residence and would need to revoke your German visa. You’re way more soft than he thought you’d initially be – no fighting, no arguing, just pure terror and desire to die every time his hands brush over you. König is a sweet guy, as sweet as someone like him can be – but he only has a few weeks until his next mission, and even a few days of your moping around is bound to make him not just blue-balled, but also very, extremely, offensively hot-headed.
He spent two days with you chained up in his basement and, he thinks, that should be enough for foreplay. He is extremely generous and kind – usually, at this point, he’d already start breaking the fingers of whoever poor fuck is his torture victim for the mission.
— I don’t want to kill you.
You whimper – somehow, his answer didn’t calm you down. Fucking women and their inability to talk to their kidnappers – he considers spiking your food just this once, so he could have a nice session with your little drunk self and some roofies but, of course, he is a nice guy who brought you takeout in a reheatable container, with a cute plastic fork and some sparkling water in a glass, just so you won’t feel like he is making you eat some garbage. It’s good food, too – he’d love to cook like this, but the heights of his skills are runny eggs and burnt coffee. He hopes you like the Italian because it’s the most inoffensive stuff he could have brought you without resorting to pizza and cup noodles. He will never let you eat cup noodles on his watch.
— Are you going to rape me?
He can’t exactly say no because, as a matter of fact, pulling your cute body under his is one of his intentions. He wanted to do it since he was you in this fucking store, but, of course. saying this to a pretty girl is lame. And completely counter-productive. And would make him a villain in your eyes, even though he tries so fucking hard to be a hero. He can make you feel good if you were to just open your pretty legs for him and moan under his tongue – god knows, he wants to make you feel good. He wonders what would it take for him to please you. If he could have a full-time job at this.
— Nein. Thought I told you already.
— I don’t…I shouldn’t believe you.
He shook his head, pushing the plate(he had to go out of his way to actually put the pasta from the tray to a proper plate, enjoy this, woman) towards you. You’re adorable like this – naked, trembling, a bit too weak to actually fight him over not eating anything for the past two days – you’re repeating the same conversation over and over again and König wouldn’t mind living in a groundhog day if the loop would end with his fucking you on that thin mattress each time.
Speaking of mattresses – he needs to get you a thicker one.
Speaking of thicker mattresses – he needs to relocate you into his bedroom as soon as possible.
Speaking of his bedroom – he is fucking bricked.
— If you don’t trust me, why do you ask?
You bite your lips. He can see you’re hungry and thirsty – he doesn’t want to forcefully feed you, so, yeah, you better be very hungry very soon. He pushes the plate towards you, hoping you won’t launch it on his head. He survived worse, a 6’4 British dude in a ski mask falling on him with the speed of Brexit, but getting hit by a plate when your angry girlfriend is being an angry girlfriend is…the best thing that could ever happen to him, actually. Gott, he is miserable.
— I…I don’t know. Don’t want to get killed.
— I won’t kill you.
— But you will hurt me.
— I don’t have to do that, Liebling.
No, he doesn’t.
But he sees the way your plushy thighs are squeezing into that tiny corner where your mat is, your squishy body getting all shaky and trembly, your lips in a tight line with tiny blood droplets from biting on them too much – and, by his fucking god, you’re beautiful. He wants to make you wet, to make you squirm, to make you beg and cry for mercy as he pounds into the sweetness of your cunt. He wants to try you on the inside and out, lick you all over from the inside, and then make you lick your love juices from his lips.
König knows he is hard and can’t really hide it – it’s useless now, really, he is being very nice and considerate to you. Changing your life is hard, especially with how quickly you moved to his place – like a good boyfriend, he should help you adjust. And aid you in recognizing that he is, in fact, your boyfriend and future husband. The perfect partner to ever exist. — What is it?
— Pasta. It’s…it’s good. Should be good. He is nervous, anxious. Seeing a pretty girl in her natural habitat – a Lego store – is one thing. He was barely able to talk to you properly, especially right after his deployment, where the only female attention he ever got was Roze asking to cover her or additional female soldiers groaning in pain as he stomped them. But you…he shouldn’t be colonel around you – absolutely not. You’re soft and civilian, you’re as polite as a girl in a basement could be, and you deserve to have something nice for once in your life. Licking his lips, König gently picks up a fork and presses a small amount of pasta – rich, creamy, with some nice cheese that smells divine - -against your lips.
You refuse.
