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synqiri · 5 months ago

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YOUR SHITTY TASTE IN MEN.

or, how he weasels you into admitting (and realising) your crush on him.

PAIRING: wanderer x gn!reader

WARNINGS: none.

WORDCOUNT: 1.1K || CONTENT: mild academic rivals, (one sided) enemies to lovers, he lowkey finds you amusing af

NOTES: ngl i picture yn here as an angry little cat

“professor, please. anyone but him.”

you’d do anything not to be paired with wanderer. especially not on a project that would affect your final grade. you’d be doomed with him for a partner, and that is what leads you to this situation — begging your professor to assign you to someone else.

she only sighs, sympathetic, yet unrelenting all the same. “[name], this is exactly why i paired the both of you together. you should learn to sort out your differences with him. besides, no one else would be able to keep up with either of you.”

gods, it is as flattering as it is unhelpful. you know that you are at the top in her class, rivalled by none other than him alone, but he might just hate you enough to fail the project out of sheer spite. maybe you’d throttle him to death before that happened.

“but —”

“my apologies, [name]. the decision is final.”

your expression sours further the moment you step out of the lecture theatre. why did he have to be the first thing you see, of all people?

“all that grovelling, just to get rid of me?” wanderer asks loftily, sauntering up to you. his eyes glitter, smug and amused and utterly infuriating. “and how did that work out for you?”

you roll your eyes. “she said i’m the only one who can stand you, so i’m afraid you’re saddled with me.”

turning on your heel before he can retort, you stride in the direction of the library. might as well get started on the assignment before he begins sending you to an early grave. though he keeps pace with you easily, and you can’t help but notice how he moves as if he is gliding on nothing but air.

you bicker all the way there, only stopping as you set your things down at the desk you always use — at the far back of the library, a more secluded spot compared to the tables near the entrance. within minutes and a quick round around the place, you have a thick stack of books related to the topic of your project.

wanderer is already seated, lounging on the cushioned seat lazily. he eyes the books, smirking. “to think you still can’t beat me, even after all that effort.”

will he ever shut up about that? 98% was hardly any different from 97% — and it wasn't as if he had a perfect score either.

“some of us have social lives to maintain — something you obviously don't.” you say this in a sing-song tone, deliberately taking the seat next to his. personal space be damned, you want a cushion seat too.

you take pride in the way he clicks his tongue and shuffles aside to make way. he scoffs. “what would somebody like you know about that? dinners and parties are hardly worth my time.”

you can't help but burst into laughter. his arrogance is stupidly ridiculous.

“just admit you have no friends.”

he sniffs imperiously, and for all the smartass comments he usually has, he doesn't deign to reply. cracking open the first book within reach, he begins to flip through its contents. you’re thankful that at least, he is taking the assignment seriously.

you cannot deny that as irritating as he is, he is incredibly good looking. you watch the indigo of his hair as it falls in front of his eyes, the flutter in his lashes and the dainty bridge of his nose. his lips are parted slightly, his brows relaxed as he reads — and you find you cannot bring yourself to hate him, not in that very moment.

“are you done staring yet, or will i have to finish your work for you?”

scowling, you flick open a book of your own. now you remember why you hate his guts. “as if i even want you in my line of sight.”

“it’s amusing how much you despise me,” he says casually, flashing you a crooked smile. he chuckles, and gods, just the sound of it makes your blood boil. “of all i have done, i don’t recall ever doing anything to slight you.”

you stop short at that. why do you hate him? now that you were forced to really think about it — you have absolutely zero idea. but that couldn’t be right. how could you simply wake up one day and decide to hate someone?

well, whatever the case, you’re far too stubborn and you’re in way too deep to quit now.

“first of all, i hate your stupid smirk and the dumb drawl you talk with — do you even hear yourself? not to mention, the swagger in your walk and your smug gloating every single time you score better than i do. you walk like you’re floating. you sit in trees. you’re completely insufferable. just the mere thought of you makes me want to —”

hastily, you pull out your notebook and tear off a blank page.

you crush it.

“this is your skull, by the way,” you say, a sickly sweet grin on your face. you chuck the paper ball into his lap. “is that explanation detailed enough or do you need more?”

and of everything that could’ve possibly happened, you’d never expect that he’d laugh. it’s sharp and disbelieving and he sounds as if he hasn’t laughed in years. he raises an eyebrow, smirking.

“how ridiculous. you claim to hate me so desperately and yet all i see is a fool with a childish crush.”

“have you gone senile? why would i —” you stare at him, flabbergasted. the notion of having a crush on someone like him is so utterly ridiculous you’re struck speechless. you can hear your heart pounding in your ears, and feel the twist of disgust in your gut.

a crush was something good. someone you couldn’t keep your eyes off, someone you couldn’t stop thinking about. a crush is someone who caused ‘butterflies’ in your stomach and a racing heart and he certainly did not. wanderer is simply someone so flamboyant and dramatic and attention-grabbing he made your blood boil, someone so infuriating just the thought of him during late night study sessions motivated you to do better and beat him, just to wipe the smirk off his face, someone —

all the fight you have goes out of you, as quickly as extinguishing a candle flame.

“oh.”

then, you blink rapidly, clearing away the fog of dizzying clarity that realisation had made. you cringe, bringing up a hand to your mouth.

“oh gods,” you murmur. your entire body burns.

he scoffs, head cocked to the side, a self satisfied grin on his face. he knows. “what? don’t tell me you’ve got some other grand confession to make?”

well, you’ve definitely got one now. letting your hand fall back to your sides, you look him dead in the eye.

“i have a shitty taste in men.”

#scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche #genshin #genshin impact #(✒️)— writing.

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hongism · 1 year ago

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DUNE. - p. seonghwa (m)

➼ genre; smut ➼ pairing; seonghwa x fem!reader ➼ au; outlaw/biker!seonghwa, dystopian futurism, lore accurate ateez ➼ warnings; explicit smut, vaping mention ➼ rating; m/18+ ➼ wc; 5.4k

Your excursions with Seonghwa are never anything holy despite how sacred the time shared between you feels at times.

part of the outlaw miniseries.

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➼ smut warnings; piv, unprotected sex, public sex (ie outdoors and on a motorcycle), oral: m, hair pulling, dirty talk, marking/biting, face fucking, deepthroating, slight edging, petnames: princess, kitten & doll, breeding kink, creampie, some religious imagery, slight objectification

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“You bastard.”

Dressed in nothing but a towel to keep you modest, you exit the bathroom in your far too small apartment expecting nothing but the simple task of getting your nightclothes from your bedroom. That, however, seems to be an impossibly tall order given what’s waiting for you in the living room. Sitting on your couch. With his stupid dirty boots all over your best piece of furniture in the house. So you can’t very well be blamed for your outburst upon seeing him, especially given the fact that he’s dared to show his face here and now like this.

The window adjacent to your couch is cracked as well, letting the evening air and likely every bug in the city into your home too.

“It’s been two months,” you snap before you can think through the lengthy list of things you’d like to rip into him about.

Seonghwa drops his head on the back of the couch and shifts to smile over at you, lopsided and dorky and all-around infuriating. Even more humiliating is the fact that you missed the sight of that grin, of him on your couch and in your home, and you dearly missed knowing when he would come back to you.

“And?”

“Did you use the fire escape to get in here again?” You thought that you had latched and locked the windows particularly well after you settled with the fact that Seonghwa wasn’t coming back. And yet here he is, and your windows are unlocked again. The man laughs, bringing his head off the couch and leaning forward in a way that makes his slicked-back black hair shift and fall around his face. This is a dangerously unwell situation for you to be in. Shutting your eyes, you turn towards your bedroom, hand tightening at the towel around your body. If you look at him a moment longer, you’re well and truly going to jump his bones. While that’s not the worst fate you could think of, you’d like to seem a little more upset at him before you give into both your desires and his.

You hear the couch creak then the soft scuffs of his boots over wood flooring as you pull clothes out of the dresser. He’s not in the doorway when you turn around, which does surprise you somewhat, but you take advantage of the brief moment of privacy to change into the tee and jeans you just pulled out. You toss your towel at the doorway once you’re safely under the comfort of clothes, and half of Seonghwa’s face peeks around the corner.

“You going somewhere?” He asks the question so innocently that you nearly think he’s changed in the past two months. Still, he’s leaning fully against the door frame now with one hand pressed high up along the wood and leaning over the edge into your bedroom, and the seduction is still there. His allure with all its perks and twists and all the ease he performs his enticement with are on full display before your eyes.

“Aren’t we?” you offer in response, too impatient to bother with playing your usual push-and-pull game with him.

“You still know me well, huh?” Now that you’re closer to him and can look at him head-on, you see the all too familiar jacket clinging to his broad shoulders, the tight tank top beneath it that shows off a hint of his muscled arms and chest. Seonghwa must see something across your expression that you aren’t consciously aware of because he hooks his index finger under your chin and lifts your head to look you in the eye. “You’re irresistible when you pout, kitten.”

A hand reaches up to cup the back of his neck, skating across the fabric of his shirt as you move upwards, and when you grab hold of him, he’s already leaning down to meet you on your path to his lips.

“I’m still mad at you, by the way,” you murmur before laying a kiss against him. Seonghwa laughs into your mouth as his tongue breaks the seam and finds yours. He tastes like the same stupid flavor of vape juice you remember, which means he hasn’t quit like he said he would last time you spoke, but he seems to have kept using your favorite flavor. “It’s past curfew.”

“No it’s not,” he denies quickly, and you pull off his mouth completely just so he can see how hard you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s past curfew.”

“Fifteen minutes outside the city—” a firmly planted kiss that keeps you from responding “—twenty tops, it’s fine. You can even drive if you want? You know how hot I find it seeing you on my bike.” Now that you’ve broken the seal, Seonghwa can’t seem to pull his lips away from yours for even a full sentence with the way he keeps rushing to lick into your mouth between every few words.

“If this—ah, hey!” He nips the corner of your mouth, grin cheeky at best when you squeeze the back of his neck hard. “If this is what we’re going to do then why not just stay here?”

“Because I have something to show you.” When suspicion starts to overcome your features, Seonghwa leans down and bumps his forehead against yours. “And we haven’t checked the bike’s sturdiness in over two months… what if my baby isn’t as sturdy as she used to be, huh? She’s not getting as much practice as she used to.”

“And I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Mine and no one else’s, princess.” He’s giving you that damn smile that makes you cave every time without fail — the upturned lip one that makes his laugh lines appear — and you groan purposefully loud like it’ll change the outcome of the night you’ve already handed yourself over to. Everyone close to you in your life would rush to call you a doormat for this man, and you can’t say that they’re horribly wrong on any front. Maybe if they knew exactly how good the dick and banter are they would cut you some slack though.

“Fine, you win.” You pull him into another open-mouthed kiss that lets you have another taste. “But you’re driving there, I’ll drive back.”

Seonghwa grins like he’s just won the lottery of life, hand snapping to brace yours against his chest as he guides you to the window where he made his grandiose entrance. There are many questions at the forefront of your mind admittedly, but you opt not to bring any of them up quite yet solely because you don’t want to cause any headaches this early on in the night. If he decides to turn tail and run upon being confronted then what? You’ll have wasted your night on this man for no reason and it’ll be totally unfulfilling for the both of you, so you imagine he wants to keep the mediocre peace as much as possible too. You have no trouble leaving the window unlocked now, mostly because Seonghwa is the only person who has dared to break in in your area of town, and he doesn’t do so with the intention of taking any of your belongings: just you and your poor fragile heart.

His motorcycle sits alone in the alleyway your fire escape leads down to, and you watch him pop the small box trunk attached to the back of it for a few seconds before realizing that you truly are what he came for. He pulls a helmet out — the same one he used to always make you wear that fits you just right and you used to be convinced that he bought it solely for you, but he denied it so heavily you gave up on that notion a long time ago. He never carries it around unless he knows he’s coming to you because he’s always claimed to need the space for “work” related things if you can even call it that given the rather illegal nature of what he does with this very bike. You don’t mind that part one bit; Night City has gone to shit anyway, and the government keeps finding new ways to impose absurd laws on all of you. If Seonghwa wants to mess with their new world order a bit and piss all over their business, then you’re all for it. You hope he and whoever he works with bring them down a few notches while they’re at it. But you do want him to be safe, and you want to know he’s okay and alive out there, and you don’t want months of radio silence that leaves you wondering if you did something to run him off or if he got captured by the guardians or worse—

“Hey.”

You inhale sharply. Seonghwa slides the helmet down over your head then braces his hands on either side of it to lay a kiss on where your forehead would be if not for the protection. Behind the visor, you shut your eyes and take a deep breath. When you open them again, Seonghwa is perched on the bike, pulling his own helmet on, and you admire the pretty slope of his nose mere seconds before it disappears.

Unspoken rule #1: you don’t ask about his little foray into anarchy.

“I don’t even believe in any god yet I pray for your safety every time you leave.”

He reached across the space between your bodies on the couch that night and squeezed your thigh.

“I’ll give you something to believe in.”

That night he buried his face between your thighs and ate you out like a man worshiping at the altar on the cold floor in front of your TV.

Tonight, you’re more than okay with that.

Seonghwa’s body is like a furnace when you wrap yourself around him. He’s warm and comfortable in the most familiar of ways, and you can still taste him on the inside of your lips. You smile despite yourself, clinging to him harder as the motorcycle lurches into action. Seonghwa never wastes time, though there’s an added layer of danger tonight with curfew, but you have it in good faith that the whole notion is just a little scare tactic to keep people in line. Even months ago there were no patrols or active guardians wandering the streets at night. Whatever drones do monitor from the sky don’t do anything except spook citizens.

In retrospect, you should have stolen Seonghwa’s jacket off his back or brought your own because the night air whips your shirt and leaves you cold. The man in front of you isn’t much of a meat shield against it either, yet the combination of your shivering and the ever-increasing speed of the bike makes adrenaline drop in your gut. You could chase this feeling for the rest of your life but still not be able to capture it unless it’s with Seonghwa, and as much as you hate to admit that sort of dependency, you also revel in the knowledge that he only gets it from you as well. Maybe you’re more religious than you thought with the exchanged reverence and devotion you two hold for one another. A sort of sacrality permeates every touch and breath between your lips. It reaches you in full when Seonghwa pulls the bike to a stop at what must be his chosen destination. He eases your helmet off first before ridding himself of his own. The moment his lips are within reach, you find them with your fingers and trace over the soft skin there like he himself is holy text to be studied and recited.

“Come,” he says with a hand stretched out towards you. Like a sheep following its shepherd, you sling your leg over the bike and come to stand beside him. He’s brought you to a hill, just beyond the outskirts of the city, but the spot where it overlooks showcases something as fascinating as it is beautiful. Beyond the fences surrounding Night City, there is a clearing of simple dirt yet it’s full of light and life. Crowds upon crowds of people occupy the space, though they look more like ants from where you’re perched, yet even in the distance you can see how they move about. Dancing. “That’s one of the only spots the people in this hellhole can still be free.”

“Are…” You clear your throat and glance at your companion briefly. “Is that where your coworkers are?”

“There are others, yes. Many of them. Our bike crew likes to show off some nights and do tricks around the lot when we know the government is gonna be busy with other problems. But for the most part, people go there to listen to music and dance and sing… to enjoy the things every rich prick is trying to take away from us.” Seonghwa sighs. He brings a hand to his hair and runs his fingers through the strands to the point of disarray. “It’s not an excuse, but this is why I’ve been away from you for so many weeks. Trying to get some solid plans in motion and all that. You knowing too much would just put you at risk, and that simply wouldn’t do, princess. I need you safe and sound. I can’t be the reason you get hurt or suffer, especially not at their hands.”

“But… you hurt me.”

“I thought it would be easier to disappear entirely than to come up with some lie as to why I couldn’t come around anymore.” He draws his arms up in a rather clear act of defensiveness but he turns to face you directly as he relays the information. “And I knew that the second I showed up at your door with a lie figured out, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. I guess everyone has a point in saying you’re my soft spot.”

One corner of your lips pulls up to form a crude smile, laugh exhaling out your nose in a rush of air. You reach for Seonghwa’s wrists.

“Cm’here.”

“What?” he complies nonetheless, matching your grin as you pull his arms away from his chest. His hands move around your body to tug you into his personal space like it’s just an extension of simple human movements, and you match the gentle affection with your own soft touches across his chest. Tracing upwards, you seek his jacket and secure your hands around the collar.

“Don’t lie and don’t hide from me again. If you can’t tell me, that’s fine. I’m okay with that. We can play house and do whatever when we’re together, then when the revolution comes knocking, we’ll deal with that too.” This is as close to I love you as you can go.

“Okay, princess. That’s a deal I’m gonna hold you to though.” Seonghwa leans against your body, and you let his weight sink down onto you with a quiet sigh. The lingering pass of silence lets you indulge in the feeling of him as he exhales heavily down your neck. He drifts lower until his lips ghost over the juncture of your neck, and the pressure in your chest increases tenfold with each feathering touch. When his teeth drag across your skin, you gasp out loud. Goosebumps rush across your body, a moan pulls from your lips, and Seonghwa sucks at your neck like he wants to pull the blood right out of you.

