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aethercoreheart · 5 days ago

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earl grey

virtual radio host!rafayel x producer!reader

“I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You roll your eyes at Rafayel’s theatrics. He takes the covered tumbler filled with tea and slides it to his side of the studio desk. You take your own cup, which is filled with coffee, and raise it to your lips. It’s still hot and you have to fight back a grimace as the coffee scalds your tongue.

“A simple ‘thank you’ would have been enough. And next time, maybe don’t waltz in two minutes before we go on air,” you tell him, trying to sound as stern as possible. “Management will chew me out if they find out I’m this lenient on my host.”

Rafayel blows you a kiss from across the desk. “And that’s why I begged them to keep you as my producer.”

He takes a sip from his tumbler, and you watch as his face lights up. “Perfect. You really do make the best tea. I mean it, I really don’t know what I’d do without you,” he repeats.

He settles into his seat and checks the position of his materials. A small canvas is propped up on a table easel in front of him, surrounded by the tools he will need to paint for the stream that night: watercolor paints, jars of water, several brushes and a few rags. He gives you a thumbs up and you nod in return, turning your attention back to your laptop and the mixing console on your side of the desk.

You glance over at all three camera feeds: one feed showing an overhead view of Rafayel and what he will be working on, one for a close up on his face, and the last one that shows a bigger view of his side of the studio. Rafayel puts his earpiece in while you position your headphones onto your ears. You motion for him to say something to test the sound.

“Only cuties can hear this message,” he drawls. You give him a pressed smile, suppressing another eye roll. He winks at you and you count him down to the start of the stream with just your fingers. As soon as your index finger goes down, his demeanor shifts and you see him sit up straighter in his seat. He beams at the camera for his face, his eyes taking on a curious sparkle. He clears his throat before speaking.

“Hey there, my little fishies. Welcome to Rafayel’s Cove. Grab a warm drink and let’s get settled in for the night...”

—

It’s midnight by the time the stream finishes. A slow, moody R&B song is playing while you set up the queue to run automatically until the breakfast show. You shift your eyes over your laptop to sneak a glance at Rafayel. He’s finishing up his painting of the night, completely immersed in it. Your fingers hover over your keyboard as you watch him, entranced by the way he flicks the brush over the canvas, adding small, intricate details to the piece. It’s been a year since you’ve started spending every weeknight with Rafayel, watching him paint and listening to him talk to the listeners, but you’re still not tired of it. And neither is the audience. You scroll over the comments on the stream, plucking out and reporting the very few abusive or spammy comments. The overwhelming majority of them shower Rafayel with love and praise – his audience has grown steadily over the past year, and they seem to be more committed to him as well.

You look over the analytics and you nod to yourself, pleased with how the stream went tonight. You don’t read the numbers out to Rafayel. He doesn’t care about them. His only concern is making art and connecting with his audience. And that’s all you really need him to do. His previous producers, your predecessors, were hellbent on making his show as profitable as possible, cramming as many ads and sponsorships in as they possibly could, which, of course, Rafayel had detested. Management had found it a relief that Rafayel had tolerated you past your first week of working with him. Then, they were ecstatic that you had managed to negotiate between them and your host: two one-minute ads every hour, and only one sponsorship opening every three months. Rafayel wasn’t over the moon about it, but for some reason, he heard you out and actually listened to you when you said that the show needed to be funded somehow.

You take your eyes away from your screen again and go back to watching Rafayel. You study the piece: a koi fish, painted in shades of purple, red and blue watercolor. You don’t realize it, but you let out a sigh of admiration, and you see him smirk without looking up from the piece.

“Oh, stop it,” he purrs. “You’re making me blush.”

You cross your arms over your chest and scoff. “Finish up quick, Rafayel. It’s past midnight and I want to go home now.” Despite your clipped tone, you feel a warm flush spread over your own cheeks. You’re hoping that he doesn’t look up and see it.

His smirk grows into a grin, his eyes still cast downwards. “Okay, okay, my lovely producer. Almost there.”

With that, he plops the brush he’s holding into a jar of water. He holds the piece up with his faintly stained hands.

“What do you think?” he asks, turning the canvas towards you.

You nod in approval. “Beautiful, as always. Now, let’s get out of here.”

—

You grip your phone tightly, eagerly anticipating a text, a call, anything from Rafayel that would indicate that he’d be in the studio soon. You look at the studio clock, biting the inside of your cheek. The stream should have started seven minutes ago, but the show’s host is currently nowhere to be seen. The last you'd heard from him was a text thirty seconds before the stream was supposed to start.

> Gunna be late. Soz. Cover for me pls

“Dammit, Rafayel,” you mutter, hunching over your laptop. “Who even says ‘Soz’ anymore?”

You read the comments starting to come through on the chat.

> Where’s Rafa? 🙁

> what’s taking so looooong

> WE WANT RAFAYEL

> i’m logging off ugh

You grab your phone from where you had slammed it down on the desk and you briefly consider calling your creative director. You’d rather stab a pencil into your ear than let him know about the shitshow that’s currently happening. But you’re desperate. You’re even considering cancelling the stream tonight and just queuing songs for the rest of the night. Your thumb hovers over his name on the phone and you’re about to press on it when Rafayel bursts into the studio.

His face is red, all the way up to his ears, and he’s huffing and puffing so intensely that you’re afraid he might pass out. Both of you stare at each other, speechless, and you immediately set your phone down again, scared that your hand might act on its own and actually put the call through.

Rafayel’s eyes flick towards his side of the desk, then to you, then back to the desk. He starts to rush towards it, but you stop him, shaking your head at him. You reach into your bag underneath the desk and pull out a cosmetic kit. It’s not yours, but his – you have it on hand in case he ever needs a touch up in the middle of a stream. You fish a comb out of the kit, and you motion at Rafayel to bend down. He complies, and you run the comb through his lavender hair, neatening the stray hairs that had been sticking out. You then take his compact powder out, and press the puff against the places on his forehead where a sheens of sweat had started to form. You lock eyes with Rafayel for a split second and notice that his pupils have become dilated, his breath now coming out in shallow pants. You feel your mouth suddenly become dry. You snap the pact closed and nod at him. He inhales sharply and zigzags around you to sit at his side of the desk. He sets himself up with his earpiece and looks straight into the camera, putting on a smile. You check the camera feeds and turn the mic on – no time for a soundcheck.

Rafayel takes another deep breath before going into his usual spiel. “Hi there fishies! Sorry about the late start. I had to take a detour to get to the cove. Now that we’re here though, why don’t we get started?”

—

You and Rafayel are both silent as you wrap up for the night. You chew on the inside of your cheek, contemplating how you’re going to bring up the disaster that was the start of the show. He beats you to it.

“I’m really sorry,” he sighs, looking up from his piece of the night. “There wasn’t even an emergency. I was just late.”

You nod, choosing your next words carefully. “Can you tell me why you were late?”

Rafayel bites his lower lip before sighing again. “I was working on a piece the whole day. I got… distracted, I guess. That happens, sometimes. Certain pieces can just… eat you up.”

He chuckles nervously. “I was in a flow state the whole day, I think. By the time I realized that the whole day had gone, I was already going to be late for the show.”

You peer at him and notice that there are faint dark circles under his eyes. The whites of his eyes are also tinged with a light pink hue. “God, Rafayel, did you even sleep after the show last night?”

He shakes his head. “I napped for maybe an hour. But I was feeling inspired, so I just went with it. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

With that last statement, he locks eyes with you. You hold his gaze and you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach. He breaks away first, his attention going back to his piece.

“If Thomas wants someone to blame, give him my name,” he tells you. “Do not take the fall for me.” He looks back up at you, a determined glint in his eyes. “And it won’t happen again. I promise.”

—

“So you’re really taking the fall for him?” Thomas asks the question, but he already knows your answer. Your creative director taps on the rim of his coffee cup absentmindedly, awaiting your reply.

You shrug, your palms facing outwards. You shift in your seat and lean forward, just inches away from his desk. You’re determined to keep your voice steady. “I’m the producer. The buck stops with me. Anything that happens on Rafayel’s Cove has my name on it.”

Thomas lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re just like him,” he says, shaking his head. “Both of you are incredibly stubborn.” He picks up his cup and sips from it.

“But we can’t lose either of you,” he murmurs, squinting at you from above the rim of the cup. He sets it down on his desk again. “Rafayel is invaluable to the network and you’re the only one he’ll work with.”

Inwardly, you’re already celebrating, but you wait for Thomas to finish his lecture.

“I’ll just tell management there was a technical issue. Servers were down for maintenance. Whatever. They won’t really care at that point.”

You slowly release the breath you didn’t know you had been holding. “Thank you Thomas,” reply, bowing your head towards him. “It won’t happen again.”

Thomas waves his hand at you, dismissing you. “Of course. Go now, don’t you have a show to prepare for?”

—

You take your time making your way to the studio. You’re making plans in your head about how you’re going to get Rafayel into the studio on time, everyday. Should you call him two hours before his scheduled time? What if you picked him up on your way in yourself?

You’re still deep in thought when you open the door to the studio. You don’t notice that the lights are already on and that someone is already in there.

You’re startled, and your shoulders tense up – you’re not expecting anyone to be in the studio. You exhale quickly when you realize that it’s just Rafayel, setting up his things for the stream. Wait. You check the time on your watch. It’s half an hour before the show starts.

You head inside and close the door behind you. “You’re early,” you remark as you head to the desk.

Rafayel looks up from what he’s doing and gives you a mirthless chuckle. “See? Didn’t I tell you? Yesterday will not happen again.”

You settle in your seat, pleasantly surprised that most of your pre-show work is already done. You could get used to this. You’re about to go on your phone and start scrolling when Rafayel pipes up from his side of the desk.

“You stuck your neck out for me, didn’t you? I told you not to.”