A smart move, he could have poisoned it – so he thinks for a few seconds, staring at you like a smart girlie you are, and then – lifts his hood. If only barely, revealing his scarred chin and bruised lips. The initial swelling after getting his head bumped by a guy who was speaking like an edgy teenager in the Counter-Strike lobby was already gone by the time he managed to get you into his basement – but no amount of rest could hide all other marks from his job.
Despite being a seasoned mercenary with hundreds of killed targets and completed objectives, he feels…insecure. You’re a nice girl, a good girl, the type that used to look at him with hatred while he was bullied at school. Hatred or pity – but you only look at him with fear, and it cements his understanding that you’re not going to give in to loving him so easily.
König sighs deeply, his lips, curved into that awkward, boyish smile that creeps on his face every time he as much as thinks about you, now transforming into a scowl as you proceed to whimper and try to get lost in the wall behind you. Like he wouldn’t be able to track your scent if you would disappear. He slowly presses his fork towards his mouth, chewing on the food – showing you that it’s not poisoned.
He smiles again when he sees you slowly parting your lips, expecting him to feed you with less of a fuss. He’d propose something else – maybe even untying your hands and allowing you to actually for yourself, but something in your helpless state made his cock throb in his pants. God, König knows he isn’t his strongest soldier, but could he please make you less adorable? He doesn’t want to push you on your knees and make you suck on him until he whimpers, but the way you lick all of the cheese from your lips and try your best to look presentable in front of him… The process of feeding someone shouldn’t really be sexual, but König gently pushes the hair away from your face and lifts up the fork over and over, sometimes only changing to bring a glass of water to your lips. He can do this all day. Every day. Pleasing you already becomes second nature – and he spends most of his life thinking that the only thing he can take care of is his rifle and a few tortured enemies that need their teeth extracted. You require gentle handling – and he wants nothing more but to give you that. Just…a bit later. Preferably after the already came in your pussy at least two or three times and made you choke on his dick as a little thank-you gift.
You finish eating after a short while, thanking him for bringing you a napkin to clean your lips. König gently caresses your head, enjoying the sensation of your hair under his palm – it’s like petting a cat. A soft little pet just for him and no one else – if only he could actually bring you to like him. He has a few bond activities in mind, though. — You liked it, ja?
You lick your lips again, and his breath hitches. This is going to be hard, this is going to be impossible, it’s worse than having to work with high Krueger on a ship that made everyone feel like they were the ones doing crack in the backroom of their makeshift base.
— I…I did.
He pets your head again like you’re his pet – and you gently move your head to lean into his touch. Perhaps you’re dumber than he thinks. Or way smarter – a clever strategy to make him relax and nice to you without making him too suspicious. You slowly get back into your corner, but König wouldn’t have any of it – he drags you back by your arm, making you whimper and sob in his hold. It’s bad, he doesn’t want you to squirm from under him as much as you do, but…if you don’t want to be a good girl, he might as well force you to.
You cry as he pushes you deep into the corner, his hands roaming over your body. Thank god he ripped your clothes before you woke up – now there isn’t anything protecting you from his hands, not even that adorable bra he ripped in pieces because, as much as he loved wearing a uniform with straps and buttons everywhere, he could not figure out how to take this thing off you without breaking it. The last time he was sleeping with a woman, she wore a sports bra that could be taken off easily. It’s your fault that you decided to be more girly, really. Not his.
His hands cup your breasts roughly. Tugs and twists your nipples, a few shaky moans telling him exactly how sensitive you are – he might not have a girl in a hot minute, too busy with being the best freaking mercenary in the world, but even he knows how to take care of a pretty thing like you. Your tits fit in his hands perfectly, even more, reasons to believe you were just made for him. Not for some lame job at a Lego store counter – you should be waiting on your knees in his bedroom, with your mouth open wide and neat to fit his cock right in. With some sweet things lingering on your tongue as he bullies himself right in, getting what he deserves for protecting peace – and installing violence – while doing his job. He might not be the best freaking guy around, but he deserves something nice.
He pinches your nipples until they’re firm and swollen, every little cry escaping from your lips is only encouraging him to proceed. Licks on the open skin of your neck until his eneve stubble makes you whimper from how sensitive you are – it should be painful, he thinks, with how bloody the little bite marks from his teeth have become.