“H-Hwa.”

“Want you,” he murmurs. You have other things on your mind right now, however, and you doubt he’s going to be opposed to your suggestions so you tug yourself away from his wandering hands and tighten your grip on his jacket. His body is lax as you pull him around and lean him against the seat of his motorcycle. “Princess…” Seonghwa already looks to be in a daze when you sink to your knees between his legs, hands sliding across the firm muscles of his legs that are hidden beneath faux leather. His lips part in silent wonder, and his gaze follows yours with such intense focus that it feels like you’re the only two people on earth. You watch his mouth move but no noise comes out, no words, and whatever thoughts he’s having right now are lost on you because you can’t read his lips. It doesn’t deter you from your current goal — you have his zipper caught between your fingers already, and his button comes undone just as easily.

His shame knows no bounds, apparently, because you peel back his pants to bare skin with nothing between.

“You been thinking about me all day?” you tease, teeth toying with your lower lip as you flutter your lashes at him on purpose, but he sweeps you away with his hasty and breathless response.

“All day. All week. Every day since the last time I saw you.” A hopeless romantic, after all. You work his pants down his hips just enough to pull his half-hard length out, putting your lips around him without wasting any more time than you have to. Seonghwa moans from the first touch as your wet heat surrounds his cock and buries all the way in your throat. You take him in until he nudges the back of your throat and threatens to make you choke. Similar to how he laid between your legs and worshiped at your alter, you do the same now — on your knees for him with hands clasped around the base of his cock, you blink up at his strained face with glistening eyes and a prayer on your lips.

Seonghwa brings a shaky hand to the back of your head, but he finds his confidence the moment he grabs hold of your hair and guides your mouth to take his dick deeper. His tip pushes into your throat, and you’re quick to adjust your breathing, focus snapping away from his face so that you can steady your breath and bring air into your lungs. Wetness touches your lashes as your eyes fall closed. You tap his crotch twice, and he understands the signal immediately. It’s hard to believe two months have passed when you fall back into usual and familiar routines with such ease. Seonghwa tightens his hold on your hair, burying his fingers closer to your scalp, and air whistles through his teeth. He pulls out of your mouth suddenly, until the head of his cock lays heavy against your lips. You missed the taste of him desperately, even more so in this filthy and hedonistic way, but that realization quickly turns into an afterthought as you suck at his tip.

“Fuck, doll, missed using you like this,” Seonghwa groans above you, and you respond by swiping your tongue along the bit of his cock that he lets you touch. “You always let me fill your pretty little mouth so well. Could use you like a toy forever, fuck.”

“Then do it.” You grin against his cock head, chin tilting down so that you can press a kiss to the same spot. The noise that tears from Seonghwa is close to animalistic as he jerks his hips towards your mouth. You’re forced to drop your jaw as quickly as you can but it doesn’t fully keep your teeth from snagging at his skin, though that seems to do nothing but drive Seonghwa further into insanity as he thrusts hard into your mouth.

“Shit, my little doll, look at you.” You force your eyes open against better judgment just to look at Seonghwa’s face. He coos, free hand reaching around to cup your face, and he swipes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Such a messy doll you are, tears and spit all over that pretty face.” You gag, only for it to turn into a sob as he fucks your mouth like it's just another hole to use. “I’ll grant you your veneration, princess, if only you give me my absolution.” He still treats you as though you’re something holy after all this time too, it seems. His balls knock against your chin with each one of his thrusts, until you grow totally accustomed to the rhythm. You had been certain that he would stop before coming undone, but Seonghwa doesn’t seem keen on stopping any time soon with the way he’s enjoying your mouth, wet and warm around his dick. You want to drive him to completion now — the cotton fuzz in your brain that’s starting to block all thoughts outside of him and your arousal demands more, and you crave the feeling of his cock twitching on your tongue. You wish to taste his seed on the back of your tongue, to watch his legs tremble and buckle under his pleasure at your hands.

You hum around the weight on your tongue, and Seonghwa lets his hand go loose on your hair, swinging it back to catch on the seat of his bike so he can steady himself better. He hands over control to you in the same moment and gives you the blessed initiative that makes you splay your hands across his hips and brace yourself over his length as you take some time to catch your breath. It makes you acutely aware of your wrecked state too because you can feel the moisture all over your face, both from tears and the trails of saliva that Seonghwa caused. He leans back and pushes the bike further against its side-stand; not to the point of immediate concern but he is testing that sturdiness as he claimed he wished to earlier. You lick along the underside of Seonghwa’s cock, relishing in the way he twitches against your tongue.

“Are you close?” you ask. You aren’t expecting how horribly wrecked your voice is or how it sounds like you’ve chewed and tried to swallow gravel actually. Seonghwa makes no comment on it himself and instead just nods several times over as he gulps down greedy breaths of air. “Do you wanna cum in my mouth?”

“Jesus, princess, how can you just — say that with a straight face like that, christ.” Seonghwa brushes hair away from your forehead, pulling it back to be out of the way.

“You can keep going, right?” Your fingers curl around the base of his dick just to squeeze him a little bit to tease and stimulate him some more. “You’ll still be able to fuck me if you cum once, won’t you?”

“Baby—”

“Or can you still not finish without breeding me?” Seonghwa’s whole body reacts to your statement, and you hear the audible choke that overtakes him when you flatten your palm on his cock and press it against his stomach. His fingers extend while trembling then he draws them back into fists so tight his knuckles bleed white. You drive the heel of your hand further into his length, coming up halfway to let your fingers curl up over his tip. Taking precum onto your fingertips, you pull the same digits into your mouth and lick them clean, eyes glinting as you watch Seonghwa’s lips part in either want or wonder.

His mouth stays agape even after you stand up and press your body firmly on his. Your nipples clearly show through your top, bra forgone in your rush to get dressed when you saw him, and Seonghwa lets his hands wander up to pinch at them through the thin cotton.

“I take that as a no,” you whisper close to his mouth, letting your breath huff out across his lips. He moves against you with more force now and takes your lips with his own. You’re distracted despite the kiss on account of your hands being busy with your pants and unable to maintain contact without having to pull away to separate your shoes and pants from your body entirely. Seonghwa wraps an arm around your waist to bring you back to him, already attaching himself to your neck and nipping at the mark he left not long ago. “H-How?”

“Ride me—” he twists at the waist “—on the bike.” You’re taken aback by the request, but it also shouldn’t come as much of a surprise given the long list of delightful positions Seonghwa’s taken you in previously. Still, when he pats the back of the seat and slings his own leg over the body, you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to manage this at all. Over the back of the bike? Sure, you’ve done that many times. He’s bent you over the handles several times too, but never like this — with his back to the handlebars and you crawling up to his lap in what feels like a rather precarious position. “I’ve got you, kitten, come on.” Securing a hand on his shoulder, you let Seonghwa hoist you up over his spread legs, fingernails digging into your ass as he brings you down to his lap. You reach down to grab hold of his cock and guide him to your pussy. Normally, you’d love to have some sort of prep, especially with his dick and its size, but that’s far from your concern right now. You’ll regret it tomorrow when you’re sore and aching; by then, you’ll have him in your bed, looking after you and taking care of you, and you can make that his problem to sort out. Right now, you want him inside you and filling you up with a burn and a sting to remember him by.

Seonghwa takes great care to ease you down his length, hands holding you steady and firm. You hiss at the stretch of your walls around him.

“Feet on the rests, kitten, I’ve got you.” You hear the words and react accordingly, but your mind is elsewhere — focused on relaxing as best you can to accommodate his size. When he bottoms out at last, you lean your forehead against his, and he drags his hands up from your ass to massage along your lower back. “Don’t hold onto me, okay? Grab the handlebars.” Your firm glare is hard to miss, especially with your proximity to one another, but it just makes Seonghwa laugh into your cheek. “I’ll keep the bike steady no problem. Gotta put my long legs to use somehow, right?”

“Can’t believe you’re making me do all the work when you were the asshat who disappeared for two months!”

“It’s not too late for me to fuck you face first into the ground, doll, if that’s what you’re wanting,” Seonghwa purrs against the corner of your lips, and you reply with a cheeky kiss that involves you biting the tip of his tongue gently when he tries to explore your mouth.

“Don’t get too excited, baby. It’s my treat tonight.” You feel him twitch inside you as you reach around his body to grab for the handlebars, and the motion forces you to pull up from his cock a bit. He’s watching you with rapt focus, the same unholy expression as before paints his features again now, and it’s borderline intoxicating to see him unravel as you drop back down on his length. The noises of passion between you are reduced to exchanged moans and heavy breaths. For a man who always has something dirty to say, if only to rile you up further, he’s fallen to a mess of stuttered groans and pants that make you bounce on his cock faster and faster.

“Do I feel as — as good as y-you remember?” you ask through the sounds of skin slapping skin. Seonghwa’s whole face contorts and he throws his head back, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer. He scrambles to grab at your waist.

“Even better, s-so much fucking better.”

You tilt your chin towards the sky and laugh through a choppy moan. It’s then that Seonghwa catches you off guard: he eases you back along the seat of the motorcycle, forcing your hands to release the handles and laying you along the length of the seat. It’s not quite long enough to accommodate the position he’s going for, but you understand better when he pulls you down to meet his cock. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust further, driving his cock into you with a rabid passion that fills your stomach with fire and desire. Your dangling feet move to brace against the handlebar, and you plant them firmly against the flat of your foot just as Seonghwa pulls you down some more. Either you can’t control your noises as well like this or he’s simply fucking you better than ever because every thrust knocks a whiny moan out of you. There’s nothing for you to grab onto like this either — not above or around your head at least — so you have to settle for reaching down between your legs and bracing your hands on Seonghwa’s forearms.

“D-Dear fucking god, Hwa,” you whine.

“Touch yourself, touch yourself now, doll, I’m gonna cum soon.” You think you’re just as close yourself, to the point where a minute touch might make you cum embarrassingly quick, but you do as told, moving one of your hands down to roll firm circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You don’t really have to move at all because his movements are doing the work for you. So when the climbing sensation of an impending orgasm starts to overwhelm you, you bring your fingers to a halt and let them press into your clit instead, where Seonghwa’s thrusts can jerk your hand against yourself in a crude form of masturbation.

“P-Please hurry, cum quick please, I’m about to—” your thoughts come to a grinding halt. Your mind goes blank, turning to an empty canvas, then the pleasure explodes and the orgasm shakes your entire body. Your toes curl around the handles in the same way that your back curls away from the seat.

“Inside? Do you want me to cum inside or — fuck, not? In or out?” Seonghwa’s voice is wound so tight that it sounds painful to the ears. You fist the sleeve of his jacket.

“Breed me? In, in, in, please breed me, Hwa.” He doesn’t need more instruction than that. A groan rips through him in time with his finish, and the sensation of his cock releasing hot spurts of cum makes you shiver. He leans back, your legs fall away from the handles, and the afterglow of your sex feels warm and heady. Hands are on your bare thighs, fingers rub deep into your muscles and work against the lingering tremble in them, and the air turns into a song of both your breathing. The whole atmosphere around you two feels sacred once more. You don’t want a single thing to disturb this carefully found peace, not even for a second. Folding your fingers around Seonghwa’s wrist, you use him as leverage to pull yourself up to a sitting position across from him.

All it takes is one quick beckoning motion for him to fall against your lips, granting you the kiss you’re after and securing you in his hold at the same time.

Seonghwa rights himself but keeps a hand firm on your hip as he climbs off the bike, only letting his touch fall away once he’s certain you’re steady and safe on your perch. You watch him tuck his softened dick back into his pants without exchanging words. You’re dazed yet exceptionally and thoroughly satisfied, and that feeling persists for some time. You don’t opt to speak until Seonghwa is bent over and grabbing your pants from the ground.

“Will you stay with me when we get back home?”

Seonghwa jerks his head in your direction. His dark eyes are wide, and you can see the contemplation cross his features even in the low light.

“Yeah, I think I will this time.”

────────────

please like & reblog this work and consider leaving a reply or sharing your thoughts in a reblog or ask!

this work belongs to caly / hongism (2023). do not copy, repost, or plagiarize in any way.

#seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez ff #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #seonghwa imagine #seonghwa imagines #caly.writes

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sleepisapriviligethatidonthave · 2 months ago

Note

Fir the MegOp request: TFA Megatron reaction that TFA Optimus is a space bridge repair worker

Finally I found your ask! I spent a century combing through my notifications XD

Aaaaanyways, here it is! Hope you like it ^^

Megatron swung his swords at the Prime, missing by a wire’s breath when the Autobot ducked and returned the attack in kind. It was a familiar song and dance for the warlord by now, though usually their fights were not so… private.

As luck would have it, both of them had answered an energy anomaly in the forest near Detroit. It had been a rather pleasant surprise to find the young Prime all by his lonesome right after locating the Allspark fragment in the middle of a small clearing in said woods.

“Not too shabby, Autobot. A few more millennia and you might stand a chance at defeating me!” he mocked as he kicked his opponent to the ground. It was almost too easy sometimes, but the Prime always pulled through one way or another.

“I have a name!” snapped Optimus as he rolled just out of reach of Megatron’s pede which left a small crater right where he had been a moment ago, “I am Optimus Prime, and you ought to remember that!” he growled and slashed with his axe at the pede, only grazing the thick warframe armour. Megatron couldn’t help but laugh at the feeble attempt to injure him.

It was always fun to see his enemies infuriated at the fact that he didn’t know their names. He did, but one thing he had learned early on in his gladiatorial career was that an unconcentrated opponent was a weak one. That practice of his had helped him all throughout the war and even after that. It wasn’t often that he met an opponent that kept their cool so well in the face of such disrespect.

“Ah, yes, the rank of Prime. The standards for it have fall quite a bit, haven’t they?” he chuckled with a smirk and parried the angry swing aimed at his helm, throwing the Autobot into the air. Megatron watched with a hint of surprise as his foe flipped in the air and landed square on his pedes, ready to resume their fight. “Or maybe not.” he muttered to himself and went in for another attack.

Few survived an encounter with him and lived long enough to tell the tale. Even fewer willingly went against him again, which made fighting the young mech such a delight.

The little Prime never ceased to surprise. He was always so resourceful and selfless – two qualities he had long believed to be extinct when it came to Autobots. He fought rather rigidly, yes, but he knew when to change tactics in order to secure an advantage. That, he could respect, he could use. If only the Prime wasn’t so foolishly loyal to his rusted cause.

Optimus dodged blaster fire with ease as he shot a grappling hook at one of Megatron’s swords, attempting to seize it.

Megatron grabbed the chord and pulled, sending Prime once again flying through the open sky, but this time luck was not on his side. He smashed against a tree, with a loud crack before falling to the ground, heaving.

“You Autobots never learn, do you? You can not defeat me, even the best of you.” he knew that praising him was a contradictive move, but he had earned it.

It came as a surprise to hear the Prime snort and try to stifle a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Autobot?” the reaction puzzled him. He was about to be offlined and yet here he was, laughing like Megatron had told him the funniest joke in the galaxy.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that, if you really think that an academy washout, space bridge technician is ‘one of the best’, then it’s not the Autobots’ standard that has fallen.” snickered Optimus as he looked up at Megatron with a slag eating grin.

The warlord froze in place, his CPU attempting and failing to process the new information.

“What?”

Optimus laughed even harder, wincing when his vents, damaged by the hit he took, expelled a wheezing sound.

Megatron pressed the tip of one of his swords right against the Autobot’s main fuel line, effectively silencing him. “Explain yourself, now.” he growled menacingly.

“What exactly is there to explain? I already told you the truth. I’m not a fully fledged Prime. Officially I’m not even considered a warrior, no one on my team is. We’re space bridge technicians. Our job was to travel around the corners of the galaxy and repair the Autobot space bridge network.”

Megatron looked at the Prime in disbelief, every interaction they had ever had, replaying itself in the warlord’s mind as small, incongruous details about the team of Autobots slotted themselves into place to finally reveal the horrific truth.

They were no warriors, they were civilians who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. That was why the Elite Guard had done next to nothing to help them. To the great Autobot machine they were fodder, disposable.

Disgust and hatred flashed through Megatron’s field, making Optimus flinch minutely when his own tense one came into contact with his.

This changed everything and nothing at the same time which only infuriated Megatron even more. It was dishonourable to fight against someone who could not face you properly in battle, who was not a warrior. It was Descepticon code, something he himself had put into place to prevent unnecessary carnage in the name of keeping Cybertron populated. Overtime, even the worst of the Descepticons had accepted it as law, even he himself had begun to view it as something on which his honour depended.

And here he was tarnishing it in the worst way imaginable.

“You know, if you ask me, I would much rather fight Cons for the rest of my life than go back to the most boring job in the universe.”

Immediately, Megatron’s helm snapped to the location of the voice only to see the bright yellow Autobot speedster sitting on a tree stump, looking at the bots before him while twirling the forgotten Allspark fragment in his servos.

“Personally, I’d rather be a space bridge technician. Bossbot is right, we aren’t warriors, and I’ll be more than happy to go back to doing what I signed up for.” came the voice of the big green Autobot from the other side of the clearing.