You shrug, the same way you had shrugged at Thomas back in his office. “I’m your producer. I’m responsible for you and the show.” You lean in towards Rafayel, closing the space between the two of you. “And you need a producer you can trust. Someone you can always turn to.” You set your hands on the table gently. “Let me be that producer for you.”

Rafayel is silent for a few moments, but he nods. His jaw clenches and unclenches before he replies in a whisper. “Yeah. Thank you.”

You spot two covered cups on the corner of the desk. One of them has a tea bag string and tag dangling outside of it. You take that one and pass it to Rafayel. He receives it from you without looking up from his work. He raises the cup to his lips to take a sip and you see him frown into the cup.

“Ugh,” he mutters, smacking his lips together. “I didn’t make it right. It doesn’t taste good.”

You giggle as you motion for him to give the cup back to you. “Here, let me take it. Since we’ve got time, I’ll make it just how you like it.”

—

You’re a few minutes into the stream when Rafayel answers his first question of the night from the audience. He’s working with pastels tonight, and he’s just finished picking out the colors he’s going to work with.

“What am I drinking?” he reads the question from the tablet in front of him, his hand reaching for his cup. “Good question. First time in the history of me doing this show that someone’s ever asked that. Any guesses?”

Your eyes leave your screen and focus on him. He raises his cup briefly for the camera before setting it back down. You drag your gaze back to the screen and notice that the chat is flooded with comments.

> definitely some tequila in there…

> i think it’s coffee?

> No wait, there’s a tag and string, it’s tea!

“Definitely no tequila,” Rafayel chuckles. “My producer would kill me.”

He turns his attention back to his piece and picks up a pastel stick. He starts sketching roughly with it, drawing bold lines. “You’re right, it’s tea,” he confirms for the audience.

> what kind!!!

> i bet he’s a green tea guy

> What if it’s matcha?

> or oolong maybe?

Rafayel looks at the tablet momentarily, then back to his piece. He continues to draw, talking while he does so. “It’s Earl Grey, actually.”

“It’s my favorite tea. My producer makes it perfectly, every single time. I can’t do a show without it.”

His hands work furiously on the canvas panel. “My tea has to be bold, strong and fragrant. Sweet, but not too sickly sweet. I like the kind of tea that makes you miss it and crave it, just a little bit.”

You raise your eyebrows at what he says, but continue to listen.

“I need my tea by my side, always. It’s what gets me coming into the studio and doing these streams every night.”

Your cheeks start to heat up as you read the comments coming through.

> wow, waxing poetic about tea. okayyyy

> Damn I think I need some of that tea

> are we still talking about tea or…?

You look up and notice that Rafayel is looking directly at you, his hand hovering over the canvas. He has started sketching out the outline of a tea cup and it’s looking amazing already. Your eyes flick to the camera, then back to Rafayel. You motion with your head for him to turn his attention back to the camera, but he continues to look at you, his expression unreadable. That feeling you had felt the night before in your stomach comes back with an increased intensity. You bite down on your lower lip, no longer able to hide the fact that you are blushing.

“My tea. My lovely Earl Grey tea,” Rafayel murmurs, his head tilting to the side as he continues to look at you. “I really don’t know what I’d do without it.”

#love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel fluff #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel fanfic #rafayel scenarios #rafayel imagine #rafayel imagines #lads x reader #lads fluff #lads imagines #lads imagine #lads x you #lads scenarios #lads fanfic #ae.rafayel

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grlcarcass · 3 months ago

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dead air, dirty talk - duff mckagan

modern!duff mckagan x reader

She hosts a late night music radio show, just getting by and keeping things entertaining with her crowd, until a charming caller with a self proclaimed ‘ex rockstar life’ becomes awfully involved.

warnings: 18+ content, power imbalance, legal age gap, humiliation, choking, mild breathplay, mentions of alcohol use, sadism, masochism, strong language

word count: 7k words

{tags: @hollywoodroses @duffrosemckagansslut }

special thanks to @hollywoodroses for your advice! ur the best.

The rain made the city glow.

Far from magically, it wasn’t remotely close to a movie scene, but in that ‘neon-reflected-wet-sidewalks-outside-the-pub’ way, where the gutters are glimmering and vaguely smell like the ever familiar city sewage.

Her mary janes hit puddles as she lazily makes her way up the cracked pavement, big flight jacket only zipped up halfway, the cold city wind hitting the skin behind the small slightly exposed black lace bralette she wore as a top. Even at these midnight hours she stuck to her image, hoping to be recognized one of these days.

It was nearly midnight, and everybody in the city was definitely asleep. Yet she was just clocking in.

The radio station was far from glamorous. The suspiciously stained ceiling tiles, the vending machine left with the trail mix no right mind would ever buy, the stuck front door that wouldn’t dare to budge without the help of your hip. A little box of flickering “ON AIR” light and a secondhand incense smell, where the only audience were night owls, truckers, and the very painfully lonely assholes.

A college student technically, firstly, but she felt like her major was just getting by. Rent was late, always. But the apartment had a window that overlooked that city skyline, and when it rained like this? It almost felt expensive.

She threw her jacket on the ever empty guest seat, her minibag following with the jingles of her keychains. She slid into the swivel chair, and tapped the mic, one of the objectively finest things in her life.

“Hey you lot.” she spoke lowly, speaking into the dim half-lit studio. Her voice honeyed with sarcasm, “Welcome back to your nightly reminder it’s past your bedtime. I’m your host, and hell no I’m not playing any Linkin Park.”

The night started the same as ever, the phone blinking lazily as she did.

First caller swore up and down that his cat was possessed. “I swear to you, she growls when I play The Strokes. That can’t be normal!” She chewed her gum and blinked slowly, she sighed to the side. “Consider her opinion.”

Click. Next.

A woman requesting a Celine Dion song for her cheating ex. “You know, just so he knows what he lost?”

“Sure,” she said, already queuing up an obnoxiously rowdy song, betraying her request. “This one’s for you, Greg.” she rolled her eyes.

It droned on; half comedy, half confessional booth? Most nights, she floated through the calls like a milky smoke, half listening, half thinking about her shift ending. Her tone always cool, borderline teasing, like she dared the world to amuse her.

Then came his voice.

It wasn’t dramatic, just low. Steady. Like someone who hadn’t slept in a few days but didn’t mind, yet also a curiosity behind it.

“Hey,” he said. “First time caller. Thought I’d see what the lame and lonely are doing tonight y’know?”

She blinked, oddly dumbfounded, she loved her crowd of course. A bunch of bored and chatty people who didn’t mind being teased and jested with. Her hand froze over the soundboard. There was a pause. Not dead air, more like a charged silence.

He hadn’t stumbled. Didn’t have to unconsciously beg to be heard. He dared her to listen.

Frankly she just wasn’t used to that.

“Well,” she said slowly, her slender fingers pinching her bottom lip, rolling the pout between her index and thumb curiously. “You’ve officially been the smoothest first time caller on the show.”

He chuckled again, his voice that of an unpolished yet inviting young buck. “Oh I’m so glad to raise the bar, it wasn’t awfully hard. Hold your applause I beg.”

“Oh,” she mused, flipping a switch on the board, “someone’s cocky.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’d love to hear this list, first time caller.” she mocked and giggled.

“I’d need a second call for that, you wanna play some songs on this joint eventually don’t you?”

She raised a brow, she could feel the listeners worldwide–or, locally-wide doing the same. The show was far from that of a cohesive talkshow, the collective felt like it was a well promoted music groupchat, nothing so charming.

He teased for more time. Interesting.

“So…” she drawled, resting her chin in her palm. You swear you could hear her amused grin over the radio. “What’s your name, our oh-so-charming mystery caller?”

A pause. “D.”

She waited for more. Nothing came.

“No last name?” she teased. “Witness protection advice such an alias? If you could call it that.”

“Something like that.”

“Alright, D Something-Like-That, what really made you call in tonight?’

Another pause, a little longer this time.

“Just wanted to hear needed some voice other than my own..”

And just like that, her sarcasm wavered. Briefly.

She leaned back in her chair, one mary jane rested on the edge of the desk, watching the rain crawl down the window in tiny silver threads.

D hadn’t filled the silence. He let it breathe, which told her a lot. Most people feared dead air. He let it exist. It was the kind of thing only people with unrelenting confidence could pull off, radioshow or not.

“You always talk like that?” she asked after a beat, voice curious and musing. “All cryptic and poetic, or is it just for me?” she teased smokily.

“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”

She smirked, he got her there, admittedly a thrill shot up from layers behind her abdomen. “A little. But don’t get a big head about it, you’d have to best all the trucker callers who tell me Iron Maiden predicted 9/11. You’re in the league for sure, but the best in it?” she jested.

“Aw darn.” he chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time won’t I?”

For some reason, it hadn’t felt like a threat. When most of her callers promised a call back, she already dreaded it. But him?

Next time?

She liked this mix, unrehearsed boldness, smooth and not pushy. She liked that. It wasn’t often someone on the other side of the static actually got to her.

Most of her audience was a blend of awkward stoners, lonely oldheads, or self proclaimed “deep” Elliott Smith fans. She loved them, she was them, but it didn’t stop her from knowing how much more aware she was of them. Sharp edged, and sad in a way they hadn’t earned yet. She envied her crowd some times, more love than hate there.

But this guy? He didn’t even try to prove anything, and it slightly unnerved her. Just a bit.

“You a music guy, D?” she asked.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

“You could say that, sure.” he chuckled

“Define ‘music guy,’” she pushed.

“Played a little. Wrote a little. Y’know? Lived backstage.”

She tilted her head. “You in a band?”

“Used to be. Not the frontman. Never liked the idea too much, y’know? Just there to get drunk, high, and play. Not much else to it, y’know?”

“Ohhh,” she teased. “Mysterious past, famous rock god calling from exile maybe? You’re intriguing us.”