König marks you as thoroughly as possible, smiling each time you cry and beg for him to stop. You’re changing between bad German and good English, between loud cries and small whimpers, which he can’t determine from pleasure to pain. Not like he cares, too determined to make you cry his name – even though you probably don’t know it. All of his desires to claim you taking full power now, not listening to the way you plead with him. Whimper for him. Your skin is a clear canvas, allowing him to paint you with hickeys and marks, enjoying the little blood droplets covering your collarbones.
— Quiet, please. Don’t…don’t move, Schatzi. I don’t want to hurt you.
— Please, please, just…anything but… — Won’t take long. Promise.
— I don’t want to- — Quiet. I know you don’t, Liebling. Just…Scheisse, you…fuck.
— Stop! — Can’t. I apologize, Schatzen. Relax for me, ja?
He whispers, he whimpers, he is almost out of his mind when he can finally put his tongue on your swollen nipples. For some weird, depraved reason, he almost expects the milk to start flowing from your chest, allowing him to drink up as much as he wants. If he could get you pregnant, he might enjoy it for a few months – although having a kid on his hip isn’t as fun as it could have. He tried to babysit Hutch kids once when he brought them to base – and it was the worst fucking day of his life. Besides, little children can’t be around Legos – it's already a deal breaker for someone like him.
Speaking of legos…
You wiggle in his grasp, as good as you can with your hands still in the handcuffs – he should give you that one, at least you aren’t just laying lifelessly in front of him. At least you’re putting up a fight. At least he doesn’t feel too bad about restraining you without proper reasoning. You lick your lips again, that cute tongue of yours going over all the bite marks. You take a deep breath, shaking in his hold. God, he can just look in your face the whole day – barely knows how to handle himself around you. — I…I thought you wanted to…build this set with me? Smart girl. Way smarter than he gave you credit for – you know how to make him stop in his tracks and finally look at you differently. Maybe, you’re too good for him. Maybe, he doesn’t really care about that. Millennium Falcon, still sitting in the box – König hoped you’d start slowly putting it together but, seemingly, you need a bit of encouragement. The only thing that could tug him away from your breasts is the expensive set sitting just next to him.
Might start bonding with you as well. He tugs away from your nipples with a loud pop, an obnoxiously wet sound emerging as a thin line of saliva connects your breasts and his tongue. You whimper when he smiles, that scarred face of his twisting in a huge grin. Knows he’s not the most charming person around, but it’s not like you have any choice now – not with the limited options he gave you. Like a good girl, you’d probably pick doing Lego Sets with him than taking his cock in that tight pussy of yours. He’d be satisfied with any outcome. — J…ja. I’d like that. He has to give this one to you – you really know how to get a man going.
Bu building this insane set with him, that is.
#cod#konig x reader#konig#yandere konig#cod x reader#call of duty#yandere cod#cod x you#konig mw2#konig x you#konig cod#lego
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casual // touya todoroki part 3
when the boy you're in love with wants to keep it casual
a/n: so much happening in this one sorryy i just wanted to nicely wrap it all up lmao i need more soft touya/dabi content plssss i love u dabi fuckers but ur all so horny! <3 thank u everyone who was on ur knees begging for touya to suffer i hope i delivered.
part one part two
It had been about a couple of weeks since your outbursts at Touya's apartment. Since then, it's been eerily silent outside of the usual city noises- you couldn't even hear his footsteps at night anymore. For the first few days, you were living on eggshells around your apartment complex. Your window stayed locked with the curtain drawn, music would continuously be playing throughout your living room to mask any type of noise, and you rarely left your front door.
You were in a constant state of battle between your brain and your heart, but had ultimately accepted the demise of your relationship with Touya. After several "pep talks" with Toga, and her berating you to "stand the fuck up" and to get yourself together, the hope that you clutched onto slowly began to falter as the days went by.
"Like, look at this. Does this look fucking casual to you? " You whine to Toga, while scrolling through the messages Touya had been sending you since that night. She looked at you with sadness in her eyes.
"It pains me to see you this way. Him too." She pouts. "He has his reasons to not want anything serious, and maybe once his chokehold on you is gone, y'all can rationally talk about it, but PLEASE, Y/N, you're killing yourself by overthinking everything about your relationship with him."
You knew she was right, but you were still allowed to be bitter about it all. The universe seemed to enjoy the melancholic energy in your apartment as well as your sulking. Even with all of the windows closed, you could hear the storm coming down loud and clear.
You stood by your window for a moment, debating if you should open the curtains and enjoy the weather, or keep it shut to protect your peace from potential disturbance.
How much longer will I hide in this apartment from him?