“Quit yer whining, will ya? We still need to save Optimus from Buckethead!” barked the team’s medic as he primed his magnets.

“I do not believe Optimus needs our saving.” chimed in the ninja bot who appeared from behind a tree.

Megatron took in all of the newly gathered Autobots, ignoring the last comment. Before, all he saw was a bunch of low-class warriors with lacking training, but now, he saw them for what they really were. It was so obvious in hindsight, he wanted to kick himself for missing it.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Prowl, I really appreciate it.” Megatron snapped his attention back to his original foe, having thought him incapacitated. Clearly, he had miscalculated again, as a spray of foam hit his faceplates, completely blinding him. He tried moving back, only for his pedes to be restrained in Prime’s grappling hook.

Megatron fell backwards with a grunt. As he tried to regain his sight, he could hear the commotion around him.

“Let’s go before he gets back up and hunts us down!” yelled Optimus. His command was met with no complaints and soon enough Megatron found himself alone on the clearing.

He growled and muttered curses as he cut the chord around his pedes. The mission had been a disaster. Of course, he could give chase to the Autobots and try to retrieve the Allspark fragment, but ultimately decided against it.

Once he finally deemed himself presentable, he gave one last glance to the direction in which the Autobot team retreated, sighed, and began the journey back to the Descepticon hideout. He was in no mood to rush back just to deal with his subordinates, so he opted to walk. That way he had some time to mull over the new information he had obtained and formulate a plan…

And think of a way to break the news to his Descepticons without causing a riot.

#megop #megatron #optimus prime #transformers #maccadam #tfa #answered asks #asks #asks open #ask game

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merumis · 3 months ago

Text

you gave kuroo a notebook last may—he hasn't quite had the courage to open it yet.

it's almost august now; it's that sticky kind of heat outside, the one that clings to both his skin and the inside of his lungs, so he's stuck in his childhood room. there's a rickety fan that keeps blowing half-cooled air into his face and downstairs, he can hear his father talking to his grandparents. something about dad's hardware store, something about a new employee, something about grandma wanting to make grandpa's favorite for dinner tonight.

the fan keeps lifting the cover of the notebook up. it's sitting on kuroo's desk. to his right, between all the remnants of last semester's college apartment that he couldn't leave there this summer: an air purifier his mom sent him (it was a peace offering, he thinks, after a particularly bad phone call. he doesn't think he forgave her), a box of his dishes, filled with cracks from his shitty dishwasher, and a bread basket you thrifted him. just to name a few.

and still, between the clutter, the breeze from the fan lifts only the cover—just enough for it to catch his eye. he reaches over to grab it, playing with the cover, bending the spine and flicking through the pages. it's an old notebook, well-worn and imprinted by your fingertips. the leather bends and gives where you would've held it, or where it would've jumbled around in your bag—molded by textbooks and pencil cases and your laptop.

he supposes he'll see you again next month, so now is as good a time as any to open this. you've been awfully incurious regarding this whole thing—sending him texts about your and his internships more than anything else. he's been partially grateful.

it's not that he doesn't want to read it. he doesn’t know quite how else to say it. he’s watched you scribble in this thing over the course of the year. it’s almost always late at night, in his bed or yours, lit only by his half-broken lamp or yours, gifted by a professor who you get lunch with every other week.

it was never that he didn’t want to read it—he means it, really. he’d always try to sneak glances while you were writing in it, and you’d tsk and laugh at him while pulling the papers up to your chest. in a weird way, it felt wrong to read it after you’d given it to him—like he hadn’t earned it, or like he’d be looking at something all too personal that hadn’t been there during all those failed attempts.

the fan lifts up the cover again, and this time, he sneaks his index finger under it, flipping to the first page.

i don’t normally fill the first pages of notebooks, it reads, scrawled out in your too-neat handwriting that he’s always made fun of. but it’s a good thing, you continue, because this way i get to fill this page with this. you finally get your way, tetsurou. you can read the notebook. i’m so—underlined three times, drawn a little darker, he can feel the sarcasm seeping through the pencil led—proud of you.

and then at the bottom, one more bit.

and by the way, do NOT tell me when you read this. don’t even mention it to me at all. this is embarrassing enough as is.

he lets out that stupid breath of laughter through his nose. those uninterested texts suddenly make a little more sense. he turns the next page.

i’ve met someone infuriating, it reads. crooked smiles, tequila-drenched breath, eyes made just to match. he leans in close when he speaks, laughter bubbling between words and fanning his warm breath across my ear and neck.

and then there’s that pull. i couldn’t put a name to it if i tried. that sweet tingling across my skin whenever he gets close enough; it feels like someone’s placed magnets beneath the surface of my flesh, and he’s holding their pair.

i knew we were going to kiss before he ever got that close—and i think he did too. he was too warm, too enticing, too, well, magnetic for anything else. and i love watching his brows furrow at the sound of my voice—indifferent, maybe a little cold. a comment about his big nose in return for one about my pretty eyes.

and all at once, kuroo knows this moment. the fan acts as a poor imitation of the cool october breeze—but it feels similar, all the same. it wasn’t quite halloween but at every party, you could see hints of it popping up in the corners. window decals of a witch and a ghost hanging in someone’s room, pumpkin carving kits tucked against the wall because no one had planned for a place to store them.

it was hardly the first time he’d talked to you—much less the first time he’d seen you—but you are right. he did know he was going to kiss you that night.

the fan catches one of his old posters behind him—making the thick paper scrape against his wall. the noise makes him turn. it’s an old periodic table (groan) and now it’s starting to get a little tattered at the edges. the fan catches again, this time on the notebook, and flips to another page.

kuroo allows it—call it fate or languor—and flattens out the notebook onto this new page.

i don’t know if you know this, it starts, but you fell asleep last night. shocking, i know, but it was before me, in my bed. you were sprawled out on my sheets—taking every inch of space you could in my mediocre full-size.

two weeks ago you told me you loved me. i didn’t know what to say. i laughed and kissed you and maybe said thank you. you took it like a champ while i dipped tofu into panko crumbs.

but tonight, i whispered it to you. once, twice, a third time—my lips brushing against the curve of your ear. i stopped every time you tossed or turned—i love, i would begin, and then hold my breath until your body stilled against mine. you, i breathed out. warm and all mine for tonight.

and kuroo has always known that you’re a writer—a good one, at that, from all those nights reading over your latest essay or poem for class, but this is different.

you like to write break-up poems for class—all about him, all fictionalized (he hopes) and all there to get a bit of a rise out of him, he knows. you love to write about the grand, the grotesque, things that he couldn’t put words to describe and you always did.

you had never written about him like this. or not to his face, anyway, and yet here it was—laid out in front of him, your handwriting looping around the college-ruled lines.

he flicks through a few more pages, fanning them out underneath the slow glide of his thumb—the fan swirling them in front of him faster than he wants, so he has to do it once, twice, and then again—a third. they’re not all about him, some are about her roommate, others about an essay or a concept that kuroo couldn’t put a name to. but most center him—in one view or another.

his grandmother clatters a few pans downstairs, a sharp clanging of metal hitting just beneath his floors. he can hear his dad call to her, his grandfather watching the tv 4 clicks too loud.

but here, with his rickety fan and tattered posters and his claustrophobic childhood scattered around him, he also has you. his phone buzzes next to him.

i think my job hates me btw, you send, and then another. how was your day off?

good, he replies, read a little.

anything good?

and because kuroo is so compliant to your word—perhaps maliciously so—he replies.

eh. not really. he smiles to only himself. maybe i’ll tell you about it later.

#LOL this one is shorter than i expected it to be but that's okay i think #i wrote this half on my laptop and half on my phone so i'm not responsible for any inconsistencies #hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #haikyuu x reader #x reader #kuroo x you

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cinnahoons · 4 months ago

Text

visions of gideon - (n. riki) 𖤓

— to love, is to trust.

p. criminal!nishimura riki x criminal!reader w. 2.8k

genres & warnings. angst, partners in crime, established relationship, guns, blood, death & killing, very slight character study, riki is complicated but reader gets it, tears and more tears, cussing, did i mention angst, this has been stuck in my pea brain for so long pls bear with me

“I won’t let anything happen.”

Rain pelts against the windows of the dark cabin. It cracks against glass like shards of ice, sharp and stabbing; a staccato of impending doom.

“Stop—acting like everything’s fine,” you snap, agitated. You’re cradling a pistol in your arms, huddled on the wooden floor with your knees up like they might shield you from your current predicament. It’s dark, dark enough that you can barely make out the ashen metal against your skin.

Riki turns around, silvery moonlight glistening across his black hair. It shimmers like a frozen lake; crystalline. He fixes you with an authoritative glare, one you can only outline by the grace of the moon.

“I need you to trust me, Y/N.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a deep breath coursing through your lungs in an attempt to quell the anger that simmers just below your collarbones.

“I do. That’s all I’ve been doing. Trusting you.” You toss your arms out, suddenly gesturing wildly around the dark cabin. “But this is different, Riki. This time, they have us. They fucking have us.”

Something like guilt flashes in his eyes for a passing moment, and then it’s gone. His jaw hardens.

“By the skin of their teeth,” he retorts, crossing the room to squat in front of you. His boots crack against the wood. “Listen. They have us surrounded, but we’re smarter than them. We have a straight shot from the cabin door to the trees. The lake isn’t much farther. We’ll swim it.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes. The anger in your chest has given way to something heavier, sharper. Pure, unadulterated fear.

“It’s too dangerous. They’ll shoot us.”

Riki frowns, a marvelous thing. His arms come down to your shoulders, giving you a little shake.

“You can’t cry now,” he scolds. “I told you, I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

You draw your lips into a line, hot tears slipping past the chapped skin. It’s infuriating. In all your years of skirting around danger with Riki; pulling off heists, sprinting down guarded alleys, gunfights with gangs looking to score the bounty on your heads…nothing has ever shaken you like this. You’ve never been compromised in this way, and it’s terrifying.

“But—what about you?”

A flash of white. Riki’s teeth; he’s smiling. He reaches behind his back, pulling out a dark, heavy pistol.

“Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

You stare at it, eyes wet, before nodding slowly. He’s right. You’re not thinking straight. Youve done this before.

You reach a shaky hand down to your lap, wrapping your fingers around your own pistol. It’s cold and solid against your palm. Riki watches you with something careful in his eyes. It’s almost like he’s relieved that you’ve finally snapped into your usual resolve.

He stands up, beckoning you with his gun. The floor creaks as you both make your way to the door, guided by the light that flushes through the window. He signals you to stop.

“Remember, as soon as we step outside this door, they’ll close in. We need to move fast.”

You nod. Your neck feels stiff; cold. The rain outside has slowed. It sounds like a gentle drizzle now, taps against the window that are hardly noticeable. Your fingers flex in anticipation.

You catch Riki’s eye as he leans into the door. He’s all sharp angles and deep shadows, but there’s a curiosity that seeps through him like sticky pine sap. He’s an enigma, really. Quietly self-assured but with a wide-eyed innocence all the same. It’s exactly why you fell in love with him. Why all those years ago; you followed him. Why you’ll follow him today.

“I love you,” you tell him, because you can. His brows soften.

“You can say that when we make it to the lake.”

You don’t say anything else. He’s said I love you back.

It’s what’s most important to him. To love, is to trust. There is no greater gift.

The door swings open.

The moonlight is odd now. Sickly. There’s an incessant buzz that you imagine the drizzle might sound like; a thousand roaring droplets. Run, they chant. Run for your life.

Soil crunches beneath your feet. Are you running? You’re running. Riki is running.

There’s a splintering to your left. No, to your right. Or was that behind you?

Everything blurs around you. Shadowy forms lurk on your periphery, slinking around like in your particularly awful nightmares. A chill runs through your veins. And suddenly, there’s yelling. Loud, horrid sounds; a chorus of angry commands, and then—gunfire? A bullet whizzes past your ear. You duck, hissing.

“A thousand times, Y/N,” Riki yells over his shoulder. His gun fires loudly as he lifts his arm up and pulls the trigger. You think you see a body crumple to the ground.

There he is. So sure. So trusting.

You lift your own gun, firing it at an agent that’s been popping up in your line of sight often enough to piss you off. He grunts, shoulder flying back as he stumbles, wounded.

There’s a commotion to your left, a cluster of agents that have broken off together and are firing in your direction. Their bullets crack like dynamite in the night air, loud and bright.

A searing pain shoots through your leg as one of the bullets grazes your skin. You stumble, but Riki is there, grabbing your arm and pulling you forward.

“Keep moving!” He shouts, his voice laced with urgency.

You grit your teeth. There’s a feeling blooming in your chest, a sort of technicolor that winds and oozes around your bones. It tells you to push through the pain.

There’s a spattering of trees not too far ahead. They offer some semblance of cover, but the agents are relentless. One lunges from the side, giving you a hair's-breadth of a second to react. You twist, slamming the butt of your gun into his face. He drops with a groan, but the others are quick to follow.

Your grip tightens. Together, you and Riki press forward, firing off bullets in quick succession. Each shot is calculated, deliberate. Another agent falls, then another.

There’s a dark blur, and then suddenly Riki is being tackled to the floor. He hits the ground hard, gun flying out of his hand. An agent has him pinned.

“Riki,” you gasp.

You try to fire at the agent, but the shot goes wide. He grins, pressing his advantage, but Riki manages to get an arm free, grabbing a rock and smashing it to his temple. The agent slumps immediately, unconscious, and Riki shoves him off with a groan.

You grab him by the arm after he grabs his gun, pulling him along while bullets zip past. He curses loudly, turning to you with bright, clear eyes.

“We need to split up,” he says, breathless. “They won’t follow us both.”

“No fucking way,” you argue, but he’s already breaking away, squeezing your hand before he’s yelling loudly at a group of agents. They charge at him, guns aimed.

You take a short, squeezing breath. With Riki distracting them, you have a chance to make it to the grove of trees just before the lake. You press on, a dull ache spreading through your leg with every sharp jolt of boot to soil. Wind whips across your face. The rain is gone now, but the darkness still makes it difficult to see where you’re going.

You lose count of how long you’ve been running when your surroundings change from practically barren, vast land to the dense forest that Riki had mentioned earlier. There’s a whirring sound in your ears, damp air escaping your mouth when you collapse against a large tree trunk. It’s even darker here, pale moonlight barely reaching through the dense foliage overhead. A cold sweat drips down your back; you can feel your heartbeat in your leg.

Looking down, you finally catch sight of what damage the bullet inflicted. There’s a fleshy pink hole visible through the fabric of your pants from where the bullet grazed you, dark red blood pooling over it. You dart your eyes up to the sky, stomach turning. The pain is dull, probably from the adrenaline. It’s going to be a real bitch later.

Now, sitting here, the forest is quiet—alarmingly so. You belatedly realize that maybe you should be pushing on towards the lake, but you can’t bring yourself to strain upwards onto your feet. Your head falls back against the tree trunk, willing yourself to take steady breaths as your head swims with exhaustion.

A rustle in the underbrush snaps you to attention. Your heart flips, fear flooding your senses. You reach silently for your gun, aiming it shakily at the source of the noise. There’s a shifting in the shadows, and then a figure emerges—it’s Riki. Your arm falls, relief washing over you in waves.

“Riki,” you whisper. “You’re okay.”

His eyes widen when he sees you, and he rushes over, boots crunching as he crouches beside you. He lays his gun on the ground, hands ghosting over your extended leg.

“I lost them,” he mutters distractedly. “Damn it, Y/N.”

His eyes are dark and narrowed, glazed over with concern. You let a little shiver wrack over your body before hardening your jaw.

“It’s just a graze,” you say, trying to sound more convinced than you are. “I can still walk.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“We still need to swim the lake. Can you do it?”

You pause, and then you try to smile at him. It comes off more like a grimace.

“That should clean it out,” you joke.

Riki frowns, eyes dropping to your leg again.

“Funny,” he deadpans.

His next movements are swift. He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. He grabs the bottom hem of his shirt, slicing a long piece of fabric. The knife falls, and he moves toward your leg. Gingerly, he lifts it up, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress. When he’s met with nothing, he wraps the fabric around your leg, above your wound. Tying it, he pulls it tight enough to act as a tourniquet.

“This won’t help for long, but it’s something,” he murmurs, voice low. “We’ll get you to the medical contact I have as soon as we’re out of here, okay?”

You nod, slightly sluggish. Riki moves closer to you, reaching his arm around your back and using his shoulder to hoist you up so that you’re finally standing again. You breathe evenly, focusing on the feeling of your boots on the ground.

“We need to keep moving,” he tells you, his voice apologetic. You sigh.

“I know. Let’s get on with it.”

Immediately, Riki tries to wrap an arm around your shoulders to have you lean on him, but you shake your head.

“Just—let me do this,” you tell him, putting a little distance between the two of you. “I don’t fall down that easy.”

He raises a speculative brow, but seems to think better of trying to argue with you. Instead, he turns around silently, keeping his gun close at his side.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, the only audible sounds being the various chirps and buzzing of whatever insects live in the forest. It’s colder now, too, the type of cold that comes after a bountiful rain. It’s sharp and biting. You pull the jacket you’ve been wearing a little tighter to your chest.