“You laugh,” he said, clearly amused. “but you’re not that far off.”

She almost made a joke. Almost.

"You miss it?" she asked uncharacteristically tenderly.

“I guess I miss the feeling.” he paused. “And I miss not having to explain it.”

She liked this, she wanted to save it in a bottle and keep it for later.

“Call me next week,” she said, almost without thinking. “Same time.”

A silence hung between them, it was warm.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet and sure. “I will.”

After D hung up, she just sat there for a second, staring at the blinking line that had gone dark.

The next call came through.

“Hey, it’s Alan again; remember me? The guy with the misspelled ‘Mtoely Crue’ fucked up tattoo?”

She smirked, her fingers absently tapping on the desk. “Hey you. I was wondering when you’d call to make up for your last very questionable tattoo.”

The usual stream of callers came through; a guy who swore Ozzy didn’t eat the damn bat, a woman asking for a shoutout to her ‘super cool’ cat named Gary Glitter, and an ex-groupie proudly proclaiming how she wore the bandana of David Bowie’s guitarist after stealing it.

It was all so, mostly, predictable yet amusing. Her demeanor was noticeably different, she felt herself smiling into the mic more. Swinging her legs under the desk like a teenager with a secret.

Even when she walked home under the same dripping sky, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, she just kept hearing that voice of his.

She didn’t know what it was exactly. Just that it felt honest in a way people rarely are, especially behind anonymous lines around 2 am.

The next day blurred like a washed out tape.

College was a haze of fluorescent lights and dull lectures. She sat through a pretentious music theory class taught by some prissy asshole who pronounced “fugue” wrong, and graded as if he was some kind of Beethoven himself.

Lunch was a pathetic half bagel and a chai latte, she ignored all her texts. Checked the station voicemail, nothing.

By Thursday, she had almost convinced herself it was a fluke. An oddly charming stranger who stumbled into her show and played her like a damn fool for her audience.

But she couldn’t stop thinking of his voice, the steady smokey rasp, but friendly chuckles behind it. A certain gravel to it you don’t get from a mic, but from life. From late nights and hotel bathtubs and waiting too long between cigarettes.

She continually replayed the call in her head, especially the pauses. The way he’d say “y’know” like he expected her to understand everything as he said it. Or it was just a habit, she was reading too far into it, she knew it.

The following Friday night rolled in like clockwork, it felt like the past hundred, the city buzzing under the same rain slicked sky. The comforting hum of the studio set in as she sat in her chair, fingers already itching for the mic. Tonight was the night.

She clicked the mic on, ready to get into the usual chaos of her late night crowd.

“Alrighty, you know who I am, cut the crap and call me.” her voice danced in the air with a playful edge. “Hit me.” she tempted her awaiting callers.

The calls flooded in, each one blending into the next; people joking about how they were finally awake enough to properly understand their grandpa’s recommendations, a woman who was seriously convinced she was the bastard child of Eddie Van Halen, another just wanted a song rec.

She kept it coming, half-listening, half-laughing, her usual dry sense of humor coating every interaction. But then, a strange shift in the feeling of the next call.

“Hey, who’s calling us tonight?” she said, a feeling in her gut about this caller.

A soft and familiar chuckle vibrated through the speakers, unmistakingly smooth, yet carrying that same rough edge that made him stand out before. “I’m afraid it’s me again,” came his familiar beautiful voice, rich, and warm with mischief. “Wouldn’t want you to think you’d gotten rid of me that easily.”

She truly couldn't suppress the smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth. D, of course, like he promised. A wave of relief and excitement washed over her, leaving that electric feeling hanging in the air.

“Back for more?” she teased, keeping her tone light, though there was that new kind of amusement she found last time he had called her. “Thought you’d let someone else have the spotlight for once.”

“Couldn’t keep away,” he replied smoothly. “I figured I’d call in and see if you were still managing to keep up with all this music gossip crap. I have to admit, I’m impressed you haven’t lost it yet.”

Her eyebrow arched, was he listening to her show the whole week leading up to today? She leaned closer to the mic. “Oh, I’m hanging in there, don’t you worry about me. But I do have to ask… what’s your angle this time?”

She could hear his smile, whatever that looked like, in his voice as he spoke again, and she knew it was that smirk– the one he probably wore every time he got into this kind of playful back and forth. “No angle. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re still as interesting as last week, which you’ve seem to have a knack for. I gotta know, a question that I imagine all listeners have thought of…” he began, her eyebrows raising. “Are you as interesting off the air as you are on it?”

Her pulse shot up, but she kept her cool. “I don’t know… maybe you should find out for yourself. Unless you’re a complete nutcase and lied your way up to this point about this ‘ex-rockstar life’ you claimed.” she teased.

His ever sunny laughter rumbled through the speakers, the kind that was easy-going and mischievous. “I think that’s a dangerous idea, y’know? But hey, I get it. You probably think you know everything about this side of life, right? I mean, you’ve heard all the stories, the ones about the craziness, the tours, the late nights, the drama.”

She raised a brow feeling the challenge settle into her chest. “I mean, sure. I’ve heard some pretty wild stuff. But I bet you’ve seen a lot more than you’ve led on, D.” she giggled.

He chuckled. “I’m sure I could tell you a few stories that would blow your mind, but who knows? Maybe they’re better left off the ears of a radio show host, y’know?” he jested.

She leaned forward, rolling her eyes and musing, her tone intrigued and teasing. “Oh, don’t be so mysterious. You think you can just be all cryptic on my show and not expect me to want to know more?”

“Well, I’m a fan of mystery,” D replied, his voice lowering a tad. “Especially in people who can keep up. I’ll give you a hint, though. Being on the road isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. After a while, you start seeing how shitty it can be, y’know.”

“I’d imagine.” she said softly.

His voice shifted. “It’s humbling to get back into the spot you were before the big lights. Even for a little.”

She was quiet for a moment, letting the tension linger between them before speaking again. “Sounds like you’re not in that life anymore?”

His laugh was soft, yet gravely and laced with amusement. “No. That bit is behind me. The memories stay for years. They stick around. Like the people who truly get it, the ones who really know what it’s like, y’know?”

Her curiosity peaked, but she didn’t lead on. “So, you’re saying I’ve got to be in the elusive ‘get it’ club to understand?” she asked with a playful edge.

“Maybe,” D teased. “Or maybe I’ll just show you what happens when you start looking beyond the hairspray and pretty men. You know, in person?”

Her heart skipped. There it was again! That invitation, hanging in the air like a challenge she couldn’t resist.

“I guess I’ll have to be properly schooled this weekend.” she chuckled. “If you think you can handle all of my beauty and charm… and wit.” she said ever so sarcastically.

D’s voice dropped to a lower amused pitch, “Oh I know I can, I’m sure. But we’ll see how tough you are, no audience, no mic.” he chuckled.

“I guess we’ll have to see. Check your inbox, send the deets there.” she giggled. The listener count had spiked up, she hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy writing the caller number on a nearby notepad to contact this illusive D.

After that shift the plan was set, her phone buzzing moments later.

D: So, Saturday night, 8PM. Guess you’re calling out sick to your loyal listeners?

She stared at the message, the playfulness in his text was unmistakable. It kind of hit her though, she hoped it wasn’t some total uggo just playing around. He didn’t have to be a looker or anything, she kind of just created some hot fantasy subconsciously. Her fingers hovered the keyboard, then she bit a fraction of the skin of her bottom lip and typed.

You: You better not be all talk. I’ll be there, abandoning my favorite group of loners for you.

The typing popped up on her screen. She couldn’t help but giggle.

D: I already promised. See you at the station.

Saturday morning came by fast, and the hours were slipping by before she could really prepare for meeting up with this D character. On the off chance he wasn’t some behemoth troll, she decided to play the game and get all pretty regardless.

Standing in front of the mirror, a bundle of excitement and nerves playing in her gut. Her hair cascaded in soft waves, hands trembling as she worked her locks. She had already chosen a simple outfit, a black slip dress and black sheer stockings. She slid on kitten heels, trying to at least look like she was there for a “good time” and not too try hard.

The clock struck 7:45pm and at this rate, she had been ready for hours. Waiting around, not wanting to be too early. Her heart raced as she took one more good look in the mirror. She sighed and got her purse, excited and nervous all at once. She stepped out of her apartment, and locked the door behind her.

The rain had settled in the past couple of days, a grey gloom remained. The neon lit reflections make an appearance in the vague drizzle. She tried to wind up her confidence she led on in her show, and that she had interacted with him this entire time with.

The idea of being around a personality who collided so well with hers made her stomach flip in anticipation.

When she stood by the radio station, she immediately scanned the street, watching oncomers with intent. She immediately glanced down at her phone, going to ask where he was when an extremely tall figure stood in front of her.

She looked up, she picked up on the features before her brain could even scream out his real name in all of its astonishment.

His hair was styled in a tousled way, the hints of grey but the natural blonde shone through his hair. His face was the same as the magazine covers that had moved her to make a show about the genre, only aged, only more scruffy, timelessly rugged. She took it all in, his tattooed arms, the way he dressed in a simple black band shirt, a cross chain, how it hung off his slender body?

She was awestruck, Duff Mckagan stood right before her. Guns N Roses was everything to her, absolutely everything. One of her immediately loved bands, always updating the show on their every news, more so than other bands. This was the best possible thing to come out of this.

The dazed look on her face, jaw hung slightly open. He listened to the show, that asshole knew what kind of reaction this would get out of her this whole time. Warranting the smirk she had imagined behind the static, being plastered on the face of her absolute favorite bassist. Who knew now that he was, she knew immediately he’d hold all of her spoken affections to him.

Duff smiled down at her, his hands in his jean pockets. “You look like you’re thinking of running out of here.” he said, his voice so warm and clear, yet all the more rough now that it was in front of her.