You slowly draw the curtains back, revealing the melted gray skyline of the city, swallowed whole by fog and pelting rain. You open your window, and step out to sit on your windowsill, letting a gust of chilled wind sweep past your bare face. You take a deep breath of the cold air, savoring this solitude for a moment.
You had been properly ghosting him for a couple weeks now. You weren't sure what you would say to him when you would eventually run into him or decide to finally talk it out.
Something that worried you even more, was when you would eventually start going out with your mutual friend group again. Toga assures you that it would be fine, and that no one caught wind of everything that happened between you two, but that wasn't your main concern. You weren't so sure if you could pretend to be on normal terms with him anymore, especially in front of a crowd. The thought of having to continue pretending in front of him and everyone made your skin crawl with anxiety.
The scent of burnt tobacco in the air mixed in with the aroma of wet pavement emanating from the earth below pulled you out of thought.
You look up to see Touya leaning up against the railing of the fire escape with a cigarette in between his fingers, looking off into the city.
You take in a sharp inhale of air and snap your gaze forward, trying to find anything on the street to distract yourself. Maybe he didn't notice you, but his presence alone was enough to stop your breathing.
It's been two weeks, no contact, barely a glance. Do you end this now? Or do you try to silently crawl back into your apartment and pretend like you never saw him? You could just start with a "hey" or something. You asked yourself what would Toga tell you to do in this situation.
"What 'cha been up to?" He suddenly breaks the silence. "First time breathing fresh air in a minute?"
You purse your lips and glance back up to see him exhaling slowly and letting the tendrils of the smoke dissipate into the dark clouds, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
Fuck.
"The usual." You say, fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. "And no, I've been out and about."
Which was a lie.
There was an extended moment of silence. You almost guessed that he went back inside, but you didn't dare look up to check.
"You haven't responded to my texts." He cautiously says. "It's been a while, you know?"
"I know."
"You don't want to talk about it?"
"I don't really know what to say."
Another beat of silence.
"Can I come down?" He asks.
You glance up and meet your eyes with his, causing your stomach to knot.
"Sure." You sigh.
You guess you'd rather get it over with than let the anticipation of it sit in the back of your head for much longer.
He sat on the ground across from you, letting his back rest against the rails. He offers his cigarette to you, which you willingly took for the nerves.
You two sat in silence for a moment while you soaked up each other's presence, occasionally passing the cigarette back and forth.
"I fucking hate you." You finally say.
"Okay."
"But I love you, which is worst."
It felt like there was a sudden shift in the pressure on your shoulders now that you've said those words to his face, sober, calm, and intentionally. You felt more confident speaking about it.
"For our whole arrangement or whatever this is, I've always wanted some part of you that you couldn't give me. None of that was your fault, but I'm not sorry for it."
"You shouldn't be-" He starts.
"But." You cut him off, meeting his eyes. "I am sorry for how it came out. I didn't mean to villainize you when we weren't in a relationship, and we didn't establish anything. You don't owe me that just because I caught feelings."
He took a moment to make sure you were done speaking, in which you motioned him to continue.
"Okay, well, yeah you shouldn't be sorry for your feelings. Ever. And I never wanted you to have to pent it to this point, you know? I wish you could have told me about it sooner, but I get why you didn't."
"You knew I liked you." You cock an eyebrow. "You told me that night."
He sheepishly rubs the back of his head. "Well yes, and no. I found out you had an inkling of a crush, but that was when we first met way before we started doing this and it never came up again, so I didn't think anything of it. I seriously never thought it developed into... something more."
"I guess it's my fault that it exploded out like that. I just hoped that it would sizzle out. I wasn't ever planning on telling you, honestly. "
"At all?" His eyebrows furrowed in hurt.
"Would it have changed anything?" You cock an eyebrow. "We'd still be having this conversation."
"What was your plan then? If you weren't going to tell me?" He bitterly says, suddenly upset. "Wait for me to notice? Return the feelings? C'mon now, Y/N, you're better than that."
Ouch.
"Better than that?" You scoff. "Okay, then tell me Touya, one night I'm in your bed and we're rubbing noses, kissing, we're laughing together, and it suddenly comes out. 'Touya, I really like being with you like this, and you make me feel like a better person. I only want you. Let's be together.' What would you say?"
He pressed his lips together, suddenly quiet.