There’s something bothering you. It’s like an itch, maybe. A senseless, baseless thing. It crawls up the length of your spine and sends a rigid, uneasy feeling to lodge itself at the bottom of your throat. You wonder—is it your leg? The blood loss must be causing ghost sensations to travel all around your body. You feel them, but they’re not there. That must be it.

But then there’s the chill. The knowing.

How long have you and Riki been walking?

How long have you and Riki been walking towards the lake?

How long have you and Riki been walking towards the lake, without looking back?

A gun clicks. Your blood runs cold.

When you turn around, nothing feels real. There’s a man; an agent. He’s alone. He steps out from behind a large tree, his gun trained directly on you. The forest seems to hold its breath. The agent’s eyes are shadowy, a cruel smirk playing upon his lips. He cocks his head at you, mocking.

“Riki,” you choke out. You can barely hear your own voice through the sound of blood roaring in your ears.

Riki’s boots scuff from behind you as he comes to what you assume to be a languid stop. You can hear a trickle of fondness in his voice when he speaks.

“Are you finally coming to your senses and letting me—”

A terrible, screeching halt. You blink, but your eyes feel numb. Trust, trust, trust. To love is to trust. You trusted him, he trusted you. You’ve tiptoed to the eleventh hour, and now the axe must fall.

“Don’t do this,” you rasp.

A deafening blast sends a flurry of birds up through the canopy.

There’s a lily.

It’s dripping rainwater. You try to reach out and touch it, but you have three-thousand arms and two-thirds of your fingers. A pale halo of light caresses its milky petals, illuminating a spattering of iridescent droplets.

No.

Are you allowed to touch it? Or must good things stay unaltered?

No, please.

It’s okay, you think, to just be content with watching it from where you are. There’s no sense in disturbing what has been or what could have been.

Three perfect droplets roll right off the beautiful lily, plopping earnestly on your cheek. How did they get there? They’re salty, your skin says.

A dark shadow engulfs your vision.

When your eyes flutter open, Riki is crouched over you.

His hands fly uselessly over your abdomen, fingers stained scarlet. You can feel his frame against your body, shaking. And when you take a wheezing breath, his eyes fly up to yours. There are wet marks on his cheeks, like tears had had their way with him.

“Jesus fuck,” he moves fast, cupping his trembling hands against either side of your face. They leave bloody prints on your skin. “Just—stay with me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

You swallow in your throat, your eyes moving sluggishly to the area in front of you. The agent who shot you is crumpled in an awkward pile on the ground, a gory hole drilled into the center of his forehead. You have to fight the urge to smile. It hurts too much to move more than your eyes, anyway.

Riki brushes hair off your face, causing your gaze to snap back over. His eyes look so different to what you remember. Where there was once a somber serenity, there is now an ocean of uncertainty; glistening with more unshed tears. You make a sound in the back of your throat.

Riki’s hands tremble harder against your skin. They slip and slide as he tries to caress your cheek. It’s almost pathetic.

“I know it—I know it hurts, Y/N. Just…” he pauses, cursing under his breath. “You can’t leave, okay? You’re not ready. I’m not ready.”

You can see it now—the boy inside him. He’s only eighteen, burdened by a life he chose with you years ago; a choice, which was made under bitter loneliness, and disguised by ardor.

Trust is his vice, because it’s all he’s never known.

Slowly, and with all the strength you can muster, you bring a cold, shaky hand up towards your face, cupping the back of his own and leaning your head towards it as much as you can. He lets a quiet sob wrack through his body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers fiercely. “I’m so sorry. You trusted me.”

I don’t blame you, is what you wish you could say. Instead, your eyelids droop with a heaviness so extreme that they fall shut. Riki jolts immediately, his futile hands scrabbling for purchase against your face, trying desperately to keep you awake.

“Stop trying to die on me,” his voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes flicker open.

But then his face falls more, if that’s even possible. Guilt will eat him alive.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I love you. All you did was love me back.”

You try to shake your head, but nothing moves. Riki’s eyes fall shut for a brief moment.

“You can rest.” The words ring muffled in your ears. “It’s going to be okay.”

You think you can feel a kiss pressed against your cheek, but, oh, the lily is back, and you think you’d like to go off after it. It holds you close to its chest.

And, even in death, there is nobody you trust more.

tags! @vousty @hittoki @neos127 @junityy

#enhypen #k-labels #enhypen x reader #enha imagines #ni ki enhypen #riki enhypen #riki nishimura x reader #ni ki x reader #enhypen angst #enha angst #nishimura riki #enhypen drabbles #enhypen headcanons #ni ki angst #riki angst #enhypen fic #enhypen scenarios

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ihtherik · 3 months ago

Text

When You Bare Your Teeth It Almost Looks like a Smile

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav (not described)

Astarion’s POV

SFW/Fluff/Angst (seriously there’s no s€x here)

Summary: Set in Act 2 when the group begins scouring Moonrise Towers and Astarion and Tav encounter Araj Oblodra, the Drow blood merchant. She won’t take no for an answer, and learns why that is a very very stupid thing to do.

~3.2 K words

Bit of a deviation from the canon interactions/dialogue and what the outcome is because ummm little guard dog with her love that most certainly does doesn’t need one is a trope I LOVE and needed to vomit out a lil flash fic at 1 AM last night to perform catharsis help I also kind of made myself sad

I may get this posted on my AO3?

I also will post the next part of Turn My Heart to a Spade soon!!!

“Oh, but I’d prefer if you did.”

The sneering Drow’s reply to his assurances that he would not bite anyone doesn’t quite register for Astarion before she lets slip another gut-reeling string of words, this time directed at you.

“I assume he belongs to you? Judging by the way he’s clung to your shadow since you walked up…” her laugh is mirthful, the metallic smear of red around the blue-grey skin of her eyelids crinkling and cracking in her amusement. “It’s a truly remarkable boon, to have had a spawn at your beck and call during your trek through the Shadow-cursed lands. I’d be remiss and dishonest to say I’m not jealous.”

His pale brows furrow as an unfamiliar emotion hits him. Maybe unfamiliar isn’t right, but he’s been so long separated from it that encountering it again feels like meeting a stranger he’s all too wary of.

Much like how he felt when he met you.

Kind, generous, trusting, infuriating you.

Oh, how he loathed being proven wrong. Having his tried and true skills of determining who people are and what they want sidestepped, his—sometimes hastily drawn—conclusions about things tipped on their heads like a cat swiping a cup off a table. Mostly by you. Endearingly and maddeningly.

For Gods’ sakes, he is supposed to be the unpredictable, unreadable, unflappable one. It’s his armour. His sodding lifeline. When one is in control of their faculties and has only themselves to rely on, their ability to save themselves is entirely up to their skills, or lack thereof.

But you, you whose only purpose was to take a fall or stab (sometimes literally) for him, has somehow managed to get him to willingly hand over the one thing that could kill him.

His trust.

It had kept him from trancing, some nights, gnawing the inside of his lip to shreds while going over every possible scenario in which his trust could be wielded against him.

Yet thus far, you’d not only permitted, but encouraged him to hold the other metaphorical end of it.

Both in battle, and in his bedroll.

He wonders most days if you know. If you’ve caught onto what he’s now realized was a very poorly conceived ploy. He has to tell you, at some point.

There’d been a humbling, blind fierceness in every fiber of your being when you last drew your weapon for him—looking up at the devil Yugir as if he didn’t have his crossbow bolt aimed right between your glaring brows. You swung and hacked and sliced like it was your soul you were fighting for, not his.

You’d done more than received his trust, you’d earned the right to hold it.

And here he is, silently watching, pleading, mentally tugging on the other end like a child grasping at their mother’s shirt—hoping you feel it.

“He has a name,” your voice appears as even as ever to the average onlooker, and certainly to this Drow; but there’s a strain, a warning that Astarion can detect that, to him, feels like the gentlest tug back from your end on the rope.

“Is that so? How quaint,” the Drow tilts her head. Turning her attention back to him, she appraises him from his boots up to his curls with a gaze that makes that strange, ugly feeling swell again. “Do indulge me then, what are you called, spawn?”

“Astarion—but-hold on—“

“Well, Astarion,” the way her tongue flicks over every syllable of his name puts a crinkle of disgust on the slope of his nose. So unlike how you say it. Usually uttered, quick and delicate, the ‘Ah’ nearly clipped off—shortening it to ‘Starion. Familiar and sweet and warm. “I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl.”

His disbelief manifests in the way he stutters over his words, managing to compose himself into a semblance of his normal character by the end of his reply. “You—What? I’m sorry, You—you want to be bitten?”

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance between the edge of life and death? Yes, I want it.”

Though he’s already decided that this woman is, in fact, a stem short of a brain, the arrangement she proposes catches his attention. And not in any way that’s enticing. A likely dangerous and potentially faulty potion in exchange for drinking her blood is a shoddy deal at best, and a revolting one at worst. Her blood smells foul. Acrid. He can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, which only worries him more. Not a sort of sickly sweet smell of decay like Gale’s. Nor is it twinged with something medicinal like Halsin’s, or like the pleasant muddle of Shadowheart’s half-elven and half-human blood. And certainly not like yours.

Putting on all the politeness he can muster, which is already more than the Drow deserves, he replies.

“I will have to…erm, decline.”

“Excuse me?” The Drow scoffs, displeasure creasing the space between her brows. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you’re squandering it.”

“I gave you my answer,” he shocks himself with the lack of grace he speaks with, voice lowered and snarling. He used to be so good at evading people like her. What the Hells has gotten into him?

Tutting, the Drow turns back to you. “Can you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?” Addressing you like he’s not in the room, with scant more respect for you than she had for him.

Proving the Drow’s earlier observation right—as loyal as a bloody mutt—he looks to you, anxiety tightening the muscles over his stomach. The scenarios begin to churn in his mind, the worst among them not even that of you asking him to bite her to get the potion—but instead acquiescing his wants in front of the Drow only to reprimand or even punish him in some way later.

They come to a hilt as both he and the Drow await your move, holding his breath.

Then, you do something that manages to stun, relieve, and thrill him all at once.

You smile.

Though a half of a head shorter than him, and barely a few inches taller than the Drow, your presence seems to swell to intimidating heights among the three of you.

“My, you are slow on the uptake, Ms. Araj,” you speak with a lowered, gentle voice, one which commands the both of them to listen carefully—maybe even get closer, though at this point the Drow would have to have a death wish to get within stabbing distance of you. How dreadful, and disappointing, to Astarion; that the ominous and certain threat in your voice still yet seems to fly over the Drow’s head.

And how entertaining it will surely be to watch her pomp crumble in a few moments.

“My dear companion deigned to give you his name and answer, twice. I would pity the other acolytes and pilgrims here—if I cared for their lives—for the mere cruelty it is to converse with you in any capacity.”

Dear companion? Now this is new. And not…entirely unpleasant.

“I’m—sorry, I—“ the Drow’s poise wavers, though outrage still lines the edges of her voice.

“You will be sorry, if you do not shut your Godsdamned mouth while I speak,” you let the full fury of your voice be felt, though you have yet to raise it past what can be heard within five paces of the Blood Merchant.

As a meager credit to the Drow’s intelligence, she does snap her jaw shut. Astarion’s lips curl all the higher with each passing second.

“As I was saying—though I do not pity the acolytes here for the ordeal it must be to give you some form of station here, I think I have reason enough to remove you from it. For how you have treated my—for how you have treated Astarion,” your smile beams brighter, not a crease beneath your eyes to suggest you’re anything but seething. He realizes, in a way, you’re baring your teeth for him. The near possessive slip seems to loosen the anxiety in his frame, slightly. But your self-correction helps more.

“You may be a True Soul, but you don’t have any authority to—“ the Drow’s lips suddenly quiver shut again, but clearly not of her own doing. Astarion glances at you and his own tadpole wriggles as he feels yours come to life.

“I should have been more specific,” you sigh, your tadpole holding the Drow rigid. Brushing past him, you beckon with your finger as you move towards the balcony’s doorway across the room. The Drow begins to follow, feet shuffling awkwardly as the fear wells in her eyes. He’s not used to feeling planted to the floor, but for a moment he can only watch in gleeful disbelief at what you’re doing. He picks up his feet at the Drow crosses the threshold and slips out to the balcony with the two of you.

“When I said I had reason enough to remove you from your station, I meant that in less of a bureaucratic sense—I mean literally remove you from it,” you continue to hold the conversation calmly, one-sidedly, as you turn back to look at the Drow from the stacked-stone guardrail. You point and snap your fingers, gesturing to the one spot on this balcony where the stones have broken off and fallen down to the inky, boulder filled shallows at the bottom of the tower. The Drow moves even more resistantly as the psionic force from your tadpole urges her to obey, but eventually she stands at its edge.

“Tell me, Araj, would you like the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel what it’s like to fly? All you have to do—“ you lay a hand upon her back, just between her shoulder blades, giving her the slightest nudge. “Is step off.”

Astarion hears a strange, strained sounding humming, and realizes it’s the Drow trying to plead behind sealed lips.

“Oh—but it’s a simple exchange, really! And I’m a woman of my word. You step off, and I cast ‘Fly’ upon you. The only risk is if you fall too quickly, well—then my spell won’t reach you in time…and I’ve only seen it happen once before, but to fall from this height? Your body would pop like a champagne bottle thrown to the floor. Skin and muscle and bone will split, and all your warm guts and blood will burst and spray everywhere. What do you say? In my mind, it’d be plain idiotic to squander an opportunity like this.”

You turn back, meeting Astarion’s eye. Within yours, he can see a volatile mix ready to explode. Wrath. Outrage. A cruel hunger for revenge.

But even with those powerful emotions threatening to overtake you, there’s a tenuous thread of patience still wavering. Patience, and a question: that which asks for his permission. To not merely act or speak on his behalf, but decide whether or not to take this woman’s life for the affronts to his dignity and autonomy.

Indignation. Righteous indignation.

That is the feeling that’s been gnawing at him, the words for which he couldn’t recall until now. And it’s all because of you. Because you’ve refused to let him think of himself, talk about himself, treat himself, like a loaner to his own body and mind. Stepping off the wall, he approaches the two of you with a swagger.

First taking hold of a strap on the Drow’s armor, he then plants a steady foot on a piece of the stone guardrail to hold himself upright. Looking to you with a reassuring smirk, you step back, and with a rough shove Astarion sends the Drow’s upper half forward, dangling her precariously over the edge of the balcony. He lets her moan and protest wildly behind her teeth for a moment longer before nodding to you, and you release her from the hold of the tadpole. She takes a ragged gasp, as if preparing to scream, and he leans in to her ear.

“Now now, Araj, let’s not arouse any undesirable attention from the guards, hm?”

Stifling a groan of fear, her arms unsteadily pinwheel in the air as her feet try to find solid stone, and not the edge which Astarion has forced her onto.

“I think I’m feeling generous, so close to the overwhelming splendor of the Absolute—“ he mocks the name of the so-called deity that had proven itself a thorn in their group’s side thus far. “Whom, need I mention, blessed and deemed me a True Soul, just like my dear companion.”

Throwing a conspiratorial smile your way, it deflates only slightly to see your face set so tightly, all but trembling in anger. Not at him, of course. With a sigh, he tuts and yanks the Drow from the edge, throwing her to the stone floor of the balcony further in. She scrambles back from the both of you. Following her towards the door with unhurried steps, he tilts his head in the same mocking way she had before addressing her once more. “The next time someone tells you ‘no’, Drow, I suggest you not argue. You might not be so lucky next time.”

—

The two of you eventually reconvene with the remainder of your group, and after determining your next move you all settle within an abandoned wing of the tower for the night.

Neither of you relay what happened to the rest of your companions—and in turn don’t find an easy opportunity to address it with each other, until the others have gone to bed.

He finds you hunched over your pack, inventorying your potions yet again—worrying and fidgeting his hands and fingers as he approaches.

“I think we’ll come across more, we’ve not unlocked every door in this bloody tower,” he offers—sounding uncharacteristically optimistic. It betrays just how uncertain and uncomfortable he feels about what he’s actually come over to say to you.

“Ah, I know. Just a bit paranoid since we got here. We had our asses kicked out in Reithwin, then again when we took care of Raphael’s dirty laundry—and to walk in to that whole spectacle with Thorm? Gods above—“ you huff, coaxing a genuine smile to Astarion’s face. Finally you turn, rising from your crouched position with a tired, lopsided grin. It falters as you take in his expression, and Astarion worries he’ll collapse in on himself if you look at him for a moment longer like you currently are.

Like you’re concerned about him. Which you are. Like you care for him. Which you do.

Like you love him.

“Everything alright, ‘Starion?”

“Oh—yes, of course I’m fine-“ he stumbles over every word, his charming, easy, impervious shell cracking. “It’s just that…I feel—awful.”