Her heart thudded, this was her absolute dream since she started the show. An unrealistic one sure? A girlish unmistakable attraction built inside of her, one that was always there of course, it was Duff McKagan. But this was also D, the personality that charmed her to no end.

Her face crept into a shy smile, trying to force that personality she had put up for days. “Not quite,” she looked up at him, “Just taking in the fact you’re not… you’re… you?” she stuttered. In disbelief understandably.

He smirked still looking down at her and her gloomy little get up, he liked this. “Oh I’m sure I’ve lived up to all your expectations, huh? All those praises you’ve been throwing my way” he said, clearly amused by the idea. “I thought I was just another call-in but, you talk about this old bassist more than you let on, y’know? You had no clue.”

She wanted to die and melt into the earth, in a good way. Her cheeks immediately flaring pink. Of course he was going to bring that up, she thought. Her lips twitched between embarrassment and amusement. “I—what?” She tried to recover quickly, though she could already feel her face warming at the thought of it. The unabashed admiration she had casually thrown into the open radio air, wrapped up in excited ramblings about GnR? She was so screwed.

Duff chuckled sensing her realization, “I mean it’s cool,” he continued. “You’ve been raving about me and the old guys for weeks. What was it you said? ‘Unparalleled character’ or something like that?” His smirk was practically etched into his face. “You like me? If that even scratches the surface of it.”

She was still extremely embarrassed and also excited for how this night could possibly continue. D was Duff, she was here, that electric personality was her all time favorite. How would anyone recover? She gulped quietly and pursed her lips, trying to.

Duff laughed again, low and rich, like a guilty pleasure. “Oh I’ve been listening alright. Don’t think I missed a word. Couldn’t help myself, y’know? You’re so charming when you talk about me. It’s like that sarcasm and wit just becomes girlish gossip in those segments.”

There was something about the way he said it, something that made her wonder if he was playing her or if he actually enjoyed her vocal passion about him, she was after all cool-headed, and relaxed on air. He picked up on that demeanor change when she spoke about Guns N’ Roses.

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so instead she deflected with a quick and really shaky sarcastic reply. A hand to her hip, looking up at the statue of a man with red flushed cheeks “So what’s your point Mckagan? You’re just trying to get me to say I think you’re as cool as your band right?”

“Oh absolutely,” he responded. His voice dripped with mock sincerity. “Because if you don’t admit it, I might just have to leave you right here by your own radio station, and go find someone else who gets it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re too cocky for your own good,” she shot back through an unstifled smile. “You know you have a huge ego.”

He nodded with his hands in the air in mock defense. “At least I have some talent to back it up, do you know who I am?” he jested.

She raised a brow, the challenge in his voice making her heart race. “Oh so you’re a legend now? Tell me, should I be getting your autograph or…” she led on.

“Aw come on.” he replied, his voice a playful murmur. “Don’t pretend you’re not into it. You've been talking about me for weeks, I’ve only just started calling in two weeks ago.”

She almost let her composure slip, as if that mattered at this rate. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or deeply worried you’ve been keeping track for all this time.”

“Both,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d definitely say both.”

Their banter felt like it had its own rhythm, playful and flirty. Their eyes kept locking for longer than it should. Despite the teasing, she felt a real connection here. It was chemistry and curiosity. Like they were both looking for something, and daring the other to find it in each other. It was tense and rich, a thrill she had longed for in her boring grey life.

The night stretched on, full of shared stories, laughter, and the ease that came from spending time with someone who just gets it. They finally decided to head back to her place, a few blocks away. It wasn’t about impressing each other, just wanting to know more.

“So you’ve been in that world for a while. It’s hard to imagine you just leaving the whole thing.” she mused, leaning against the counter. Duff sat on one of her stools on the other end, leaning on his elbows.

“Wasn’t an easy decision, but it gets to a point y'know? I’m old.” he said, taking a drink on his now second bottle of beer. She nodded, as cool as she was trying to be, she couldn’t help but look onto him. How beautifully he had aged, she was far younger than him of course. A college student, and he was in his early sixties, but she couldn’t help the way she looked at him. He was just too appealing.

Regardless she found herself nodding.

The night stretched on, with drunk laughter and comfortable silences filling the apartment. They shared stories, and they both felt the chemistry growing between them, it was undeniable. Her hand grazed his arm as she reached over for another shot, which they were so drunk they hadn’t exactly remembered getting it out.

They gave each other a drunk knowing glance, everything was slower, every little touch just a bit more hypnotic and obvious. She felt a shiver go down her spine as his darkened gaze looked at her after the mistake. They stared at each other way too long, pushing past the barrier of the radio show host and her favorite caller. They were long past it a couple shots and stories ago.

Interrupting her thoughts, he leaned into her neck as she sat on the stool next to him. “You know, as charming as you are on the air…” he began. Her fingers tensing around her empty shot glass. “I think I’d approach you, persona or not.”

She stiffened at the feel of his half-grown stubble grazing her neck, the exact kind of masculinity that ruined women in stories like this, all this time firmly believing she was stronger than that. But she was just no different was she? Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes going wide no matter how she forced it not to show.

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice came out too light, too airy, too not her. She hated it. Hated how it stripped her of the venom straight from her tone with just his closeness. Her usual bite dissolves distressingly fast, melting into something so shamefully soft.

Her hands rose, sliding under his arms to his neck, her fingers clinging there as if instinct told her to not let him get away. He leaned closer, their bodies pulled by an invisible heat.

This was Duff. Duff.

The same man whose music had sparked only the dirtiest nights alone in her younger years. The man she’d praise to hell and back on air without a clue he was listening. None of the lines she’d drawn for herself mattered now, not his age, his legacy, not the sinking guilt that she should’ve known better? She didn’t care.

He lifted his face from her neck, she swore right there he could read her mind. His dark gaze looked at her flushed face, drinking in the way she blinked slow and heavy– no longer daring him of anything, but asking for something. Subtly. Shamefully. Like he had her under some kind of spell, which he did.

The way her thighs came together didn’t go unnoticed, his rough hand slid down, thumbing a slow teasing path along her inner thigh, beneath the hem of her already short dress.

“Oh don’t try to look so tough now,” he murmured briskly, inches away from her face. His tall frame slid off the stool with ease, crouching down in front of her. She jolted when his knee touched the floor, like the sheer shift in position made everything more real. She could feel herself beneath her dress getting more needy. She gripped the sides of her stool hard.

“You were all mouth today,” he muttered, clearly enjoying himself. “Slick little comebacks, your sarcastic radio shtick, right?” His other knee hit the floor. He looked up at her with something between amusement and mock pity, his lip curling slightly.

“All that ‘cool girl’ edge for your little phone-in fan club,” he murmured, dragging his fingers higher on her leg. “But just look at you now.”

Her breath trembled in her throat. Duff tilted his head slightly, like he was just admiring her unraveling. Watching her. Loving how he’d peeled it all back without much effort. And that smug, devastating look of his?

It violently ruined her composure.

Because he was right. She was all mouth.

His hand slid higher, thumbing the inside of her thigh with practiced ease, and he grinned like the devil when she shuddered more frequently under his touch. Still firmly gripping the sides of her stool like they were the only thing keeping her tied to reality, she was coming completely undone.

“God look at you,” he murmured, low and amused, watching this ‘cool girl’ fall apart in real time. “Didn’t even have to try.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mascaraed eyes were wide and glassy, lipstick smudged from drinking moments ago, a normalcy that felt like eons ago.

“This is the same girl right?” he asked from between her thighs. “The same girl who talks circles around her callers? You sounded so in charge over the radio. So untouchable.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered at how humiliatingly true that was. He knew everything. He listened to everything. All those nights she’d talk so highly about all these famous musicians like they were her gods, how they carved her into the personality that she was, flirted with him without knowing it was him. And now here she was, on his knees between her legs, looking like she was going to be the next bitch he’d sink his teeth into.

“God, you should hear yourself.” he said, leaning into her right inner thigh, his thin lips and stubble making themselves known as he talked against her leg. “Begging in your breath. You’re not even hiding it anymore.”

Her face burned. Her thighs trembled. She was so wet it was actually embarrassing, her panties clinging to her anatomy in the worst way. She tried to shift, close her legs instinctively, like closing them even a tad would recover herself.

“Oh hell no, you don’t get to play shy. Not after all that big talk and praise.” he cooed, all wicked and low between her. His every annunciation felt on the sensitive skin between her legs. She felt like she was on fucking fire.

He looked up at her hungrily, he rolled her eyes. “You gonna cut the shit and tell me how bad you wanted this?” he asked, breath hot. “You ever touch yourself listening to my voice on those late night shows? I bet being a media outlet just gave you so much content.”

She gasped, the humiliation a fire in her stomach. Her lips quivered. “I… maybe.”

“Oh, maybe?” he mocked, his fingers dragging across the soaked fabric between her legs. “C’mon. The girl who always has clever little comebacks on her show is unsure of herself now?”

She groaned, bucking her hips forward. Desperate. It was messy. Sloppy. Her thighs parted with no fight at all at this point. Her heels digging into her floor for leverage. She needed him, and the raw shame of how quickly she had folded only turned the both of them on.

He smiled at this, “Yeah… there she is.” His voice smoothly darkened, like he personally knew this side to her for ages. They had met today, but he was oh so familiar with how much she liked him. “My messy girl,” he said, satisfied with her physical honesty.

Her panties were practically pasted to her, the heat between her legs pulsing with every syllable he threw at her. His ever growing ego, already keeping him from being quiet.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he muttered, sliding his hand beneath her, not to fuck her, to cup her. Palm curved perfectly to feel every wet, hot pulse of her cunt as she dripped down onto him, her arousal leaking into the creases of his aged hands.

“Fuck. Won’t you listen to yourself? Look at the fight you lost so miserably.” he mused.