"If I'm so great, don't you think I deserve to hear it back from someone who feels the same?" You take a long drag of the cigarette, holding it in until your lungs burn. "Why would I put us in that situation when we both know you wouldn't be able to say it back?"
"Y/N, I didn't mean it like that. Of course you deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone." His voice falters. "It's all really complicated in my head right now, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wished you didn't let me hurt you like this. I genuinely do consider you to be a best friend of mine, and I care for you, so much. You know that right?"
You roll your eyes. "Duh, I know that. I've accepted this unrequited love for a while now. There were just some friend aspects that made the romantic aspects made sense and everything else confusing. Your siblings, visiting your mom with you, all of our talks- it just made things complicated, and not so.. casual."
"I'm sorry." He mutters. "About everything."
"I'm sorry, too."
After a second, you reach your hand out to him, in which he didn't hesitate to grab back. You didn't have much more to say, but this last physical exchange said it all.
I forgive you. I care about you. Take care of yourself. Don't be a stranger. I love you.
You couldn't help but sadly smile at this. This was the end of your entanglement with him, as long and messy as it was, you still hoped that he could someday meet someone to fall headfirst into- the same way you did for him.
"We're still friends?" You silently asked.
"Don't be stupid." He releases his hand from your grasp and lightly swats at your arm. "Of course we are. And neighbors, so terrorize me any time you want, and I'll do the same."
"Deal."
-
"So you don't like him anymore?" Toga asks, kicking her legs back and forth as she sits on the bathroom sink counter while Kurogiri goes at your hair with kitchen shears.
"I'll always love him, but I don't feel like I need to mourn what could've been with him anymore. We're fine, we've talked, and we're still friends. That's all I can really ask for." You shrug.
"And your hair? What's all this for, then?" You motions to your hair.
"Can't I just want a haircut?" You roll your eyes.
"Hair holds energy." Kurogiri suddenly says. "Cutting a significant amount off signifies an acceptance of change and the turning over of a new leaf."
"Exactly. Thank you, Kuro." You beam. "You get it. It's my symbolism for moving on, or some shit like that."
Another couple of weeks have passed since your last chat with Touya. You had seen each other in passing, and you've hung out at each other's apartment with the others. You were grateful that it all felt semi-normal. Everytime you were in a room together, you felt that there will always be a twinge of magnetism in your fingertips that's going to want to grab him and pull him towards you, but lately, you've been obedient and refraining yourself from getting too close.
"Your hair is so cute, I want mine short like yours now!" Toga pouts, fiddling with snipped lockets of your hair.
"You would hate short hair." You say matter-of-factly. "You wouldn't be able to put your hair in braids or buns anymore."
"I guess you're right." She murmurs. "You sure you don't want to go out with us?"
Kurogiri and Toga were preparing to meet up with Jin at the bar on your street. Of course they thought if they ambushed you at your apartment, they could drag you with them, but they couldn't have been more wrong.
"I'm sure. Be safe and let me know if you need to crash here or something, okay? Thank you Kuro, for the cut." You squeeze both of them in for a hug before ushering them out.
"Don't kiss any randoms, drink water, and slow the fuck down when drinking." You warn her. "Kuro, don't get in a fight, and tell her to fuck off if she makes you carry her home again."
He shoots you a thumbs up. "If you change your mind, you can always meet us there."
After the door shuts behind them, a long sigh escapes your lips. It was a Saturday night and you had no plans other than sweeping up the hair off your floor. On nights like these, you would usually be spending it with Touya, but things have changed now, and you were still avoiding spending one-on-one time with him like the plague.
As you start putting away the kitchen shears used to chop your hair, your phone goes off.
"Tenko?" You set the phone on speaker, continuing to sweep the ground.
"Please God, are you home?" He asks frantically.
"Yes? What's wrong?" His tones stop you in your tracks.
"We're upstairs. Dabi and Spinner can't handle their weed and are too fucking high. I need help before I start beating the shit out of them."
You deadpan. He's asking you to babysit on a Saturday night. You may be lonely, but not enough to have to deal with a few idiots who were on another planet.
But it would give you a reason to see Touya.
You missed him, but you had spent enough sleepless nights crying into your pillow about your loss. You still weren't sure if you missed pretending to be his, or the friendship you had prior to your confession. This inner conflict only drove you further away from him.
In the background, you hear craze laughing and crashing as if furniture were being thrown.
"Who are you talking to?!" Spinner's voice screeches from the background.
"Fuck off! Don't come near me!" Tenko cries, muffling the phone as if he was holding it under his arm.