You push aside your own exhaustion, giving him your full attention—of course you do. You ask him why. He’d almost rather pull his own fangs out than confess what he’s about to. But as you listen, as you take in everything he hurries and tries to explain or make excuses for, your expression does not change. Not for the worse, anyway. Those same shining, gentle eyes hold his, and make his undead heart swell. He makes sure to express his gratitude, for how you stood up to the Drow—but even more so for letting him decide.

“Well—yeah,” you sheepishly look down at your feet, scrubbing at the back of your hair. He almost can’t take it, how wonderful you are. “I wasn’t going to rob you of that satisfaction,” you joke. Sighing, you meet his eye again. “I was ready to kill her, Astarion. You know I was. But then… I wouldn’t have done anything for you. Not really. Who’d’ve been empowered if I’d done it? Definitely not you. So, sorry for almost doing that. I was…well, I was fucking pissed.”

He’s not sure if he can recall how to breathe. How could you be apologetic right now, when you were ready to defend him like some knight in shining armor? He came here to apologize to you, not the other way around.

“Hells, darling, I might find an opportunity to make you a villain yet,” he offers you a small smile, voice soft.

You reciprocate, your cheeks dusted with a blush illuminated by the few candles lit outside your tent.

“So, um…what you said—about forcing yourself through-does that mean our—erm,” you try to be so cordial, so empathetic, even though pain seeps from every pore at the implication of what he said.

“No—no, darling,” he rushes out, taking a breath. “Being…close to someone, it just…it was always something I did, had to do, to lure people back—for him. I—want us to be different. I know we are. But intimacy feels…” he struggles to articulate it, feeling your eyes on him even as his own flit around the shadows of the room. “…tainted. I just…don’t know how else to be with someone, no matter how much I’d like to.”

“I care about you, Astarion,” you murmur after a heavy pause, and he manages to find your eyes again.

“Really?” He asks, throat filled with a bubble of emotion that threatens to burst.

And where words failing him and the inability to wield his body would normally make him feel completely hollow—a useless husk of a man—the embrace your arms suddenly surround him in makes him seem…whole. Solid.

And unfortunately, capable of dragging him down to the depths of sadness and pain with how heavy he now feels.

However, your arms around him remind him that you’re there with him. That you will be there with him no matter what, Gods and Devils and Mindflayers be damned.

Astarion remembers how to use his own as realizes they’ve been merely hovering, outstretched, and hugs you back. You tighten around him, sighing into his shirt.

He closes his eyes, nuzzling his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck—looking for those places he’d be happily cradled in for the rest of his thus-far miserable life.

When you eventually pull back—Astarion’s hands linger at your waist, his fingers almost curling around your shirt to tug you back in.

“You’re—um-full of surprises,” he musters a shaky smile, which you reciprocate, warmly.

“I am yours until you tire of me, Astarion,” you offer half-jokingly, the gravity of which does not go amiss in his mind.

“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t sleep—so don’t get your hopes up for being rid of me, darling.”

Your eyes crease, nearly obscuring your irises as you smile.

“I love you, Astarion,” the words are carried from your lips on a breath as it slips out—falling tenderly as a kiss to his ears and piercing as true as an arrow through his heart.

You can tell as much, stepping forward into his arms once more to squeeze his hand and reassure him. “You—you don’t have to say it back. I just want—need you to know that. In the event we die tomorrow or something. Very real possibility, given our dwindling potions.”

“Oh. Well. If we’re telling each other things we need to know, I suppose I should tell you how I’ve been building a stash of potions I’ve erm…borrowed from you, then. You know, clearing guilty consciences and all,” he counters, squeezing your hand back. “I’ll share them with you—as a last resort—of course.” You snort, and then fall into a fit of giggles that he’s dragged into all too easily.

After a considerable effort and a number of failed attempts to stop laughing, a sharp ‘Tsk’va’ uttered from Lae’zel’s tent nearby finally manages to silence you both as you slip into his tent, you staying awake only long enough for him to clear the bedroll of clutter and shake the blankets out.

As you settle your cheek on his chest, snuggled up to his side, his lips press idle kisses to your forehead and hair, desiring to commit your smell, warmth, and weight in his arms to memory.

He eventually slips into a trance—for once, one not filled with crimson eyes and shadows and death—but your sweet smile, laugh, and the way those three words he once longed to forget sound in your voice.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x female tav #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #fluff #fanfic #short fiction

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prettyrenjunn · 7 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫

haechan x f!reader

themes- best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff & crack

summary- haechan gets unnecessarily jealous a lot considering you’re just little ole’ best friends and it takes renjun pointing it out for him to realise.

it’s my first time writing like this i wanted to try it out but damn it’s hard. also if there’s mistakes… my bad

he’s ridiculous.

you think he might need a smack to the back of his head to finally come to his senses but you keep your hands to yourself, no matter how infuriating he is. “hyuck there’s nothing to be upset over.”

he’s going to deny it. he always does. “i’m not upset!” he grumbled back. “i just don’t understand why you and jeno were partners when we’re always partners.”

you can’t even fathom why he’s so upset you had a different partner for your friend groups game night but for some reason he always gets like this. you know donghyuck’s a clinger and he loves to be by your side with your attention on him as much as possible but god you were sick of this. “i’m not seeing the problem? i can partner up with whoever i want its not like we took a blood oath to always partner with eachother.”

it always goes like this until he gets frustrated and eventually..

“okay it’s fine let’s just talk about something else.”

renjun claims hyuck is in love with you and that’s why he always acts like a possessive idiot but you’re quick to shut him up as you notice the boy himself strutting over to the table. “i’m heartbroken. hanging out without me is evil, are you replacing me now?”

you and renjun both roll your eyes at his dramatics. “i wouldn’t dare take your placing knowing you’d never stop whining.” renjun quips back. donghyuck pulls a face until he’s swallowed the big chunk of a sandwich he just bit into.

“i don’t whine.”

renjun bursts out laughing pointing his fingers at the boy. “sure you do. you whined when i called shotgun in yn’s car. you whined when yn went on a date instead of going to sit in your room to watch you game- which sounds like a horrible time by the way. the most recent case of whining was you getting pissy about yn and jeno being partners for game night.”

sheesh renjun had a whole speech. hyuck pursed his lips for a minute before nodding his head. “okay well maybe i do whine a little. i feel like it makes me charming, it’s not always a guy wants to be next to his witch of a best friend all the time..OUCH”

the kick to the shin was well deserved.

donghyuck has become conscious of his problem of always wanting to be your number one. has he seriously always been like this? he wonders.

he notices when a random guy stares at you for a little too long or when jaemins hands linger on your waist for longer then they should- scratch that they should never be there in the first place. he knows jaemin’s a touchy guy but come on! everybody knows yn is his girl.

wait.

my girl??? oh my fucking god.

at this very moment donghyuck realises he’s been an oblivious idiot this entire time. how didn’t he notice sooner? he doesn’t remember ever being this dense but this explains everything. he’s not exactly sure what he has to do right now but one things for sure, he needs to tell renjun.

it takes 3 missed calls and a load of spam texting for renjun to stop doing whatever he was doing and meet up with him. donghyuck calls him a bad friend for not picking up on the first ring and renjun tells him if this isn’t something serious he’s gonna whoop his ass.

“seriously why the hell did you make me come here?” renjun questions suspiciously. “why aren’t you talking? lee donghyuck i swear to-“

“i like yn.” donghyuck whispers quietly in response as he stares down and fiddles with his hands nervously. “you made me realise the whole jealously problem and then i realised it’s because i like her.”

renjun wants to laugh at his friend but he doesn’t because he looks like he’s about to cry or piss his pants…or do both simultaneously. “yeah? and what are you going to do about these feelings?”

“cry probably.”

renjun laughs in his face and donghyuck stares at him appalled. “why are you laughing? this is serious renjun! she’s my best friend.”

renjun only tuts in response, how can two people be so blissfully oblivious. even from his and everyone else’s perspectives it’s obvious there’s something more going on than just a pair of best friends. “i think you have a 90% succession rate if you just grow some balls and confess.”

“90%” donghyuck cries out. “that’s not nearly enough! and i have balls already thank you very much. i felt them drop when i was 13.”

“if you’re not gonna listen to my advise why did i even come.” renjun glares.

“oh renjun aren’t you just so so sweet.”

he’s acting weird and he knows you’ve noticed with the weird looks you keep giving him. in his defence, he’s in shock and you look really pretty and HE LIKES YOU!

“are you sure you’re alright?” you reach up to place the back of your hand on his head. “hm you don’t feel that warm but your cheeks are on fire hyuck.”

his mouth dries up at the close proximity but he needs to get himself together. “i think i just need some water.” he clears his throat. “can i have some of yours?”

you don’t hesitate to pass your bottle of water over and he realises he’s made a mistake.

an indirect kiss.

he’s going to faint.

“maybe you should go home just incase you’re getting sick or something.” you bring him back to reality once again. “come on, i’ll make sure you get home safe.”

donghyuck shakes his head frantically. “i swear i’m okay.” he bursts out. “and the others are already on their way.” he adds.

you nod and the next 5 minutes waiting for your friends to arrive is spent with you yapping and him listening along despite the breakdown he’s having in his head.

when your friends arrive they all notice donghyuck is acting differently too but they drop it after he says he’s okay, it’s only renjun that has an idea of what’s going on with him.

“yn i heard some guy in your lecture asked you on a date.” jaemin wiggles his brows as he starts a new conversation. “what did you say? is he taking you out or what?”

your friends heads turn to you straight away waiting on your answer. you can particularly feels donghyucks stare burning through your skull. “you’re all so nosy.” you chortle “but i told him i’ll think about it.”

donghyuck releases the breath he’d been holding at your answer and then he’s grabbing your hand in a hurry and rushing you out of the diner. “hyuck! what the hell? what are you doing?” you pull your arm back and he lets you, but he continues storming towards your car and waits for you to unlock it. “i’m sorry. can we go home please.”

you’re unsure if he wants you to go into his apartment with him but when he turns back to look at you with glistening eyes you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt.

he drops himself down on the couch and you sit next to him, turning so you’re facing him. “talk to me hyuck? what’s going on?” you murmur but he stays silent. “it’s okay. you don’t have to talk about it. shall we watch something?”

he stays silent for another minute and then he turns to look at you as he speaks. “can you say no to him?”

“say no to who hyuck?”

“the guy that asked you on a date. can you say no?” you’re confused but you nod anyway. “thanks.”

“did he do something?” you speak up. you’re worried he’s some horrible guy but donghyuck shakes his head at your words. “oh then why-“

“i realised something.” he cuts you off and you let him without protesting. you’d rather he talk than bottle up whatever’s going on. “i get jealous and petty because i like you, and i think i get scared and insecure because you’re not mine.”

your heart starts beating faster, so does his. you’re about to talk again but he beats you to it. “you don’t have to say anything i know i’ve thrown this all on you out of the blue. i want you to know that it’s okay if you don’t like me the same way, we can move past this but please don’t leave me.”

he’s rambling and your smile gradually grows. “lee donghyuck.”

“yeah?”

“i’ve always liked you.”

later that day he gets a text.

renjun: how is everthing?

he doesn’t answer yet but he thinks this is the best day of his life.

#nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct dream imagine #nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #lee donghyuck #donghyuck x reader #bestfriendhaechan #nct dream fic

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inoreuct · 1 year ago

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i just got a brainwave. ZOSAN DANCER AU.

zoro mainly does hip hop, sanji mostly does ballet, they’re both attending this prestigious dance academy; zoro’s a scholarship student and he thinks sanji’s an absolute fucking snob. he can’t stand the prissy rich boy three studios down, golden with all the money from his royal background— he’s a vinsmoke. he’s a prince. it’s right there on the student name list, clear as day.

he’s only seen sanji from afar and yeah, sure, maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge but the blond infuriates him with his stupid hair flips and his heart eyes and his mirror-hogging and the way he kneels down to retie the girls’ pointe shoe ribbons for them so that they don’t have to. he’s tall and willowy and strong and fucking talented and every time zoro sees him he wants to kick a hole through the drywall.

now, zoro doesn’t really practice in school often. he enjoys lessons well enough, but he and his crew dance their best in the streets. so when he signs up for a practice slot the one time and gets there (already fifteen minutes late, mind you) just to realise there’s a very familiar annoyance in his studio? he’s pissed. he slams the door open right as sanji executes a spinny jump thing that reaches a frankly ridiculous height, sinking to one knee with his head thrown back, the air ringing after the music’s final crescendo.

zoro doesn’t give a shit. he’s tired and hungry and needs to get his fucking step sequence clean before next week’s dance battle, and thus opens his mouth and shatters right through the thick quiet as he barks, “vinsmoke!”

and he doesn’t know why, but sanji’s gaze flicks to him and he freezes in place. the blond’s expression, just moments ago composed and focused, is dripping with something that zoro can’t quite name, but he has to stop himself from gulping when sanji gets up and beelines straight for him, jabbing a manicured finger right into his sternum without reserve.

“don’t. fucking. call me that,” the blond grits, damn near seething, jaw so tense zoro’s honestly afraid he’ll crack a tooth and it’s almost funny, but he suspects that he really did cross some sort of line, and he might be rough around the edges but he isn’t an ass.

“okay, i’m sorry,” he offers, cautious, hands up in the air. the words taste weird in his mouth, but sanji looks slightly less livid so he counts it as a win. “what do i call you, then?”

the other man looks torn between kicking zoro soundly in the shin (which zoro can already tell would hurt like a bitch) and storming out of the studio, but he huffs loudly and turns away. “black. sanji black.”

zoro hums carefully and slowly inches his way to the corner of the room, setting his duffel down much gentler than he normally does. he should really leave this alone. he has a solo he needs to practice for and dinner to catch after. so what if sanji renounced his supposedly royal last name? it didn't make him any better than every other stuck-up dancer with a superiority complex.

(he decidedly doesn’t leave it alone, because this is the first time that he’s seen cracks in the blond’s porcelain-doll facade, and he can’t help but want to dig his fingertips in and pry. he’s never claimed to have a sense of self-preservation.)

“so…” he starts, facing the barre that he’ll never use and watching sanji through the mirror. “your parents—”

“not my parents, i’m estranged,” sanji cuts in, blunt and terse, emotionless to the point where zoro knows he cares much, much more like he wants to seem like he does.

he watches sanji sit in the middle of the wooden floor and fiddle with the elastics on his weird sock shoe hybrids, going into splits with no apparent effort and pressing his torso flat to the ground. a bright blue eye meets his and zoro looks away sharply, yanking on the zipper of his duffel and grabbing his snapback to pop the closures just to look busy.

…god, fuck, zoro wants to ask so bad. estranged. that word is rapidly reshuffling his worldview regarding the man currently yanking off his knitted leg warmers behind him and tossing them to the side. he wants to know how much of all of it is real; the money, the rumours, the gleaming reputation that surrounds sanji like a shield. he’s their academy’s golden boy and a shoo-in for the principal position at its sister ballet company, once he graduates. zoro had thought of him as an absolute primadonna— put bluntly, a pompous brat. a classic silver spoon child. but even just sitting here and stewing in his thoughts, the ability to cling onto the image he’d admittedly half made up in his head is rapidly slipping away from him.

it’s painfully obvious that sanji can talk the talk and walk the walk. jump the jump? “hey, what was that spinny jump thing you did just now?” jesus christ. zoro winces; his voice is so loud against the silence that he nearly puts his head in his hands.

“mm?” sanji’s voice isn’t even strained as he sits up from where he’d had his face pressed to his knees, forearms around his feet. how a person could even fold that far forward, zoro would never understand.

“the— the jump thing. when i came in.”

“oh, the double entrelacé?”

zoro squints. “the fuck kind of name is ontrolassay?”

“it means interlace in french, you—” the blond seems to struggle with choosing an insult before he finally lands on, “—goonhead. although i wouldn’t expect you to be able to appreciate it.”

the KT tape on zoro’s calf rolls back at the edge as he rubs over it absentmindedly, and he quickly stops. that shit isn’t cheap. but he’s more concerned about why he'd been doing it in the first place, because he only does that when he thinks, and zoro has enough self-awareness to know that when he thinks too hard it usually doesn’t end well. he’s all instinct— and something in the back of his mind is telling him that sanji is tired.

the blond isn’t just a pretty boy with no bite, that much is obvious. but now, with the sky dark outside the full-length windows and the air still and silent, it’s easier for him to see the weariness that sanji hides with all his fawning and flirting and smiles. he eyes the other man in his peripheral and clocks it settled bone-deep in the weight of sanji’s eyelids, the parting of his hair, the curve of his back.

he turns around properly to look at sanji over his shoulder and thinks, ah, fuck it. he’d been late to begin with and he’s spent so long here fiddling with his fucking hat under the guise of doing something important that half of his hour-long slot is gone, anyway. “the crew and i are going for pizza. come with.” a smirk pulls at his mouth as he cocks his head. “or are you gonna die if you eat something other than rabbit food?”

the blond looks up with an arched brow and a scowl. “you fucking wish,” sanji scoffs, but after a moment he gets up and starts tossing things into his bag. “it better be makino’s. arlong’s pizza dough tastes like sardines no matter what you get.”

zoro would have been impressed if sanji knew any neighbourhood pizza places to begin with, but this sounds like he has experience. “of course it’s makino’s, curly. we have standards.”