She sobbed a pathetic, strung out wail. He took that same hand, slick with her and slapped her cheek with it. Not hard, just enough to make her feel it. To leave a warm humiliating wet mark across her skin. Her head jerked slightly with the motion, a deranged glaze in her eyes.

Her cheeks were blazing, she didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed locked to his, dizzy and dark and so painfully needy, it hurt.

He grabbed her jaw, fingers digging in, almost cruelly.

“You stay the fuck with me baby, don’t get all dumb now. You wanted to be seen, didn’t you? You talked a big, big game.”

She was beyond thought, rational ones at that. She just asked. It’s all she could do.

“Please. Fuck… fuck– please.” she pleaded, hardly breathing.

He scoffed, loving this side of her, as humiliating as this was for her. He was growing more and more fond of her as far as she let go. “Oh please what?” he cruelly taunted. “You even asking to do something dirty? Or are you just doing all this to sit here, sob on my lap while I make you cum without even taking my cock out.”

Her moan broke mid air, her hands tangling in his shirt. She didn’t even know what she wanted, she felt like she never knew anything until now.

He stood over her, still sat in the same stool where she was just chatting with him. Looking up at him desperately. One hand remained knuckle deep in her cunt, the other violently gripping her face, never for a moment letting her gaze slip from his intense one.

He spits on her face, her eyes only fluttering shut for the first time in ages to avoid his spit. She let it slide down her ruined face. Her own fluids and his spit melting into each other as they remained on her face.

He slapped her again. “You’ll remember this every time you hear my voice now, huh?” he lowly said, nearly inside of her ear. “Next time you sit this cute ass in that little booth, playing those tapes and old interviews? Just know one of ‘em lived in your headphones, and now he’s the reason you’re a shell of the cool girl they know.” he threatened so deliciously.

She had a dazed and weary longing look, her eyebrows turned upward and glassy. She nodded as if he was the only thing in the world that she could ever need to get by, to be told what to like, hate, what to do. She felt so completely his.

She came. Hard. Her hips violently bucking into his hand, her full body shattering against him with a cry that would’ve embarrassed her if she still had any pride left.

But she didn’t.

Of course she didn’t.

This is all she wanted, to be the lame one in any interaction. To not be the more knowing one, to be completely and utterly subordinate.

Her orgasm didn’t even fully release its grip on her, thighs still twitching, her body malleable and soaked with aftershocks when he grabbed her wrist and stood her up in one full motion.

Her mess sliding down her leg, not getting a chance to even soak into the fabric of her underwear.

She was so excited.

She squealed and gasped as he spun her onto the counter, where their remaining beer and empty shot glasses reminded them of how they even got here.

The cold edge of the counter met her ass with a sharp thud, and before she could catch her breath, he was already caging her in, surrounding her in his tall stature.

“It pisses me off that you think we’re done, you’re cute for that.” he said darkly amused. Hell yes. This was all she wanted, the be talked circles around for change, for anyone to truthfully best her. This was heaven.

She barely had time to breathe before he yanked her dress up with both of his hands, bunched it around her waist and shoved her panties aside, ripping her sheer stockings in the process like they were garbage.

Her eyes watched everything he did, to the point where she held her breath to see what he was going to do with her exposed entrance. He tugged violently at his belt, throwing it aside. His force just as mean to her as it was to the button of his jeans.

He slammed into her as soon as it got out, not even giving her a chance to see any vein, nothing but the size and girth.

She choked on a scream, her fingers clawing behind his neck, the sudden stretch of him inside of her blinding. She never felt more lightheaded, like she was far from alive. It was perfect.

He didn’t ease in. There was no ceremony. No sweetness. Just filth.

Just a man who’d listened to her voice for months, jerking off to her smug little interactions and her high praise of him and his band. Finally under him, where he firmly believed she belonged this whole time.

His hips snapped against hers in a brutal rhythmic slam. She wasn’t sure if she was moaning or sobbing, or even begging. Whatever it was, he drank it in like it made him harder.

He gripped her hips so tightly, she’d bruise. She wanted it to bruise, she never wanted this heightened ecstasy to leave her even months after. Each thrust knocking the wind out of her, hair sticking to the mess on her face in strands.

“Say something now.” he panted, leaning into her. “C’mon little host, our lady of the hour. No more one-liners to share with me?”

She didn’t try, she didn’t want to try. Her past persona a disgrace in her mind if it kept her from treatment like this for ages.

“That’s what I thought.” he dimly smiled, a soft gesture of thumbing away her stuck hair from her face. “My poor thing, that attitude surely didn’t last long.”

He didn’t slow, didn’t stop.

She couldn’t even count how many times either of them probably came, too mentally far away to even recognize it.

And she loved it. Every second. Every degrading word. The physical example of her being the least smart one in the room, an erotic humbling she had longed for everyday.

She finally embraced what she thought she was better than for ages, a slut, a gross perverted radio host with the furthest of innocent intentions with her hoped connections.

The apartment had gone quiet, save for the steady hum of her body still trembling in the aftermath. She was completely laid out on the counter. A little bruised, a little adored.

She brought her weak hands to her body, finding every physical evidence of his rage all over her, every indent of his teeth marks brought an exhausted smile and gasp as she found them.

Duff was resting his forehead on her lower abdomen. His chest rising and falling with unhurried breaths, watching her like a satisfied animal.

Her lips were red and kiss bruised, mascara smeared from the corners of her eyes. She never felt more settled. Anchored.

He came up and held her to his naked body, none of them remembering the motions of getting naked. He kissed her forehead, he sat her on his lap on the stools. Gentle. Disgustingly gentle for a man who just made her sob and drool all over her own kitchen counter.

“You done pretending? For me at least?” he whispered into the crook of her neck, peppering it with kisses. Her voice was hoarse. “It’s beyond you.”

Duff spent the night, the shower and sleep after it all the more of a reminder of what pretending to be a proud cool-headed girl kept from her.

She lied in bed with Duff, the most tired and gratified she had ever been. She knew what she’d have to do.

It was the last time the “ON AIR” light would glow.

She leaned into her mic, her voice all polite and graceful. Changed.

“If you spent your 2-4 AM’s with me, I wanna thank you personally. Thank you for wasting your time with me. Even the weird ones. It’s not forever, I love you guys too much.”

A pause as she held her finger over the switch.

“I just wanna thank a very special one of you.” she said, her eyes glinting upward. “I’m happy to have put on the rawest show for you.” she said softly into the mic.

Click.

She slung her bag over her shoulder, switching the light off in the room without any reluctance.

The “ON AIR” light blinked off. The silence was as erotic as ever, not empty. She felt claimed.

The guest seat wasn’t empty tonight, Duff proudly coming up to wrap his arm around her and walk her out. Smugly looking down at her as she was his prize.

She was something else entirely as she left the station for the last time.

note: this was my first fanfic i hope you enjoyed <3

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nmakii · 1 year ago

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How about yandere! Alastor (human) with a reader who ran away from him... Reader and Alastor are married out of obligation (because of the decade), but what no one counted on was that Alastor really fell in love and was obsessed with his wife, but the reader didn't ...because of work and his secret (that he killed people and devoured them) Alastor hardly spent time with the reader.. Reader then began to fall in love and have a secret relationship, without Alastor knowing.. . So even though reader didn't want to hurt Alastor, since she saw him as a friend (more than her husband), reader ran away with her lover and passion... Leaving behind a very angry Alastor... (reader doesn't know what Alastor It's true)... What would happen?

NO ONE’S BETTER THAN I AM

— the feeling of a fresh love— oh, how wonderful. you only wished that man would have been alastor, just so that he wouldn’t have hunt your true love.

— hey pals 🔥🔥!! i took manipulation tactics from my social studies class and mother gothel, did i do well? HAHAHA :]

being married to alastor, the radio show host is quite the sensation in your town. you grew to be quite a local celebrity, many women even attempting to befriend you to get closer with your husband.

although, because of your marriage, many assumed you were a woman of many talents and high intelligence. but, unfortunately… it appears as if you have the perfect life; beautiful home, wonderful husband, a comfortable life— and, while most of it is true, it is still very far from the truth. the sad truth of it all was that this was a marriage of convenience

it was the only thing that made sense. you and alastor were close in age, you were both still single, you refused to marry a man as old as your father, alastor simply wished to rid himself of the many women throwing themselves at him, and you were already quite close to him since your parents were close, it was the best-case scenario.

when both of your parents had learned of the news, that alastor proposed to you, they were more than delighted. alastor’s mom immediately welcomed you into the family as one of her own, and alastor had grown to be fond of your father.

in front of cameras and watching eyes, alastor played the role of a loving husband well; keeping you safe with an arm wrapped around your waist, giving you his coat in cold weather, and speaking nothing but lovely worship in your name.

you played the ‘doting wife’ role surprisingly well too. the only thing that was different was alastor didn’t stop the act when you were behind closed doors.