"So you're all at Touya's? Who the hell is Dabi?"
"Dabi is Touya." He scoffs. "It's his gamertag, duh. Can you please just come over? I want to play league of legends and these fuckers keep bugging."
"Is that Y/N? Gimme the fucking phone." Touya joins in on the conversation.
"No!"
You couldn't help but laugh at his misfortune. Tenko had always been the most impatient and childish out of the boys, so it was satisfying to hear him suffer for once- especially when you knew that this was 100% his fault.
"So sorry baby boy, even if I wanted to, I can't. I have someone over." You lie.
You figured that a simple no wouldn't be enough to get Tenko to drop it. He's always had a sort of ick about hook ups and preferred to stay as far away as he could from hearing about his friends' sex life. It would also save you the trouble of dealing with them marching downstairs to bang on your window until you let them in.
"Fuck. Whatever, say less-" Tenko starts.
"WHAT?-" Touya interrupts before the phone hangs up.
You set your phone down and release a breath of relief. You applauded yourself for not giving in so easily. One step of many.
Almost immediately after Tenko had hung on you, you received a text.
You rub your temples, mentally groaning. You could never escape. You realized, as you stood by the window debating whether or not you should open it for Touya, that two weeks prior, you were in the same position- sitting in between letting him in or shutting him out.
Maybe nothing had changed after all.
You open your window, letting the click of it unlatching give him permission to enter your apartment. For some reason, your hands were sweating. You haven't been alone in each other's presence for a casual hangout in almost a month now, and you weren't really sure how to be a normal person around him without the others to act as the buffer.
"Thank god." He steps in and immediately shuts the window behind him. "It's so fucking cold, I was debating on jumping."
The moment he turned around, his jaw dropped. "Your hair." He gasps, covering his mouth with a hand. "Holy shit."
You sheepishly smile at the sudden reaction. "What? Not a fan?"
"Not a fan?" He exclaims. "I thought I liked the long hair, but wow. Fuck."
He flops down on your couch, still looking at you in awe. "God, you're so pretty. I'm nervous now." He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.
You roll your eyes, chucking a pillow at him. "Shut up or you'll scare off my date." You tease. "We're gonna finish up, but you stay here and be quiet, okay?"
His cheesing smile instantly drops. "You're fucking joking. Tell me you don't have someone in your bed right now."
"And what if I do?" You put a hand on your hip.
"Don't do that to me, Y/N." He pouts. "Kick them out pleaassee."
"You're such a baby." You sit down on the couch beside him. "I was kidding. No one's here. I just wanted Tenko to leave me alone, but clearly that didn't work out, huh?"
It was sadistic of you, but you did enjoy seeing him squirm at the thought of you spending your night with somebody else.
"Can't hate me for wanting a little distraction. You've just been avoiding me. Don't think I haven't noticed." He mutters.
"Avoiding you? That's a bit clingy of you, don't you think?" You joke.
You met his gaze to realize that he wasn't joking. At all. He had a pouty expression that only a child could master, and those bloodshot eyes were the equivalent to a poor puppy dog's.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked, suddenly taken aback. "What's wrong?"
"If I tell you something, promise you won't hate me?"
Your stomach drops. You didn't have a clue as to where this conversation could go next and couldn't figure out what that look on his face really meant. You had been playing your cards right, kept your distance, maintained your friendship, what more could there have been?
"What is it?"
A beat pass. His lips parted, but no words came out.
"I think I'm actually at a 7.8." He slowly says, gauging your incoming reaction. "Like, a strong 7.8." He murmurs.
A chuckle escaped your lips. That dramatic of an expression just to tell you that he was really fucking stoned made your heart swell a bit and a wave of relief come over you.
"It's fine, Touya. I promise." You wave off. "I'll always take care of you, it doesn't matter."
"Well, no it's not just that. I'm at a strong 7.8 and I have to tell you that I'm having a lot of feelings."
You stared at him for a second, digesting what he just said but not quite getting it.
"I don't think I'm following."
His cheeks puff in frustration. "I'm trying to say that I want to talk to you about... complicated stuff, but I'm stoned, so it's going to come out sounding stupid."
You nervously chuckle. "Don't you think you should talk to me about it when you're sober, then?"
You concluded that you definitely should have kept your window shut and left him on the fire escape- to jump or to freeze whichever came first. You were mentally cursing Tenko for your misfortune of having to deal with this with no preparation.