“i wouldn’t have known,” sanji sniffs delicately. “and curly?”

“yeah.” zoro shrugs, the strap of his bag digging in over his baggy tee as he stands. “your hair, your brows, your spinny jump thing—”

“double entrelacé.”

zoro makes a like i said gesture with his hands, grinning broadly. “spinny jump thing.”

sanji sighs as he tosses his hair out of his face. zoro gets a glimpse of two sapphire eyes, blue as the heart of a flame. “you’re a barbarian.” the blond shoulders him aside and snaps the lights off, pulling the door shut as he fishes out the keys. “and you’re buying.”

zoro hums non-committally and deliberately neglects to mention that makino’s fond of both luffy, his best friend, and luffy’s godfather shanks— which means that the whole crew basically eats free on late weekdays like these. on a side note, shanks has a thing with his own dad, mihawk, but they refuse to admit it. it’s infuriating. maybe he’ll rope sanji into helping to get them together before christmas because he has a bet running with nami and it is not looking good for him.

they walk out into the brisk night air as he flips his snapback onto his head, picking up the pace when he sees sanji shiver. “i drove, c’mon.”

“oh, you’ve been driving,” sanji says airily, raising his brows again as he digs around in his well-loved canvas bag for his cardigan. it’s pink and it’s cashmere, because of course it is. “driving me crazy.”

zoro doesn’t even realise he laughs until after it’s left his mouth and sanji is looking at him with wide eyes, blue, blue and more blue. he clears his throat. “let’s hope i don’t crash, then. did i mention i’m half blind on the left side?”

he cackles as sanji squawks at that, half-terrified and disbelieving, and on the way to makino’s he explains how he’d gotten into a scooter accident with luffy as a kid. (“of course you did,” sanji mutters, rolling his eyes. there’s no malice to it.) his crew’s already waiting for him when they arrive; to his dismay (or is it?), sanji hits it off with them marvellously.

zoro finds out that sanji’s biological family is royal, sure. royal assholes. sanji had run away one day and the bastards hadn’t done a damn thing to make sure he was alright, which, he supposes, made sense considering sanji had literally run away. (he isn't given a reason. he doesn't push.) and yet vinsmoke judge still refuses to let sanji change his name, which means that sanji’s father zeff had never been able to legally adopt him. he pays his own school fees working at zeff’s restaurant; not as a waiter but as a chef, and at this point zoro resigns himself to seeing this guy around a lot more because luffy’s already vibrating with excitement and in this friend group, luffy somehow always gets what he wants. sanji’s in it for the long haul now.

but it doesn’t seem like such a horrible thing anymore. zoro almost feels bad for thinking that sanji had been some kind of spoiled brat the whole time, and isn’t that something? the blond is quick to laugh and hardworking and snarky and proud, yes, but it’s deserved solely based on how much he’s trained to get to where he is— he’s damn good and he knows it, and zoro can appreciate that.

(he takes that last bit and shoves it into a box that he locks up tight and buries deep, deep down. he will Not be thinking about that tonight.)

he’s impressed all over again as he watches the sanji inhale an entire four cheese pizza and five garlic knots to boot, and he laughs when the blond gives him a petulant glare.

“fuck off, marimo, i’ve been training all day. m’fucking starving,” he groans through another mouthful of garlic and cheese, elegantly hiding his mouth behind his hand.

oh, hell no. “marimo?” zoro deadpans. “really?”

“not inaccurate,” nami hums from beside him, and he nearly smacks his forehead to the table. he cannot let these two get along. that would be the beginning of his own personal hell.

it’s too late. “small and green and fluffy,” sanji coos, faux-condescending as he reaches out to pet zoro on the head, and zoro snaps his teeth at slender fingers. he listens to sanji meld effortlessly into his friend group and wonders just what he's gotten himself into.

(there is warmth blooming between his ribs. he knows it will grow no matter what he does.)

they get closer as the weeks go by. zoro learns that sanji hates oregano with more vitriol than should be possible towards a herb. he learns the blond’s favourite brand of dance shoes (he knows that they’re suede slippers now, considering he got beaten over the head with them). he learns that sanji’s left arm never healed completely right from where his oldest brother snapped it when they were children, and he has to dig his nails into his palm so that he doesn’t punch something. sanji drags him into an empty studio one day and tells him to lift his leg as high as he can, which devolves into a stretching session that zoro is more inclined to call torture. sanji is adamant that having at least some degree of flexibility will help him dance more fluidly and loosen up his muscles. zoro tells him to eat shit.

(he goes home, and stretches, and he’s mad as hell because sanji’s right.)

the whole crew goes to the ballet course’s end-of-semester recital and nearly gets kicked out with how loudly they scream when sanji finishes his presentation. zoro throws a rose along with everyone else and pretends that he doesn’t.

(sanji pretends that he doesn’t find the exact one zoro tossed and press it to his nose as he sits in the dressing room backstage, his classmates bustling around him not enough to break his bubble of makeup mirror lighting and silky red petals and the memory of keen grey eyes, watching from the darkness of the audience seats.)

(zoro had been the first one to stand when he’d bowed. he’d cheered the loudest. sanji saw him. sanji heard him.)

zoro doesn't realise how much he talks about sanji until his sister threatens to peel the skin off his face if you don't ask him to come watch nationals, zoro, i swear to all that is unholy— and he shudders. perona is... terrifying. he also loves her terrifyingly much, but that won't stop her from peeling his face off, so he drops sanji a text with the details of the national finals of the dance battle that he was supposed to be training for that fateful day. he's too chickenshit to do anything else. too much of a coward to ask him face-to-face.

they win. their friends and family flood the stage. zoro looks for one face only. he feels a hand on his shoulder, whips around with his heart pounding and oh, he's here. radiant under the stadium lights, hair gleaming like brazened honey, eyes bluer than the sky and his smile even brighter. zoro opens his mouth to say something. anything.

sanji crashes into his arms and kisses him, and he feels like the fucking king of the world.

(the wolf-whistles only register when he realises sanji's legs are wrapped around his hips, his hands beneath strong thighs, but sanji is flushed so brilliantly pink and he looks so happy that zoro doesn't even care. luffy's elbow loops around his neck, nami crashing into his back, usopp coming in fast from the right, and sanji wiggles down to slide his arms around zoro's waist and tuck right up against his side. the trophy shines in his fist as he raises it high above the crowd and his nakama press in tight around him, and zoro screams and cheers with them until his throat goes hoarse.)

(mihawk and shanks get together three days later. sanji and zoro split the money nami begrudgingly forks over and then buy the whole crew pizza.)

#zosan #op zosan #zosan au #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #one piece zosan #one piece zoro #one piece sanji #zoro x sanji #one piece #ino writes #GOD i love dancer aus #can yall tell i was obsessed with the step up franchise at one point

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its-avalon-08 · 6 months ago

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cracks in my armor (mw6)

(this is one of my favorite ever requests, i thoroughly enjoyed writing this. thank u sm <3)

the air in the red bull cooldown room thrummed with a tension thicker than the celebratory champagne showers outside. y/n, still strapped into her helmet, glared daggers at mark webber across the room. the brazilian grand prix had delivered a 1-2 finish for red bull, y/n taking a dominant first with mark trailing a frustrated second.

jenson button, the ever-diplomatic test and reserve driver, attempted to lighten the mood. "well, that was quite a show out there, folks! didn't think the paint would stay on those cars after all that battling." mark grunted, not looking up from his phone. y/n slammed her helmet on the table, the force making jenson flinch. "show?" she spat. "more like a fight with a toddler throwing a tantrum because he's leaving his favorite toy behind."

mark's head snapped up, his blue eyes blazing with a flicker of something y/n couldn't decipher. "easy there, sunshine. don't get ahead of yourself. this isn't about you." y/n's jaw clenched. "isn't it? you couldn't stand being outshone again, could you? that's why you're quitting. ego bruised beyond repair by a little competition."

"oh, spare me the dramatics," mark countered, his voice tight. "it's not about ego. it's about moving on." "moving on to what?" y/n pressed, a tremor in her voice betraying a vulnerability she tried to hide. "because it sure as hell isn't another team." a beat of tense silence hung in the air. jenson, sweat beading on his forehead, cleared his throat. "maybe we should, uh, give them some space, guys?" he cast a helpless look at the camera crew, who were dutifully capturing every barb.

y/n ignored him, her gaze locked on mark. "what is it, mark? why the sudden change of heart? you always said formula one was your life." mark looked away, his jaw clenched. "things change," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "not that much," y/n insisted, her voice cracking slightly. "unless there's something else you're not telling me." the accusation hung heavy in the air.

mark finally met her gaze, his blue eyes swirling with a storm of emotions. "there's plenty i'm not telling you," he said roughly, his voice laced with a hidden pain. "but it has nothing to do with you." 

y/n scoffed, but the spark of defiance seemed to falter. "convenient. of course the mighty fucking australian can't deal with answering a simple questions. now why did i expect any differently?" she said with a snide tone. "leave me alone y/l/n. honest to god before i say something i'll regret" he mumbled, turning away. "oh fuck no. you don't get to act like we haven't been fighting for the same oppurtinty, like i haven't suffered the same pain of competion," she yelled.  

"YOU will NEVER understand the pain of yearning and fighting for something that will never truly be yours. no matter how hard you fucking try," mark shouted infuriated. silence descended once more, heavy and suffocating. the air crackled with unspoken words and a tension that went far beyond competition. jenson shifted uncomfortably, the weight of their unspoken feelings pressing down on him.

just then, the door to the room burst open, revealing christian horner, the red bull team principal, with a thunderous expression on his face. even the seasoned jenson flinched at the icy aura. the room fell silent, the weight of horner's presence pressing down on them. horner took a long look at the scene, taking in the red-faced drivers, the overturned chair, and the cameras filming the entire debacle. a slow, humorless smile spread across his face. "well," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "this is certainly one way to make headlines."

y/n and mark both looked away, shame flickering across their faces. the victory that had tasted so sweet just moments ago was now a bitter pill. the weight of their actions, captured for the world to see, settled heavily upon them. the cooldown room, once a place of celebration, now echoed with the deafening silence of a fractured team and something left unsaid.

the celebratory party in the red bull hospitality suite throbbed with a forced energy. y/n stood by the window, the cityscape of são paulo a glittering blur against the ache in her heart. every shared laugh, every raised champagne flute felt like a mockery of the raw emotions that had ripped through the cooldown room earlier.

finally, she couldn't take it anymore. with a deep breath, she excused herself and made her way down the hall, stopping at mark's designated suite. it took a moment to gather her courage, knuckles rapping tentatively against the door. silence. she rapped again, this time a little firmer. the door creaked open, revealing a weary mark, surprise flickering in his blue eyes.

"y/n?" he rasped, his voice raw. "can i come in?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. he stepped aside, and y/n entered, the door clicking shut behind her. the air crackled with tension, a stark contrast to the cheerful music filtering in from the party down the hall.

mark gestured to the couch, but y/n remained standing. "what did you mean?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. mark's gaze dropped to his hands. "i..." he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "i shouldn't have said that. it wasn't about the race." y/n pressed on, her voice gaining strength. "then what was it about, mark?" he looked up at her then, his eyes filled with a vulnerability that stole her breath. "it was about..." he hesitated, then blurted out, "it was about you."

the words hung heavy in the air. y/n's mind reeled. "me?" she whispered, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

mark took a step closer, his voice a low rumble. "for years, y/n. i've..." he stopped, his jaw clenched. "you've what?" she prompted, her voice barely audible. "i've had feelings for you," he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. "but i never thought i'd deserve someone like you. so talented, so beautiful, so damn brilliant." his voice cracked. "you were always out of reach."

y/n's breath caught in her throat. the truth, raw and unexpected, hit her like a wave. all this time, the constant bickering, the simmering tension, it wasn't just competition. it was a poorly disguised dance around unspoken feelings. "mark," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "i never thought..." "don't," he interrupted, his hand reaching out to gently cup her face. "it doesn't matter now. i'm leaving."

the reminder of his departure sent a fresh wave of pain through her. "but what if..." she trailed off, her gaze locked on his. he searched her eyes, a flicker of hope battling the resignation in his gaze. "what if what?" "what if i feel the same way?" she confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "maybe i didn't understand before, but i do now. i..." she faltered, then whispered, "i think i'm in love with you too, mark."

the weight of her confession hung in the air for a beat, then a slow smile spread across mark's face. it was a smile filled with relief, disbelief, and a joy that mirrored her own. before either of them could speak further, the gap between them closed. the kiss was slow, hesitant at first, then deepening as emotions they'd kept bottled up for so long came bursting forth. it was a kiss filled with longing, with unspoken apologies, and with the promise of a future they could now dare to dream of. when they finally broke apart, breathless and shaky, a new understanding shone in their eyes. the race, the fight, the angry outburst – it all paled in comparison to the truth they had finally confessed.

suddenly, a muffled thump came from the window ledge, followed by a low hiss. y/n and mark whipped around, startled. "what was that?" y/n whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. mark cautiously approached the window, his hand instinctively reaching for something that wasn't there. he peered out, then his eyes widened comically.

"oh my god," he breathed. y/n joined him, peering out the window. there, sprawled on the small balcony outside, were jenson button and fernando alonso, their faces contorted in a mixture of relief, amusement, and mild discomfort.

"busted!" jenson groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. fernando, ever the pragmatist, simply rolled his eyes. "took you long enough, you two." y/n and mark stared at them, speechless for a moment. then, y/n burst into laughter, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed through the room. mark, the blush creeping up his neck, joined in, the tension melting away.

"you were spying on us?" y/n exclaimed, wiping a tear from her eye.

jenson sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "well, not exactly spying. we just... happened to be enjoying the view and, uh, things escalated a bit." fernando snorted. "don't listen to him, he tripped over a potted plant and dragged me down with him." y/n and mark exchanged a look, then burst into laughter again. the awkwardness was gone, replaced by a shared sense of camaraderie. "well, congratulations you two," jenson said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. " fucking finally!"

"about bloody time," fernando echoed, raising a nonexistent glass in a toast.

y/n and mark grinned at each other, the weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted. as the sounds of the party drifted in from down the hall, a new kind of celebration bloomed – not just for their newfound love, but for the hilarious, unexpected way their friends had discovered it. the night, once filled with tension, now promised laughter, love, and a future brighter than any trophy.

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fluff-n-cookies · 1 year ago

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hey, can I ask the reader to be Aizawa's daughter, but she lives with her mother in another country, so when the reader gets into a fight, her mother sends her to live with Aizawa, but she forgets to tell him, so y/ n arrives and says "hey dad, surprise?"

I'm so sorry for responding late, I just been so caught up with school, but sure! (p.s. I'm not sure if you wanted oneshots or headcanons so I did headcanons. sorry about that. and I'm also heacanoning this reader as socially awkward, sorry about that too.) reader is a teen in this!

WARNINGS MENTION OF BOOBS NOTHING GRAPHIC JUST MINETA.

first off, reader is besties with Present Mic and definitely told Mic to tell Aizawa she was coming, but did Mic Do that? NO!

he probably drove you back to UA from the airport and just barged in yelling "BITCH (Aizawa) GUESS WHAT" "what do you want Mic?" "no, guess!"

okay parting away from the crack, Aizawa and you are both dying of embarrassment since Aizawa is teaching a CLASS RIGHT NOW.

So Aizawa is Infuriated since first he knows you hate being put on in the spotlight so he does scold Mic about it while all might handle class 1A's training.

eventually you two do get to talk one on one and the moment after you say "hey dad, surprise?" he just collapses on the closest surface and replies "goddamn it you're too cute to be mad at."

please tell him about every single detail of your trip it makes him so happy. he wants to know you trust him with this information and it makes him feel like he's getting just a bit closer to you. even the bad things that make you cry like a bad break up or an argument with your mom, it just makes him want to comfort you more.

tries to get you some of your favorite snacks from your country so you feel at home.

if you feel out of place in Japan since the majority of us are probably not Japanese and probably do not meet beauty expectations, he encourages you to keep being yourself instead of trying to fit in like everyone else.

1A GIRL SQUAD MAKEOVER! 1A GIRL SQUAD MAKEOVER!

these girls are doing your nails and practically interrogating you about your life in your country.

Momo wants to know ALL the customs and ALL the history, HECK TEACH HER YOUR WHOLE LANGUGE.

Mina DEMANDS TO KNOW YOUR LOVE LIFE AND ALLLLL THE DRAMA.

Tsu, Ochako, and Hagakure are just happy to be there, and Jiro is incharge of music.

they are also the ones protecting you from Mineta so try and stick with them.

now here, Shoto and Tenya are in a silent battle over your love and Mineta and Kaminari are fighting over your Boobs.

Shoto helps control the temperature in your room so it seems more like the climate your used to in your country.

while Iida is purposely taking a languge class that you speak and having you translate it for him so he knows he's doing it correctly. (he knows he is but he just wants to hear your voice.)

OH DON"T GET ME STARTED ON AIZAWA FAM

shinsou automatically switches to brother mode, please let him show you his cat plushes and favorite animes, it just makes him so happy.