‘what if someone is spying on us, hm? they may reveal our little secret to the media!’ that was his excuse. and your reason to let him kiss you, hold you against his chest, and even join you as you bathe occasionally. it always felt weird though. to you, alastor was nothing more than a friend, even something like a brother. doing all these intimate and romantic things with him, it felt wrong.

and even despite all the intimacy, you still felt lonely. here in your large house, you felt lonely; cooking a dinner for two, eating as one, and always having to leave the pot simmering over the stove, so that it’s still warm for your husband. warm for him up until midnight, when he’d usually come home— sometimes even returning home later…

and, on these late nights, you’d remain sleepless. what could he be doing? his radio broadcast only lasts up until 9 in the night. could he possibly be engaging with a mistress of sorts? doing all kinds of scandalous things before returning to your bed, bringing your back close to his chest and resting his face on the nape of your neck.

although it was unlikely… considering how you always wake up to a love letter from alastor in place of where he should be in your bed, but nonetheless, it didn’t stop those thoughts.

eventually, life began to grow boring… chores day and night before going to sleep again— it was just a boring cycle that filled your life with despair and simply just making you miserable.

that is, until you met eugene. quite the handsome man, he may even be a model! you ran into him when he was in a luxury shop, inspecting various items for purchase.

his fuzzy eyebrows, his big brown eyes, and his charming and gorgeous american smile— it’s hard not to fall for such a man.

it started off so innocent; just meeting him to shop together, then it escalated into lunch together, and then that night…

alastor brought you to a club he frequented, and just by coincidence, eugene had been there with some of his high school friends. under the influence of alcohol, alastor had climbed up the stage and danced along. laughing at your silly husband, you pointed him out to eugene as well.

and, in that moment he turned you around and kissed you. you tensed, fearing the sudden infidelity; how media would cover this kind of news for months. oh wait… everyone’s wasted, aren’t they..?

your breath heaved in fear, eyes darting to your husband, not even glancing at you— that was when you melted into his kiss.

after that night, the two of you had made an agreement to rendezvous every now and then at your house while alastor was still busy as ever at ‘work’.

and as these meetings with eugene became more and more frequent, the two of you may have… fallen in love. despite that, you still felt guilty; cheating on your husband who has done nothing but be a gentle and loving provider, how could you repay him like this?

but, then again, it is simply a marriage of convenience… alastor doesn’t love you, he couldn’t possibly… the two of you are best friends! so, if you told him, would he mind?

still, you couldn’t possibly risk it. this isn’t a relationship that will last long if the two of you keep it a secret, you have to find a solution soon.

“run away with me.”

“what?! are you insane?!?” you frowned at your lover. “you need to get away from him, and you’re too scared to tell him, aren’t you? it’s the perfect solution.” he argued back.

“alastor… won’t accept it that easily… he’ll probably try to hunt us down, then take me back…” your nose scrunched in fear at the thought. “isn’t it worth the risk, my love?” he took your hand in his, placing a gentle kiss on your fingers. “ah, f…fine…”

a week later, that was when you decided to leave. you packed a suitcase filled with your belongings. honestly, it was not much. most of the things in the house were bought by alastor before he had married you.

you were just about to leave, your lover right outside the door with a getaway car, prepared to leave your life in new orleans behind when your husbands voice stopped you.

“going somewhere, my love?”

“alastor! w-what are you doing up?” you jumped, turning around to face him. “i’d like to ask the same thing, my sweet darling. why do you have a suitcase and a car waiting for you?” he grinned wide, tilting his head.

“ah— i was gonna go out of state for a surprise for you…” you lied, breath shaky. “were you now? was this surprise that i’d never see my beautiful wife ever again?” he scoffed, walking over to you and grabbing you by your chin.

“did you think i’d really be so ignorant as to not know when my own wife is sneaking out? especially to meet other men…” he raised an eyebrow. “alastor! t-this isn’t what you think it is…” you frowned, tears building up in your eyes.

“oh, my dear, how pretty you look when you cry…” he smiled, taking a finger to wipe your tears and putting his finger against his tongue. “fine then, leave your loving and sweet husband behind… just know that— i’ve already corrupted you for any other man to enjoy. no one will love a divorcee, will they?” he moved his hand to cup your cheek, gentle despite his harsh words.

“i’ll let you have your fun, darling. soon enough, you’ll realize that there is no man who can love you better than i can.” he pulled his hand away from you, moving to your hips and leaving a lasting kiss on your lips.

unlike how he usually is, this kiss was harsh, possessive, and brutal. so devoid of any love, it was a pure, unadulterated obsession.

“i know what is best for you, darling. i’ll see you home very soon.”

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roosterforme · 2 years ago

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How You Play the Game Part 1 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: When Bradley wins a box seat ticket for the first game of the World Series final, he doesn't think his day could get any better. But when he's given a seat in the press box by mistake, he meets a gorgeous sports writer from New York. And he has one of the best nights of his life.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, and smut (18+)

Length: 6300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

Bradley was half asleep, sipping on his coffee while he drove to North Island from his house in the soft pre dawn light. He really hated these early training days that started at six o'clock and didn't end until after dinnertime. He'd be in the air all day, and then he'd probably be too tired to stay awake to watch game one of the World Series.

Everyone on base was excited that the Padres were playing the Angels. A Southern California showdown for the ages. Tickets to game one in San Diego were selling for almost a thousand dollars per seat, but the sports radio host Bradley was listening to was giving them away.

Bradley yawned as the host asked, "Who was the first major league baseball player to pitch a ball over 100 miles per hour?"

"That's easy," Bradley mumbled. "Nolan Ryan." And then he realized that it was 5:30 in the morning and perhaps nobody else who was listening knew that fact. "Huh," he grunted, reaching for his phone at a red light. He dialed the number and was shocked when he got through to the host.

"Good morning, caller! What's your name? Where are you from?"

"I'm Bradley. From Coronado."

"Do you have an answer for me, Bradley? Which major league player was the first to pitch over 100 miles per hour?"

"That would be Nolan Ryan."

"You sound confident in your baseball knowledge," the host replied. "Double or nothing? I'll upgrade your ticket to a seat in a box suite if you can tell me which team Ryan was pitching against."

Bradley smiled to himself as he pictured the boxes of his dad's old baseball cards that he still had in his garage. "He was pitching against the Chicago White Sox."

And just like that, Bradley was the proud owner of a suite ticket for game one of the World Series at Petco Park later that night.

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Your flight from New York to San Diego had been delayed so many times, you were a little surprised you managed to get to your hotel in your rental car and then make it to the game on time. At least you'd been able to start writing your article on the flight. Unless the game went into extra innings, you should be able to finish by your midnight deadline. Because if there was one thing the New York Times didn't mess around with, it was the hard cutoff for your submissions.

As you made your way to the media entrance at Petco Park, you pulled out your lanyard with your credentials and looped it around your neck. As soon as someone learned that you were a sports writer for the most prestigious newspaper in the country, they were either impressed or they did a double take. You were a freshly thirty year old female with a ten year career in sports journalism, and you didn't take shit from any guys about it.

In fact, you loved it when men tried to one up you. Because they never could. You knew more than they did about sports, you were an amazing writer, and you found pleasure in shutting them down. Preferably in front of their friends. And then they would inevitably try to ask you out. And you would shut that down, too. It was a game that you were very good at now.

As you were scanned into the ballpark by a security officer, you quickly made your way up to your assigned press box. You expected the heavy hitters to be there. And of course you'd be the youngest, and probably one of just a few women in attendance. As you climbed the narrow stairs and swiped your badge one last time, you opened the door and strolled past a table filled with food and drinks. And then you saw them: Carl from ESPN, Jack from The Chicago Tribune, Harold from the Los Angeles Times, and Quincy from the Philadelphia Inquirer. You would keep your guard up, because it was just a matter of time before one of them made some sort of comment about your ability to do your job.

The room was already filling up as you claimed a spot on one of the narrow counters where you could set up your computer and get to work. You removed your lanyard and tossed it next to your stuff, and then you waved to Raya from MSN Sports, the only other female in the room. When you turned to grab a drink and some food, you noticed the flash of a handsome face and a mustache. And then you stifled a scream as you saw and felt a plastic cup of cold beer meet your chest before soaking the front of you completely.

"Oh, fuck!" came the deep, raspy voice of the most handsome man you could remember seeing in recent history as he stared at your chest. You supposed it was a fair trade, because you couldn't look away from his face no matter what you did. He was hot; all tan skin, brown eyes, and wavy, brown hair. And the blush that crept in and colored his cheeks made him look boyish as he glanced up to meet your eyes. "I'm so sorry!"

When he swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted down to your chest again, you looked down as well. Great. Your light blue lace bra was plainly visible through your white blouse, and the beer was even dripping onto your jeans and your new, white Chucks.

You just shook your head and shrugged. "It's okay. Shit happens. But why did you bring a beer in here?" you asked. But he still looked so embarrassed and flustered, you decided to mess with him. "Who do you write for? I'll send them my laundry bill."

"Write?" he asked, and yep, that was confirmation that he had the sexiest voice you had ever heard.

"Yeah," you said, feeling a little flustered yourself as you reached for some napkins to dab your shirt dry. "Tampa Bay Times? Boston Globe? Oh Lord, don't tell me you're from Barstool Sports. I don't recognize you, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember you." That was a lie; you would definitely have remembered him.

"No," he said, watching your every move. "I don't write."

You laughed as his gaze flicked up from your chest to your eyes when you looked up at him. "That explains the alcohol, then. But why are you in the press box? Did you get lost up here?"

He smirked at that. "No. I won a radio contest and got a seat in a box suite. But somehow my ticket got mixed up, and they sent me a media pass instead."

"Really?" you asked, eyeing him up and down now. "I had to pay for a four year journalism degree for my media pass, and you're going to tell me I could have just listened to the radio?"

His laugh was infectious and his smile made you a little giddy as he held out his hand to you. "I'm Bradley. I don't think I could manage to write an article about sports, even if I was getting paid to do it. You must be very talented." You preened a bit at his words as you shook his hand. "And I'm really sorry about the beer," he added, gesturing to your shirt. "I'd offer to get you a drink or dinner, but the food in here is free, and you're actually working. So, I'll just stand here like an idiot and keep shaking your hand and apologizing until you tell me your name and tell me to stop. I'm really sorry about your shirt." He was still shaking your hand, and now you couldn't stop smiling.

You told him your first name and then you said, "You can stop shaking my hand now, Bradley."

"Let me grab you some water?" he asked, and when you nodded, he turned toward the bar in the far corner. And you took in his tall frame, broad shoulders and massive biceps which were highlighted by his Padres shirt.

"Oh no," you whispered to yourself, still mindlessly dabbing your wet blouse with some napkins.