"Why would I do that when it's easier doing it like this?"
"Because last time someone did that, it ended up in flames. You remember that?" You press your lips together. "Do you want water or something? Some snacks? At least to sober up?" You stand up, starting your way to the kitchen.
"You're doing it again. Avoiding- or an even better word, deflecting." He hums.
"I'm not avoiding or deflecting, Touya. I'm making sure you're taken care of and even more important, don't say anything stupid." You come back with a glass of water and set it on the table in front of him.
"But I want to say something stupid."
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because it's easy in this state and I don't care about the consequences. Duh." He deadpans. "Sweet girl, we are going in circles here. Just let me speak. It's not like I'm totally incoherent or anything. I mostly still have full function of my brain right now....unlike you when you had a silly little something to say." He shoots you a side eye.
You bite the inside of your cheek at the nickname you haven't heard in what felt like a lifetime ago. You take your seat beside him again in defeat.
"Fine. Say your 'silly little something' then."
"Like I was saying earlier, I'm having a lot of feelings." He begins, waving his arms as he speaks. "You following?"
"Mmhm."
"And I'm having these feelings because you've been avoiding me- don't even try to deny it either. We both know you've been avoiding me. Anyways, this probaabbllyyy..." He draws out "..started about a week or so ago, so I've had a week to sit on it, but one day I was like DAMN. This shit sucks! And then I asked myself Well, why does this shit suck so bad? and I came to the conclusion that I..... miss you."
You stared at him for a moment, watching him fiddling with his glass of water and rubbing his bloodshot eyes while he anxiously waited for your response.
"Touya, read the damn room." You roll your eyes. "Okay so if I have been avoiding you, you realize that the time away from you was very necessary for me? I literally confessed my feelings for you, and you told me you didn't feel the same way. Which is 100% fine, but what am I supposed to do? Pretend like everything's normal and go back to hanging out with you like nothing happened?"
"Don't hate me." He murmurs, following up the silence that fell between you two. "I know it's selfish, but it's been hard and confusing for me too."
"I could never hate you, but I really would like to mean it when I say I'm over you. Just give me some time, okay? And then we can hang out and be besties again and all that shit. It's not a big deal to not see me for a couple weeks." You take a sip of your own water cup.
"I don't think we're on the same page right now, Y/N." He mutters.
Another silence falls between you.
"I don't follow anymore. What do you mean, then?"
"I'm having a lot of feelings... about missing you. And us." He avoids your gaze, looking down at his hands.
Us.
"Us." You repeat. "Okay? Keep elaborating." You slowly say, fiddling with your own hands now.
"I know I don't have the right to say this after all that shit that happened, but for a long time, it felt like what we had going on was really good and then all of the sudden it's gone. I knew it was for the better, for both of us, but then after these weeks of not seeing you anymore, it's like I lost you completely and I miss you."
Your stomach simultaneously twists, drops, and threatens to climb up your throat. You didn't know if this sick feeling was coming from anger or the years of yearning coming back to the forefront of your mind.
You reach over, and hold his hands into yours. "Touya, I'm going to hold your hands when I tell you this, okay? And I tell you this because I hold you so close to my heart, and want to continue to do so, but yeah you don't have a fucking right to say all that shit." You huff. "You didn't lose me, because you never had me. You never had me, because you never wanted me. You didn't. I don't hate or blame you for it, but I can't change you. Do you understand?"
He slowly nods his head.
His expression fell into sadness. You weren't sure if it really clicked for him, or if he was fighting his own conflictions about your mess of a relationship, but you knew that above all, you had to protect your peace.
"But what if I can change myself?"
"Wow, you really did miss me, huh?" You tried to lighten up the thick air that had fallen in the room.
"Tell me what I can do, and I'll do it." He squeezes your hands, scooting himself closer to you where your knees were touching now. "I'll change."
Your eyes widened in shock. "Seriously, Touya. You don't have to change anything- you shouldn't. Like I said, the distance made things hard and weird for our friendship, but we'll be back to normal, just give it time."
"Maybe let's talk about this another time, okay? When you're not high." You smile, trying to deescalate the frustration between you two. "We can turn on a movie or something."
"No, Y/N. You're still not getting it... and deflecting." He sighs in frustration. "Your normal is not my normal. My normal is being able to touch you and kiss you and hold you close to me and tell you how fucking beautiful and great you are. I want you to fuck up my hair and paint my nails, call me a piece of shit, your sweet boy, all of it. Tell me what to do to get that, and I'll do it."