Eri HAS to have a sleep over with you at one point, you're like an older sister to her (MOVE ASIDE HADO-)

speaking with Toshinori in english if you come from an english speaking country.

Thank you for requesting and I hope to see you in my inbox again soon!

#yandere aizawa #shouta aizawa #aizawa x reader #mha #bnha #bnha x reader #platonic aizawa #yandere aizawa x reader

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queen-haq · 9 months ago

Text

Fic: Grudgingly Yours, Part 12

Grudgingly Yours, Part 12

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Chapter 12

You were seething with anger. So frustrated, you wanted to scream with rage. How dare Billy do this? How dare he fucking threaten you? And on top of that, he hurt Calvin – did he really think that would score him points? Was he really that stupid?

“Stop dragging your feet.” Billy ordered from the other side of the room, packing your clothes into your suitcase. The entitlement in his voice was so infuriating, you picked up the closest pillow to you and threw it at him. As soon as it struck his back, he turned around. For a second he simply stared at you, and fear trickled down your spine. This was a man who kidnapped your friend and tortured him. He had you cuffed and bound a few minutes earlier. As much as you prided yourself in being strong and resourceful, he was an actual soldier, a psychopath and rich. He could kill you in a fit of rage and suffer no consequences.

Then he smirked, his handsome face breaking into a magnetic smile while he retrieved the pillow from the ground. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, I’ll give you one when we get home.”

His friendly demeanor did nothing to alleviate your anxiety.

Throwing the pillow back onto the bed, he turned around and continued to pack your things.

Half an hour later all of your stuff was packed into a suitcase which Billy was carrying to the elevator. “Rest of your things?” he prodded.

“Storage.”

“We can get it tomorrow.”

You didn’t respond.

The elevator ride felt distinctly uncomfortable, with Billy’s eyes on you the entire time. His gaze felt intrusive, like he was trying to crack through your brain and see every running thought inside your head. You tried ignoring him but it seemed to make no difference.

When you both reached the underground parking lot, you headed towards your car. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Nice try.” He gripped your elbow, maneuvering your body towards the guest parking spots. Once he reached the Wraith, he opened the trunk and stuffed your things inside before pulling open the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “I need my car.”

“We can pick it up tomorrow.”

The bastard had an answer for everything. Fuck him. Angrily you slid inside, wishing you could at least have the satisfaction of slamming his door shut. He closed the door and circled the car to get in. Defiantly you opened the door on your side and slammed it hard.

“Feel better?” he asked, sliding in next to you.

“Fuck off.”

There was his smirk again, goading you, but you chose to ignore it.

This was the first time you were in his car, sitting beside him while he drove. He was a smooth driver, expertly gliding his way through traffic like he did everything else. Prick.

“Where’s Calvin?” you asked.

“He’s fine.”

“You need to let him go.”

“I will,” he replied, nonchalant. “As soon as you keep your end of the deal.”

“I’m already moving back in. What else do you want?”

“A guarantee that you won’t bolt.”

“You’re the one who runs, not me,” you retaliated.

“I’m here now.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at his audacity.

“So are you gonna co-operate?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice. You’re smart enough to make the right one.”

“I wish I killed you before.” You expected him to snark back or maybe ignore your hostile words. Instead he smiled, a tender, affectionate smile that made your heart skip a beat because it caught you completely unaware.

“You’ll get lots more chances now. Promise.”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a second the world stopped. You forgot how exhilarating his attention could be, making you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered to him. You were special, you were important, and just as quickly, he would turn on you and throw you aside. Irritated with yourself, you glanced out the window.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. “He’s a decent scammer. Not great, but good enough to fool a lot of people.”

You scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Your buddy, Calvin. He’s ripped off a lot of people with some kind of Ponzi scheme.”

You recalled the portfolio Calvin shared with you, how the returns on investments seemed too good to be true. Fuck. Even though there was nothing to arouse your suspicions at the time, a part of you had known something was wrong. But there was no way you were going to admit that to Billy. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“I had someone look into him.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Want to see what the investigator dug up?”

“Not interested.”

He cocked his eyebrow at you. “Scared to find out the truth about fuckboy?”

“Don’t act like you were punishing him for being a swindler.”

The car came to a stop at a red light, he turned towards you. “I don’t give a fuck about that. He is where he is because he touched you. He. Touched. You. After I warned him not to. And he will pay for that. How much depends on you.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m not responsible for this, you are! You’re the fucking psychopath. You don’t get to put this on me.”

Swallowing the angry lump in your throat, you stared straight ahead. But he didn’t. You felt his eyes digging into you until a car honked from behind. That seemed to snap Billy out of his daze and he started driving again.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, with you contemplating Billy’s murder.

***

It was strange to be back in the penthouse that had been your home for a short time. Everything looked the same yet it all felt different. Tainted. You knew you’d have to return eventually because Alistair was an asshole and would make you, but you purposely avoided thinking about living with Billy again. A part of you had hoped he’d avoid you after humiliating the way he had, but you should’ve known that wouldn’t be his way. He liked playing with your emotions, softening you up before going in for the kill, and tonight was the beginning of the same cycle. All the bullshit he spewed was intended to make you feel something for him again but he’d made a big mistake in underestimating you. Because you felt nothing for him anymore. Nothing. And that wasn’t going to change, no matter how much he tried to manipulate you or threaten you with Calvin.

The lights turned on automatically as you entered your bedroom. Anita must have cleaned it after you left, because it was perfectly pristine. As Billy brushed past you carrying your luggage, your body stiffened. Everything about him felt obtrusive and too close. He was back in your life, in your head, in your room, and now in your things as he started to unpack your luggage.

“Stop touching my stuff,” you snapped, grabbing the skirts he was holding in his hand.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” You stormed over to the walk-in closet and started hanging the clothes up.

“Fine. Then I’ll go make dinner.”

“Hope you choke on it and die.”

That elicited a full-fledged chuckle from him, which agitated you more. At least you’d get some satisfaction from pissing him off but he seemed determined not to be provoked. Jackass. Over the next hour while you put away your things, your brain spun with anxiety. You didn’t do well with uncertainty. You were a problem solver and that’s how you got through life. Anticipate. Plan. Execute. Except there was no way for you to anticipate the curveball Billy threw at you. You were prepared for Alistair, but not Billy. And now you had to find a way out of this situation. Not to mention rescue Calvin too. Fuck. You needed to know details, exactly what Billy had planned and then find a way to get through it.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Hearing his voice calling from the kitchen, you made your way to the ensuite bathroom. You took your time in freshening up, washing all the make-up from your face. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, once again pondering Billy’s sick mind. Did he really expect you to play along? Was he so used to women being doormats that he honestly thought you would just roll over and give into him? It was obvious he had no idea who you were. And all signs pointed to him being exactly like his grandfather, a rich, entitled bigot who got off on controlling you. Well, fuck that.

After changing into an extra baggy lounge set that did a remarkable job of making you look dowdy, you sauntered over to the kitchen. What you found there was a complete surprise. The small table was adorned with fresh flowers, your favourite bottle of wine, and candle lights. He had also plated the pasta, which looked unbelievably good, and was already seated and waiting for you. What the fuck? Did he think the two of you were going to have a romantic meal together?

“Seriously?” Your eyes narrowed onto him, shaking your head. “This isn’t a fucking date.”

He looked unmoved by your lack of enthusiasm. “Doesn’t mean we can’t eat.” He stood up to pull your chair back. “Sit.”

“Are you asking me or ordering me?”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“You’re unfucking believable.” Refusing to give into him, you walked to the table but ignored the seat he held out for you. Instead, you took another empty seat.

He smiled, and started pouring you a glass of wine. When he tried to hand it to you, you stared back at him defiantly. “Not in the mood.”

“It’s your favourite.”

“Not anymore. You’ve ruined it.”

He smirked. “Fine. More for me then.” Deliberately making a show of enjoying the wine, he held your gaze.

“Tell me what I have to do to get Calvin away from you.”

There was that dark glint in his eyes again, the one reminding you of who Billy truly was. “Let’s have dinner first.”

“I’m not eating with you.”

“If you want to save Calvin, you will.”

You shook your head. “That’s how it’s gonna be from now on, isn’t it? You think this is how you’ll control me. You’re exactly like Alistair.”

“I’m nothing like him.” Jaw clenched, eyes darkened with anger, he moved towards you. A part of you was glad for striking him where it hurt but you didn’t like the closing distance between you two. Especially when he sat next to you.

You didn’t like his proximity, the way his body was turned to you. You were the sole focus of his attention and it made you uncomfortable, reminding you of how easily he played you in the past.

“I don’t want to control you.”

The softness in his voice was a ruse, you reminded yourself.

“That’s not what this is about,” Billy continued.

“What is it gonna take for you to let him go?”

He paused a few seconds before answering. “This. I want this. Dinner. The two of us. Every night.”

“Why? What are you hoping to get out of it?”

“I just want to have dinner with you. That’s all.”

“But it won’t stop at dinner, will it?” You sent him a bitter smile. “How long before I have to fuck you?”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing up sex.” He smirked. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Go to hell!” His eyes wandered over your face, like he was memorizing every inch of you – and it made your heart beat faster. Immediately you chastised yourself. “How long do I have to suffer these dinners with you?”

“Three months.”

You scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Throwing one arm around the back of your chair, he leaned in. “This is what I want. Three months. After that, I’ll let him go.”

“You’re gonna hold him hostage until then?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s being looked after.”

“I’m supposed to take your word for that? How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”

“I haven’t. But if you want proof, I can show you.”

Your face twisted with disgust. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t respond, still peering at you closely. When his fingers slowly smoothed over the loose strand of your hair, you steeled yourself to his touch. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” There was longing in his gaze, his voice hoarse with emotion.

It was incredible how convincing he could be but you saw him for what he was – a manipulator.

You touched his hand to brush him away but the instant you made physical contact; sparks flowed through your veins. You withdrew immediately. “Then tell me why.”

A heavy sigh escaped him, he finally leaned back against his chair and you breathed a sigh of relief. “I love you. And I want you to love me back.”

The sheer audacity of his response, how he casually stated his intention – it was so flabbergasting that you couldn’t help but laugh. You laughed and laughed, while he simply studied you with a serious expression on his face. And when you struggled to catch your breath from laughing so hard, he handed you the glass of wine from earlier. This time you took it, your throat parched, and swallowed most of it in a big gulp.

“Easy there.”

You put down the glass. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You wanted the truth.”

“Oh, I know.” You gave him a condescending smile. “So I fall in love with you in this pipe dream of yours, and then what? You dump me? Humiliate me again? This time in front of dear old Gramps and the whole family?” Your smile stiffened. “Is that the plan, Billy?”

His voice was sincere, regret looming over his face. “I’m sorry about what I said to you at the wedding.”

“Nothing you said or did was a surprise. It’s what I expected from you.” It wasn’t true, he shattered you that night and made you doubt yourself – but you would never admit that to him. You stood up, casting him a snide glance. “You want me to be your puppet? Fine. I will. Because you’re holding someone I care about hostage. But don’t think for a second I’ll buy your bullshit act. I know you. I see you.” You bent forward so that you were at his height, staring into his eyes directly. “And I’ll never love you.”

Grabbing the bottle of wine, you turned your back on him and sashayed back to your room.

A/N - Sorry about the long wait, lovely readers. With the holidays and me getting into another fandom, I was a little negligent towards GY. But I'm back now :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter. And, as always, comments are loved and cherished :)

#billy russo x reader #billy russo #ben barnes #the punisher #grudgingly yours

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hello-nichya-here · 1 year ago

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Yes, Buffy loved Spike

The way people act like that was in anyway left up to discussion by the show is legit hilarious/infuriating.

James Marsters (Spike) has said in an interview that, when Joss Whedon let him know that Spike was gonna fall in love with Buffy in season five, he had assumed it would one-sided - only for Whedon to correct him with a "Oh no, she's gonna fall in love with you too."

And the show wasn't shy about it either. Through seasons six and seven, we are shown Buffy repeatedly denying that she loves Spike - and then immediatelly contradicting herself either through actions or her own words (and even in season five she had already kissed him once after he did not give away her sister's identiy to Glory even after being tortured).

After Buffy comes back from the dead - from heaven - and is dragged to the literal hellmouth, having to crawl out of her grave, she sees the Buffy-bot being torn from limb by a bunch of demons. Naturally, this fucks with her head a bit. She manages to save her friends, but she is still very shaken, and looking like she's not really fully back to her senses as her sister is speaking to her. It really does look like something is very wrong and that she is not at all the same girl we once knew.

Then she hears Spike's voice and goes to see him. Only when she sees HIM, when HE starts trying to talk to her, when HE is the one taking care of her, does she start to properly respond. And, of course, out of all the people there - all of whom are worried about her and that she supposedly trusts way more than she trusts this "fully evil" vampire - Spike is the one to whom she reveals what actually happened to her.

During the musical episode, we see her sing "I touch the fire and it freezes me, I look into it and it's black. Why can't I feel? My skin should crack and peal - I want the fire back" confirming to us that her depression after being taken from heaven was not just a temporary consequence of the shock of it all, and has left her completely disconnected from the people she loved, and from life itself, and that she does not know if it can ever be fixed.

But at the end of the episode, after Spike stops her from basically commiting suicide (because remember, he stopped BUFFY. not the bad guy) she sings to Spike "This isn't real, but I just wanna feel" right before they kiss. And Spike's own song says "I died so many years ago. You can make me feel like it isn't so."

It is very clear that what convinced Buffy to keep on living wasn't just because Spike loved her - she already knew that, and she also her friends and this has not done anything to make her less depressed. What makes her not give up is realizing that SHE can still connect to others, SHE still can have feelings for someone. Only it is with her former mortal enemy instead of her friends and family (she had even said in an earlier episode that he was the only person she could stand to be around) and the kiss makes it obvious that this new bond she has with Spike is NOT platonic.

And the following episode when she tries to pretend it means nothing? It has her acting all flirty with Spike while they're both dealing with the amnesia spell, and once their memories return the episode ends with her kissing him AGAIN.

And during ALL of the episodes she's claming she is totally disgusted by him? She's having sex with him all the time. And when Tara finds out about it, Buffy does admit she's using him, but she refuses to give an answer when Tara asks "Do you love him?"

When Spike brings a date to Xander's wedding , Buffy KNOWS is just to get her jealous and Spike even admits to it - and she admits that, even knowing all of that, it DOES bother her. She is unbelievably distraught after finding out he slept with Anya, and even says to his face "I have feelings for you, I do. But it's not love. I could never trust you enough for that" showing us that the thing stopping Buffy from truly giving Spike a chance is, understandably, the "You're a literal souless creature that needs to feed on people to survive" factor, not because their connection is not genuine or strong enough, or because of her past with Angel.

Not to mention, it makes perfect sense that, during the season she was clearly suicidal, she falls in love with the character that is representing the possibility of her death - their first time even happens after Spike reveals that, for some reason, the chip no longer causes him pain when he attacks her, and thus he actually poses a threat to her again.

Unhealthy? Absolutely. Scary? Fuck yes. Does she get over her "feelings that are totally not love" in the season finale, when she's crawling "out of her grave" again, this time triumphantly, in the sunlight, all brave and finally letting go of her self loathing? NOPE!

In season seven, when she's finally about to go out with a man that is not and has never been evil, her friends are all obviously wondering if this is a sign that she is over Spike - of if she's just pretending to. Buffy's response? THE biggest Freudian Slip she's ever had in the series.

"Why does everyone in this house think that I'm still in love with Spike?"

STILL!

Still. In. Love.

Not "Why is everyone convinced that I fell in love with Spike? I told you guys I liked him, but didn't love him" but "Why do you guys think I'm not over those totally vague, definitively not deep 'feelings' I had and that were 100% not just a code for 'Yes, I am in love with him, but I'm scared it will blow up in my face'?"

And how does that date with that Not Evil guy, that was revealed to be the son of Slayer, go? Pretty well! It looks like this romance might actually have a chance of going somewhere.

At least until she goes "Look, I know Spike killed your mom when he was souless and all, but if you try to go after him to get revenge again, he will murder you, and I will let him." She also turns her back on her watcher, and father figure, when she finds out he was in on the plan to kill this vampire that is Totally-Not-Her-Boyfriend.

The episode even has Giles directly compare her codependent bond with Spike to what she had with Angel - which again, included her letting Angelus get away and kill people. Sure, Spike has a soul now, he let the dude live to tell the tale since killing his mom WAS an awful thing to do, and if he was attacked again and killed him it would be self-defense - but it's impossible not to notice the very clear "Buffy is protecting her man" tone of it all.

Not to mention, before that, Spike offers to leave Sunnydale since Buffy's potential new boyfriend clearly can help her find demons and thus she no longer needs him around - and she full on says that SHE IS NOT READY FOR HIM NOT TO BE THERE.