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Bradley turned toward you with two water bottles, and thankfully this time he managed to keep the drinks in his hands. You were so fucking cute, and your wet shirt was doing crazy things to him. He couldn't stop smiling, and when you looked up at him and cautiously accepted your drink, you were smiling too.

"Thanks for not drenching me again," you said, tapping your drink to his. And then Bradley heard an older guy call your name, and you turned in his direction.

"Nice shirt," he shouted so everyone was suddenly looking your way. "That how you plan on getting an exclusive with one of the players? Sex sells now? I thought this was about the game."

Bradley was appalled that another journalist was talking to you like that, but before he could say that your wet shirt was actually his fault, you were shouting back at the guy.

"Harold, you couldn't even drag your sorry, old ass down to the field fast enough to get an exclusive with the mascot. I don't know how you're not retired or dead yet. Didn't you cover the 1922 World Series?"

Bradley watched Harold purse his lips at you before he turned away and took a seat. And when Bradley glanced down at you as you sipped your water, you looked completely unfazed. And he was ridiculously turned on.

"Damn, nobody should be messing with you," he said, thoroughly impressed. "You're an Ace."

You just rolled your eyes, but you looked very pleased by his words. He already knew he wanted to talk to you all night, but now you were setting your drink down next to your computer and opening it as you sat. "This is a boys club. Just a dick measuring contest. I can't let up for a second or I'll get steamrolled."

Bradley let his eyes dip down to your damp shirt as he asked, "I don't want to commit another beer related crime. You seem to know how this press box stuff works. Mind if I sit with you?"

"Not at all," you told him as you licked your lips. "As long as you don't spill anything else on me."

Bradley eased himself down on the stool next to yours, and his knee brushed your thigh. He watched you filling out a baseball stat sheet while you opened up a document on your computer.

"So what was the trivia question?" you asked as you sipped your water again.

"Trivia question?" he murmured, watching your lips wrap around the rim of the bottle before you took a drink.

"Yeah, isn't that how you won the pass? For the box seat? Even though you're slumming it with the journalists now?"

"I wouldn't call this slumming it," he said, eyeing your pretty face. "But yeah, they asked who was the first pitcher to throw a ball over 100 miles per hour."

"Oh. Nolan Ryan. Angels versus the White Sox. Nice," you said as you smiled at him. Fuck. You liked sports. You wrote about sports. You were gorgeous, and you knew more about sports than he did. Bradley let his mind drift to peeling off your damp, white shirt and licking the taste of beer off your chest while you moaned baseball stats and ran your fingers through his hair. He could definitely get into that. He briefly wondered if you were going to be at the next game here on Sunday.

And then you were keeping the game stats in your notebook at the same time you typed up notes, and Bradley realized he had missed the first few pitches. "Oof, that was a sloppy curveball," you muttered as you peered down at the field before checking the overhead screen. "He's supposed to be their Ace."

"Nah, you're the Ace," Bradley said, and you turned to grin at him as your fingers brushed against his. There was not a lot of room at this little countertop, and when you tried to nudge his arm out of the way, he wrapped it around the back of your stool.

"How am I supposed to keep my stats with you taking up so much space?" you asked, but your tone sounded playful, and you leaned a little closer to him. "You're massive."

Those words spoken in your voice had his cock stirring. "Yeah well, not a lot I can do about that, Ace."

That grin was back as you tapped the end of your pencil against your lips, and his gaze followed the motion. "So what do you do, Bradley? I'm going to guess you're not a waiter since you can't walk without spilling drinks. And you're definitely not a writer."

"I'm a pilot. A naval aviator," he told you softly, running his thumb along your back and watching you bite your lip.

"Fascinating," you told him before returning your attention back to the game and scribbling down the pitch count. And that's when Bradley's gaze landed on your badge which was sitting next to your computer.

He recognized your full name immediately. "Holy shit. You write for the New York Times."

"Yeah," you replied, turning to look at him before pulling your lip between your teeth again.

"Ace. I recognize your name. You're the best sports writer in the country."

Bradley was blushing, he knew he must be, but your bright smile was focused on him, and he couldn't keep his fingertips from drawing lazy shapes along your back where his hand rested.

"You know me?"

He nodded and raised an eyebrow at you. "You're famous. I read your articles all the time. I downloaded the New Your Times app solely for you."

When you laughed and gently bit the eraser end of your pencil, Bradley groaned. "You're funny," you told him.

"You're gorgeous." The words were out his mouth before he could stop himself. He thought about apologizing, but then you leaned in a little closer and ran your pencil eraser up his thigh along his jeans.

"Stop distracting me," you whispered, kissing his cheek before returning your attention to your computer. Your lips had brushed the end of his mustache, and he could still feel the soft sensation there as you gazed at him from the corner of your eyes. This was going to be a long night for Bradley.

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Bradley had called you gorgeous. He was playful, and he kept a smile on your lips. When he made a comment about the Angels' catcher, you told him, "You're completely right. I'm adding that to my piece." And he blushed that deep shade of pink again.

"Damn, Ace. I'll be thinking about your voice when I read your article tomorrow morning."

"Mm," you hummed, marking down another strikeout. "It would be fun to read it to you. I think you'd blush. The whole time."

His lips were parted, and he looked a little surprised. "It would be the filthiest of dirty talk," he muttered, and when you giggled, he grinned.

You had to bite your lip against the desire to kiss his cheek again. "World Series articles and pitching stats? That's what's gonna do it for you, Bradley?"

"Shit, how dirty can you make those pitching stats?" he whispered, thumb still skimming along the back of your shirt.

"You'd be surprised," you told him, shooting him an innocent look as he nodded at you.

"I'm sure I would."

The more you scribbled down in your notebook as the game progressed, the closer Bradley got to you. His big palm was warm on your back and you found yourself leaning into him more and more. By the eighth inning, his leg was pressed up against yours and he just kept getting closer.

"Ace, you're killing me," he murmured, taking your pencil and erasing the sloppy note you had written about the Padres relief pitcher. "Let me help."

You laughed as he rewrote your note very neatly followed by what you assumed was his phone number. Oh, he was a bold one. Very handsome, very funny and very bold.

Without a word, he handed your pencil back to you. "What am I supposed to do with that?" you asked, tapping his phone number with the pencil.

His breath was warm on your cheek as he said, "Save it in your phone. Call it. Text it. Let it know when you're in San Diego. I don't know, Ace. I just like you."

Your lips parted right as the Padres catcher hit a home run, and as everyone else in the ballpark erupted in cheers or groans, Bradley pressed his lips softly to yours. And then you tossed your pencil aside and ran your hand up along his neck. His lips were soft, but damn, his mustache was rough and you liked it.

You pulled back a few inches. "And if I text you, you're going to write back?" you asked.

"Immediately," he promised.

"Well then maybe I'll save your number."

He groaned softly as you marked down the home run. "Are you covering game two on Sunday?" he asked as the ninth inning started.

"I'm covering every game," you told him, letting your hand rest on his thigh. The soft noise he made had you scraping your fingernails softly along his jeans as he watched your hand instead of the game. "I'll be back and forth between San Diego and Los Angeles for the next two weeks or so, if they go to seven games. Which, in my professional opinion, they will."

After your fingers grazed his zipper, you watched his head tip back, the veins in his neck working as he swallowed. You were pretty turned on now, too. And the way he was responding to you was making things worse by the minute.

"I'm gonna have to drop a grand on a ticket to see you back here on Sunday, aren't I?" he asked as you shrugged and ran your finger along his belt loop. Then you released him and turned back to type a few sentences for your article.

"Listen," you told him without looking at him. "There's no guarantee I'm even going to let you have my number, so I wouldn't worry about that just yet."

He was quiet for a beat as you typed away, and then he said, "How about you let me buy you a drink for real? Right after the game tonight?"

"I have a deadline to meet," you told him, and he looked disappointed as he nodded. "But my article is almost done. And my hotel is right across the street. We could go to the bar there?"

"Absolutely," he murmured, his fingers still at your back. "Anywhere you want."

As soon as the game ended with a Padres victory, you tossed your computer and notebook into your bag, and you were on your feet next to Bradley. "Let's get out of here."

You took his big hand in yours, glancing up at him occasionally as you tried to beat most of the crowd to the exit. And each time, he was looking back at you, smiling. You led him across the parking lot, and your hotel was in sight when you pushed him up against the brick wall outside of the ballpark. Bradley welcomed your body against his, and he looked at you like he couldn't believe this was happening just before you kissed him.

It was dark over here, even the streetlights were dim. His hands were on your back as your fingers tangled in his hair, and you were rubbing yourself gently against him.

"Ace," he grunted against your lips. "You gotta let me buy you that drink."

You could feel him growing harder for you as you kissed him and tasted his tongue. Suddenly the hotel bar was the farthest thing from your mind. It had been replaced by thoughts of your hotel room bed instead.

"Come on, Bradley," you whispered, linking your fingers with his and leading him further down the sidewalk. He went with you willingly, leaning down to kiss your cheek and your neck as you waited in a crowd of people for the light to change at the crosswalk.

"You smell good. Like the beer I spilled on you," he groaned, holding you close. The movement of his lips had his mustache prickling your neck. You wanted to feel it on all your sensitive skin. You wanted to see if you could make him blush in bed.

You and he stumbled across the street and into the hotel lobby where you eyed the bar as he wrapped his big hand around your waist. You looked up at him and asked, "Wanna skip the bar and go up to my room? Find out if I taste good like the beer, too?"

The sound of Bradley's groan as his hand slid down to your butt had you pressing yourself against his thigh. "Lead the way, Ace."

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The elevator ride to the top floor was filled with the sound of kissing as well as the little gasping noises you made. Your hands were at the fly of his jeans as he pushed you back against the wall and devoured your mouth. Bradley was so hard and ready for you, he was honestly surprised. He just met you. This was not a usual occurrence for him.