You almost pulled back in shock.
"Touya. Listen to me so carefully. You. Don't. Want. Me. Like. How. I. Want. You." You say slowly. "We are friends. Friends don't do all that. There is no world where we can do any of that anymore. How are you asking me to do all of those things with you, when you don't feel more for me? I can't do that to myself, and you know how it killed me."
"Y/N. I will get on my knees right now if you want me to." He begins. "Listen to me, I've slept in my own bed every single night since you left, I've left my window and door unlocked for you, I've been waiting for you for the past month. I know I can be so fucking stupid sometimes, and not know how to talk about my feelings or go about a relationship, but I only want you. Okay? Please. I'm sorry it's taken me this long to realize that, but this isn't like how it was before. I. Want. You."
Your jaw went slack. You realize that this whole conversation had been a poorly navigated confession. Touya wasn't telling you that he missed your weekly hook ups and late night snuggle sesh. He was confessing to you and you had no clue how to take it all in. You had spent weeks trying to get over him- you've just cut off all of your hair for the cause, just for him to sit here and tell you that he's been yearning after you for the past few weeks as you had for him since the beginning of your friendship.
"Please." He grips your hands tighter and brings it up to his mouth. "Please give me a chance to fix it. I'll prove it to you. It was never casual. You do deserve to hear it back. I'm the biggest fucking idiot on the planet to lose you. Tell me you still feel the same way." He mutters into your knuckles with a sense of desperation. "Please."
You took a sharp intake of air. Letting this conversation sit for a second. You debated on asking him to leave and give you a few days, but knowing that Tenko and Spinner were still in his apartment, you couldn't do that to him.
"So, this is you telling me you want to be with me." You finally asked. "You have feelings for me."
He nods his head. "More than that. I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine."
"And not in the way that we were before all this. You feel the same way I do? Like everything I told you on the fire escape a couple weeks ago."
He nods once more. "If you've felt this tightness in your chest as if something is going to rip open at the thought of me not being there anymore, then yeah. The same."
"God, you really had to be stoned to do this?"
"I also wish I had a bottle of tequila and a pack of cigarettes right now, but this will do." He smiled. "I do feel like i'm going to shit myself, I'm so sweaty, and the cotton mouth is insane right now, but I like you so much, I don't want to fuck this up."
He cautiously reaches his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek, swiping his thumb across your lips. He pulls your head into his, letting your foreheads rest against each other.
"You're a fucking idiot." You mutter against his thumb. "So, so stupid. This was a lot, Touya."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I guess we're even now though, huh?" He chuckles nervously. "Um, so yeah I am still shitting myself because you haven't given me a response, sooo...what do you say?"
"Say please one more time and maybe I'll consider taking your sorry ass back." You tease as a smirk grows on your face.
He drops his hand back to your own and leans back, taking in your whole view. A grin spreads ear to ear as a light blush brush on his cheeks. "You are absolutely wicked, my sweet girl. So breathtakingly evil and I am nothing more than a dust particle living in your world. Please. I will never deserve you, but let me be selfish anyways and want you. I want you more than anything. Please."
"God, you're so good at that." You couldn't help but laugh at this theatrical version of a confession. "I guess, if you want me that bad..."
"Can I kiss you?" He quietly asked, "Please."
You smiled, returning the small physical gesture by rubbing his knuckles with your thumbs. Your body was on fire and had been craving this physical contact with him for the past month, and you desperately wanted to just lunge into his skin and devour him whole to make up for lost time.
"No."
His smile falters into the saddest pout you've seen.
"I want you to take me out first. I want you to come to my front door with flowers and a cute outfit, I want dinner, an activity planned, I want you to properly ask me out, maybe grovel a bit more, and then if I say yes, you can kiss me."
He pulls your hands up to his mouth to kiss your knuckle. "That was so fucking hot. You got it, sweet thing. Anything, anything, anything. I'm yours."
tags: @whitneys-favorite-slut @lanxsee @bumblebeebutter @randomrosie01 @lillycore @rinheartshyunlix @yuwuuta @itawifeyy @0fffia @the2ndl @moonchild701 @oldspirit @misguidedswagger
#beg for it pretty boy#grovel MORE#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#mha#bnha#bnha x reader#mha x reader#todoroki touya#touya todoroki#dabixreader#dabi x reader#dabi todoroki#touya x reader#dabi
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