Then, of course, there's "Touched." The episode in which EVERYONE is going "We might die tomorrow, lets fuck to cope", and not only is Buffy clearly touched (Get it? Get it?) by Spike's speech about how much he loves her, she asks him to get in bed with her and hold her. And even though they are not having sex, the scenes of them cuddling are being framed as being just as intimate and romantic as the scenes of everyone else making love to their partners. Again, we had Giles full on state the obvious to Buffy: she and Spike might not be sleeping together anymore, but they are VERY clearly acting like they're still in a relationship, even if both are now hesitant to give it a try after literally everything went wrong for them.

The following day, Spike says that it was the happiest night of his life, and when he starts saying that he knows it obviously didn't mean as much for Buffy as it did to him, she corrects him and says it absolutely did. Spike even goes as far as trying to confirm it AGAIN by asking "Were you there with me?" to which Buffy says "I was", which is HUGE considering she had just admited to him the previous night that she had always cut herself off from everyone - Spike VERY much included - due to being the slayer.

"Oh, but what about the Bangel kiss in the finale?"

The one Joss Whedon explicitly refered to as "the show's way of servicing the Bangel fans" aka FANSERVICE? The one that came right out of nowhere as the signature of Bangel's "romantic chemistry" is angsty pining? The one that didn't hold a candle to one of the few Bangel scenes I say absolutely worked, aka the kiss after Angel comes back to Sunnydale to help Buffy deal with her grief over her mother and that only happened after they had spend HOURS together because, surprise surprise, it doesn't matter if they still have feelings for each other, they have NEVER had this dynamic of exes that just casually make out with each other the second they are in the same room together?

The one that happens right before Buffy says "Sorry, you won't be the vampire champion that will save the world, I'm chosing Spike for that role"? The one that is followed by an obviously jealous Angel making it very clear to Buffy that he is bitter she's "brushing him off for captain peroxide"? And then she asks if he'll react that way everytime she gets a BOYFRIEND?

When Angel points out that, again, she just let slip how she actually feels about Spike, Buffy has to deny it because Joss Whedon thought the ONLY way to make sure viewers didn't miss that Buffy is totally an independent woman that don't need no man was to tease both the possibility of a Bangel AND a Spuffy endgame just to go "Sorry, Buffy is gonna choose to be single."

HOWEVER, even the way she does that has changed significantly, as she says "He is not my boyfriend, but he is in my heart." Notice how, unlike all the previous times, Buffy is not trying to diminish what she has with Spike.

She went from "I slept with Spike/said I feelings for him BUT this totally means nothing and I could NEVER love him because he doesn't have a soul like Angel did" to "Look, Angel, I swear that Spike is totally not my boyfriend BUT I will treat him like he is because I absolutely do have feelings for him. Could you pretty, pretty please go back to L.A. now that the fanservice moment is over? I'll even end it with a 'sometimes I totally think of what could happen between us someday' so we can pretend our romance has not been officially pronounced 'impossible to ever be endgame' since season three of my show and season one of your show?"

And where does she immediatelly go to after this? To see Spike. Because she wants another night of cuddling with him. Then The First shows up in the middle of the night to torment her, he explicitly refers to Spike as Buffy's vampire LOVER.

Finally, the final battle is happening, and Spike is about to die saving the world, and Buffy, with tears in her eyes finally says that she loves him. Whedon had even said to Sarah "Be proud of him. Love him when saying it." We even see literal flames as they are holding hands - an obvious nod to the musical, with the "I want the fire (feeling) back", and Whedon basically confirmed it by saying it was a very deliberate choice to symbolize the feelings the characters have for each other. It is the visual representation of Buffy FINALLY accepting that she truly does love Spike.

"Oh, but he responds 'No, you don't, but thanks for saying it' implying Buffy was only trying to make sure he would die happy!"

Did you guys forget EVERYTHING ELSE I just mentioned in this post? Or the fact, at that point, Spike is still processing the guilt of all the monstruous things he did as a vampire now that he has a soul again? Did you forget him literally asking Buffy to kill him for what he did and telling her that the soul did not suddenly make him good - only for HER to be the one to say he fought back against the monster inside of him and that she believes in him?

Again, James Marsters gave us his insight on what he felt Spike meant by that line and how he played it: Spike was saying that Buffy COULDN'T love him. Not yet. Because he didn't feel he deserved it yet. It was not the right time for them. Yet.

"Oh, but in the late seasons of Angel, when Spike is brought back to life, he is told that Buffy never truly loved him!" Yeah, he is told that - BY ANGEL! In what world would he, Buffy's ex that has had problems with Spike since long before Buffy was even born and that had already admited that having her pick Spike over him "did not bring out the champion in him", not be extremely biased?

"But you're forgetting the Buffy comics in which she is basically told Angel is her soulmate and sleeps with him during some magical fuckery that made her go mad with power!"

Yeah, and in those same comics, even though it took forever and Whedon just HAS to force the "Buffy ends the story chosing to be single because she can either be a strong female character OR be in a happy relationship" AGAIN, she and Spike became a couple after all of that, with her explicitly telling him WHAT SHE HAD WITH ANGEL IS IN THE PAST, and the ending even suggests is only a matter of time before she and Spike get back together again, this time for good.

Claiming that it was up for debate if Buffy ever truly loved Spike is as ridiculous as if I said "I know we are both shown and told many times that Angel and Buffy slept together in season two, but I actually think it's up for the debate if they truly did" NO, IT ISN'T!

We are shown how Buffy's feelings for Spike grow over time, how her dynamic with him changes, how she is actively choosing him over everybody else after he gets his soul, and both the character and the people involved in making the show EXPLICITLY SAY she loves him.

You can dislike it, but don't expect everyone else to cover their ears and close their eyes to pretend it wasn't clear that Spike's love for Buffy has not been one-sided for a VERY long time.

#spuffy

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 1 year ago

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"You dunno a goddamn thing bout it," he spat at you angrily, pacing across the cracked and uneven wood floor. You half expected his boot to go straight through a board the way he was stomping around. "You and me ain't the fuckin' same! 'M sure ya had a nice white bread and white picket fence life before everythin' went to shit. Hell, I can tell ya did just by lookin' at ya!" He flicked his fingers in your direction and then stalked back to the dingy window.

You'd had enough of his bullshit for one day. "Yeah, you're so fucking special, Daryl! So unknowable—the only one who has a fucking monopoly on misery! You think I don't know anything about you? Well, you don't know shit about me," you barked back. "And reality check, Dixon—anybody who is still alive out here knows fucking suffering and misery. And regardless of what you think, I knew it from before too. So do us both a favor, and shut the fuck up about who you think I am. Maybe you'll finally figure it out for real if you pay attention. We're stuck here together for a while and at this point silence seems like the best policy."

You'd said it to the back of his broad shoulders as he stood at the window and turned away to sink down on the grungy couch that was practically decomposing into the floor. Daryl fucking Dixon. God, what an infuriating hot-head... and even as you thought it, you wondered if that was true why you cared what he thought about you at all.

You didn't see the way he'd hazarded a covert glance over his shoulder at you, regret painted on his face.

Prompt: "You and I aren't the same."

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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grapejuicestyless · 11 months ago

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What A Waste

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: You and Harry swore that you would one day marry each other if you were to grow up and not already have a lover. Yet, when the time comes and the two of you are wed, Harry cannot let himself enjoy it.

ANGST

I’m standing at the alter, hands clasped together and eyes looking towards the door at the end of the aisle. Yet my hands do not shake, and my cheeks dk not ache with the pain only a genuine smile can cause. My heart does not pound out of my chest because I am not in love. The girl coming down the aisle is nothing more but a pawn in the grand scheme of things.

Maybe once, I would’ve held those feelings towards her, but our blood has since ran cold. Any fond memories tainted by our final goodbye.

She wasn’t very interesting to look at. Maybe, at least if my heart couldn’t love her, I could have something nice to look at. Something delicate, pretty. But her lips were pouty and her eyes held clouds over them. There was nothing attractive about the solemn face that hid her beauty.

When her hands hold mine, and her face is just inches from my own, I find it within myself to recite the vows I’d written for her. Carefully constructed to sound like a true loving husband, but with no true emotion that not even she, in her most oblivious state would ever have accounted for.

When she read hers, I saw her hands shaking. Her lip trembling and the furrow in her brow as she stumbled on her words. How embarrassing, how nervous she was. Acting like it was all real. Finding a way to make theater into reality.

How softly, she told me she would. Love me forever, take care of me and support me from the sidelines. Even softer, she mumbled about how even when she was riddled with arthritis, sick and tired, she would still twirl my hair the way I lived when we were children. When I kissed her, I felt nothing. When I pulled away, her smile could have fooled me. How genuinely happy she looked. But I remember the way she left me, and I remember how it could never truly be real. And I remember why I hate her, how I could never love her. Not even a little bit, not even at all.

…………………………………………………………………………………

“H?” She calls me by the nickname she gave to me when we were younger. I don’t realize that even now, twenty years later her mind had still clung to it as if it would be any importance to her anymore.

“Don’t call me that.” I’m bitter, I hate the way it sounds so sweet on her tongue. I hate the way her smile falls when I reprimand her, and most of all I hate the way I’m forever bound to her. With all the money in the world, nothing could separate us, no matter how hard I tried.

She rubs her arms, wearing her fluffy pink pajama pants and a shirt thats reads, “We think Harry had the X-Factor” so cracked, it almost doesn’t even read correctly anymore. The words die on her tongue, look at what I found? I see her enthusiasm melt away. When her eyes drift to the unmade bed and her feet start to move, I speak again.

“No.” Her confused face infuriates me. How could she not understand the justification of my cruelty.

“Your room is down the hall.” The one with the squeaky mattress and dusty floorboards. The one with photos of my old house, with the old garden and the old cats. It’s empty and the heat doesn’t work very well. But the cold from her heart wouldn’t mind it, truly.

I hate how her hair lingers on every surface. I hate how her perfume wafts into the bathroom while I shower. And now, more than all, I hate how she looks at me with rounded eyes glossed over almost too innocently.

But she is not an idiot. We both know it. Silence speaks volumes, I know she pieces together the puzzle as she walks away. The shirt hanging loosely off of her shoulder and her face hidden from my view. She never looks back. She doesn’t say goodnight.

…………………………………………………………………………………

“Do you think we’d be soulmates in another universe?” I ask, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. The fresh England summer air hot and humid. I say it with dirt on my skin, grass stuck to my knees. I pull at the ribbons in her hair and watch how she smiles. We were only children then. Fourteen and convinced we were all grown up.

“Why not in this one?” She asked honestly, looking at me with so much truth in her eyes, I believed her. And the way her hand fit into mine, I could feel my heart pounding. And I knew then, she was the one for me. The way my body reacted, how quickly my heart pounded so violently, I thought it might burst from my chest. Too young to be kissing and too old to not think about it, we stare at each other in the wet grass in the backyard and wait for the final sunset to disappear into the horizon, my eyes looking into hers and her hand in my hair.

For a long while, I believed what she did. We were soulmates, we were bound together. Always by my side, always encouraging me. She makes shirts for my family while I start my career. She helps me rehearse my songs and her voice makes me believe that it should be her on stage, not me.

When the band is formed, and One Directions fate is sealed into greatness, I spend the last summer of normalcy singing in the fields and holding her hand like real good friends would. Her hand in my hair again, twirling it between her finger and her thumb. I want to kiss her, but the smile on her face makes me too nervous to. I think she has the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. I think she is the prettiest girl I’ll ever see.

“When we are twenty eight and not married yet, will you marry me?” She asks me in the last week of that August. It confuses me, it’s such a random age. It’s so young. But the idea of getting to be with her forever makes my cheeks flush.

“Why twenty eight? Why not forty?” She laughs, says something on how I’ll find it silly. For a girl with as much potential as her to wish for something so silly.

“I want to have a warm house with a soft bed. A dog and two cats and children. I want two boys and a girl. I want a white fence to keep them in from the street and little family trips where we can all laugh and be happy. And with all of that, I hope I am a writer still. I hope I have critically acclaimed novels and a Nobel Peace Prize.” And I don’t think her dreams are stupid. And even though her dreams are so hard to make real, the way she dreams about it out loud makes me believe it will happen to her.

When we leave the grassy field that night, I have no idea it will be the last I’ll see of her for a while. All I know is in the morning my mother has a solemn look on her face and a letter in her hand. When she sits me down to read it, all I hear beyond the violent ringing is my mother telling me she is gone. She left, only leaving behind her empty promises and a tainted memory of what I once believed to be something so pure and precious.

I don’t see the letter. Maybe if I had, I would have known it was in her father’s handwriting. And my dear Y/n hadn’t left me because the beating of her heart lost its rhythm in me, but because she was forced away into a house that would never be her home.

…………………………………………………………………………………

“God, you are a self-righteous prick.” She huffs, quickly untying the apron from her waist, letting the blue and yellow fabric fold over her hips and be discarded on the shiny tile floors. Not yet scuffed from the lack of dancing. Never truly loved. But I wouldn’t know what the difference was. I stopped learning how to love when love walked out on me.

“And you must be a victim!” She sticks out her tongue and groans, rolling her eyes and walking down the hall. The lights are dim, candles burning. It’s her own touch. She claimed she hated the big lights. The smaller ones made it much more homely. I didn’t care enough to fight her then, but as I stumble around I wish I had.

“I gave you everything! I gave you a roof to live under. All the money on the goddamn earth and all the glory! And yet you are ungrateful!” I spit at her with venom I don’t even know I possess.

“Oh my god, you don’t even know me!” She turns, and her eyes are crazy, hair wild. “My own husband doesn’t even know me!” She says it like it hurts her.

“Don’t call me that.” I tell her firmly. I try not to look at the rock on her finger, how it taunts me.

“What does it embarrass you? I hope it does. I hope all of your friends tease and taunt you for marrying the girl you never wanted, but had to have!” She laughs then, stepping closer to me, her finger in my chest.

“I will not let a loveless marriage strip me of my heart and my soul. You can hate me, but you should know better than to think you would have any power to strip me of my humanity.” She said it with such power, her voice shook with the same fierceness she felt in her bones. And yet, her anger didn’t lead me astray. For the first time in our loveless marriage, I felt a twinge of guilt for the innocent girl who I let bleed so gruesomely on the floor of our own home.

“Believe it or not, I am not the cruel witch you make me out to be. I am a woman, the same woman who loved you all those years ago. I still dream of having children and cats and a dog. A damn white picket fence! But, what a waste! Our agreement! If it could have at least given me that, or god forbid it had brought us together! I am still the same woman who loved you, and it is clear to me you are not the same man. You are bitter and I pity you because you must be so unhappy to feel the need to be that way.”

“And what else? Do you still dream of a medal in your honor for your writing? Or has that woman finally grown up to smell the roses and see that the world isn’t always built just for her.” I should’ve backed down, the moment she showed vulnerability, but for some reason I could not shut my mouth. I needed the last word.

“I outgrew those dreams the second I married you.” If my heart wasn’t shattered completely then, it had been now. And why? Over some words a girl I claimed to hate had to share?

“What a shame too. A book full of stories of us destined to the fire on our wedding night. And even if I were to write again, who would read about how you broke my heart? And how I continue to let you stomp it out until there is nothing but the dust that remains.” When she leaves, her dress sways behind her. She’s wearing my sweatshirt and she has the same white ribbons in her hair she had all those years ago. She never really did lie to me, did she.

She was only a girl. Ribbons tied into her hair and a white dress with lace so frilly, it resembled her wedding dress. A dress I never appreciated. I wondered if I looked into the old box of photos of the day we were destined for failure, if I would find any photos of her in all her innocence. Or, if that same smile she greeted me with before she knew me would be tainted with the same hate I bred inside of her through my own negligence.

I regret every feeling I’d ever felt towards her. How I called her plain, uninteresting, unlikable. The realization of this guilt hits so hard, it is undeniable. I feel this way because I have succeeded. I have crushed the heart of a girl who continued to love me through my greed. And I know I have succeeded through the look in her eyes and the frown lines by her lips. The lines that once represented deep smiles gone in an instant.

She only solidifies what I know when I see her suitcase by the door. Practically empty, nothing in this house is truly hers. She has gone from one loveless house to another, not yet finding her home. Not yet living her dream.

“You don’t need to divorce me, but I can’t stay. Not now. Not when I still love you. I can’t come back until every piece of you is gone. Maybe then, your insults won’t hurt so much, and we could get along.” She smiles softly, but it’s so fake it hurts my heart.

I don’t stop her, but I wish I had. This house isn’t a home without her. If I could change it, I would. I still loved her, and thats what makes it all sting so much more. The tormenting, the pain and the tears. All a result of two soulmates bound to be together, yet one of them refused to let it happen.

I hope she’ll come back soon. Sooner than last time. And I hope her heart still yearns for me. I’ll propose to her for real this time, not just under circumstance. And when she walks down the aisle, I’ll shake just as badly as she did the first time. And we can laugh about our experience in our first try at rekindling our flame, and we can finally have a house with a fence and two boys and a girl, a dog and two cats. And she can write about how wonderful her life is and win every award there is to win. And I will stand beside her like a good husband because I love her.

I will spend each hour she is gone wishing for her to come back. For the ache to ease itself. And what a waste. If only I could write a good song about it without ranting and going off into small tangents. If only I could’ve done it right. If only it could have brought us together.

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