"Bradley," you moaned, unbuttoning his jeans as the elevator jolted to a stop. You abandoned his jeans for his hand and pulled him down the hallway, running toward your room and laughing. You stopped in front of one of the doors and started to dig in your bag.

He stood behind you and ran his lips along your neck as you gasped for him. You were so responsive, stroking something deep down inside of Bradley every time you reacted to him. He wrapped his hands around to the front of your jeans and started to play with your button as well. When his fingers met the soft skin of your belly, your head tipped back against him.

"I can't find my room key," you moaned as he ran his hands up inside your shirt. He watched as you gripped the bag with both hands and let your eyes drift closed.

"You're not really trying very hard, Baby," he said with a smirk. He couldn't believe you right now. So pretty and so lost to his touch. He was throbbing and aching for you, too.

"Because you're teasing me!" you complained with a laugh. But then you turned in his arms, and suddenly Bradley's hands were on your bare back. Your eyes were wide, bag clutched between your body and his. "This is... not something that I usually do. Especially not when I'm on the job." Your voice was soft, and as you nervously bit your lip, Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek.

"Same, Ace," he promised with a smirk. "In fact, I've never had a woman seduce me this quickly before. You're irresistible."

Your laughter was the best thing he had ever heard. "I thought I was the one being seduced here?"

"No," he said, reaching into your bag and plucking out the key. "You're in charge." He handed it to you, and you wrapped your fingers around the back of his neck and kissed him hard before you turned and unlocked the door with your other hand. You pulled Bradley with you as you stumbled backwards into the dark room.

As you searched blindly for the light switch, you pushed Bradley against the wall. You had your fingers in the hair at the back of his head and your tongue was in his mouth as you located the switch.

"That's better," you mumbled breathlessly as you turned on the light, and Bradley pulled away from you a few inches.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he whispered as he tightened his right arm around your waist. He wasn't being shy about how hard he was for you, and you weren't being shy either. You whimpered as you rubbed yourself gently against him, and he ran his thumb along your cheek and down to your lips. "I haven't been this turned on in so long."

Then Bradley watched you reach down and pull off your white shirt in one smooth motion, leaving you in that sinful looking blue bra before him. You were stroking him through his jeans with your right hand when you whispered, "I thought you were going to taste me, Bradley." Your eyes were wide and innocent looking as you challenged him.

He nodded slowly. "I wanna taste you everywhere." Then he scooped you up as you laughed, and he carried you to the king sized bed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "You gonna let me do that?"

"Yes," you whispered right next to his ear, and Bradley eased you down onto the bed with his body weight on top of you. As you started tugging on his Padres shirt, he managed to remove his shoes before reaching down both of your calves and yanking yours off. He tossed them blindly behind himself, wincing as he hit the wall with both of them.

But you just laughed and pulled his tee shirt up, leaving him in his white tank. You were holding his shirt in your hand as he pressed his lips to yours. "You taste so good here," he whispered, running his tongue along your bottom lip as you wrapped your leg around his hip. Then he kissed your chest before licking a stripe across the top of your lace bra as you bucked your core against him. "Fuck," he groaned. He licked and sucked on the top of your right tit. "Your skin tastes like that spilled beer. I love it on you."

"Well then, you better clean me up with your tongue, since it's your fault in the first place." You tipped your head back, and arched your back off the bed, and Bradley followed your lead, letting his big hands find the clasp of your bra. You moaned softly as he unhooked it and moved his fingers around to ease the fabric away from your body.

"God damn," he groaned before taking your nipple between his lips. Your fingers were tight in his hair as he sucked on you, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb against your other breast.

"Bradley!" you cried out when he rubbed his mustache across your nipple. He was dying to fuck you, but you were letting him tease the hell out of you, and he was loving this.

"You like that?" he asked, enjoying all the cues you were giving him. He couldn't stop grinning as you whimpered a soft little yes before pulling his undershirt off.

When you ran your fingers through his chest hair and down his abs, Bradley swallowed hard. Because you didn't stop there. You reached right for his unbuttoned jeans and eased his zipper down. He held himself over you, looking down into your needy eyes as you ran your fingers along the elastic of his underwear before delving inside. You licked your pouty lips before you wrapped your hand around his cock, and then you closed the distance up to his lips with the softest, sweetest kiss. You stroked him slowly while barely brushing your lips against his, and it was driving him absolutely insane.

"Ace," he grunted, and you squeezed your hand around his cock and giggled while he moaned for you. Then you gasped and let go of him. "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately pulling himself away from you while he panted.

Your eyes looked concerned, so he put a little more distance between your bodies. "I don't have any condoms," you whispered as you eased your hand away from him.

Bradley pressed his lips to your forehead. "I think I have one in my wallet. It's new."

"Oh," you gasped. "Should have known," you told him. "You're pretty gorgeous, too."

Bradley wanted to ease your mind, let you know that he didn't hook up with a lot of women anymore. He wanted to tell you that the condom was there for just a special occasion like this one. He wanted to explain to you that the last few he'd had in his wallet had been sacrificed to Jake when he'd been in a pinch at the bar.

But you were easing him onto his back, and he supposed it probably wouldn't make much of a difference. It wasn't like you were going to want more from him than just tonight. Besides, he hadn't had anything that wasn't casual in a very long time.

You were on top of him now, straddling his waist in your unbuttoned jeans, and you were reaching for both of his hands. And when you had your fingers laced with his and pinned his hands over his head, Bradley closed his eyes and enjoyed your touch. Your lips were soft on his face and your thumbs were stroking along his palms in a way that was not only turning him on more, but also providing him with some comfort.

When you whispered his name, he opened his eyes and he felt surprised by the realization that he only met you tonight.

"Maybe you should get that condom ready?" you asked softly, rolling your hips against Bradley's torso.

"Yeah," he grunted. And then you were easing down his body, taking his jeans and underwear with you. Bradley propped himself up on one elbow as his cock sprang free. You made eye contact with him, lips parted on a soft whimper.

"Bradley," you sighed, tugging his jeans, underwear and socks completely off.

Before you tossed everything aside, he mumbled, "Grab my wallet, Baby." Your eyes met his with so much need before you focused on taking the leather out of the pocket of his jeans, it had him reaching for you.

You shoved it into his hand before you scrambled back up his body and brushed your fingers through his hair, kissing his lips like he was every goddamn thing you wanted.

Bradley removed the condom and tossed his wallet onto the floor. Then he had you underneath him again. You still smelled like the spilled beer as he kissed his way along your chest, and you were trying to wriggle out of your jeans. "I can take care of that," he whispered, pressing the condom into your hand. Then he had every scrap of fabric removed from your body, and he didn't know if he could handle how perfect you really were. "Ace," he groaned when you eased your feet up his biceps and let your ankles rest on his shoulders.

Bradley's lips found the inside of your right thigh as if he was drawn to you like a magnet. Your eyes were half lidded, and you had one hand in his hair and one on your tits. How was he going to recover from this?

"Let me taste you," he begged, and when you nodded, his lips were on your pussy immediately. He groaned, already addicted to the way you tasted here too. He kissed along your slit and buried his nose against your clit.

"Oh!" you gasped, tightening your grip on his hair and spreading your legs wider for him. Bradley's cock was throbbing against the bedding as he slid his tongue up through your soaking wet pussy until his lips were wrapped around your clit.

"Yesss," you hissed, gently riding his face as you whispered his name. And with each stroke of his tongue, you got a little louder, your fingers pulled his hair a little more. Oh, he was so fucking turned on for you, he wasn't sure he'd last more than a minute once he had that condom on.

"Bradley!" you gasped, pressing your heel into his back while he sucked on your clit. "Put the condom on."

It took him a little bit to get his lips away from your pussy, because he really wanted to get you off with his mouth. But then he rationalized that you wanted him to get you off with his dick instead, and that sounded perfect, too.

"Okay," he panted, brushing his wet mustache against your belly as you opened the condom for him. He rolled it on and kissed your lips as he pressed himself to your core. Now you were holding him in place by his hair as you returned his kisses, softly moaning into his mouth as he pressed his tip into you. You felt warm and tight and perfect, and as you took every inch of him, he stroked his thumb along your cheek.

"Oh god," you whimpered, frantically kissing him and licking his mustache. Your voice was coming in little gasps, and he loved the sound of it.

Bradley withdrew and thrust back inside you, and you rolled your hips with his. "You gotta tell me what you like, Ace. I want to make you feel good."

He watched your eyes go a little wider before you reached for his hand. When you took his index and middle fingers between your lips and started sucking on him while he fucked you, he groaned. "Baby. God that feels fucking great. But don't make me cum yet."

With a soft whimper, you swirled your tongue along his fingers before popping them out of your mouth and guiding his hand down between your bodies to your clit. Bradley had to suck in a deep breath and think about one of his superior officers leading a boring lecture to keep himself in check. He never felt close to the edge this fast, but as he ran his wet fingers along your clit and fucked you into the bed, he knew he could cum if he let himself.

"Bradley," you whispered, and he buried his face against your neck. "Harder."

He bit his lip and fucked you harder while you whined his name, and he kept his fingers on your clit, trying to work you up. He needed to get you off. He absolutely needed to do this. Because he was hoping you'd call him or text him. He wanted you to save his number and use it. He was already dying for more.

"Ace," he groaned, pressing his lips to your neck as your fingers drifted down his shoulders to his back.

You moaned, "I like it when you call me that," so Bradley pressed the nickname against your lips with his until you were gasping and clenching around him. When you came for him, you took his fingers from your clit and laced your hand with his as his movements grew more erratic.

He was saying something as he came inside you, but he wasn't exactly sure what. And you were looking up at him with a soft, fucked out smile and pushing his hair away from his forehead with your warm hand. And then you let him collapse on top of you while he was still buried inside you, and you ran your fingers back through his hair.

Bradley settled his cheek against your chest and let himself enjoy the feel of your breathing evening out after your orgasm. You were still making soft sounds as you rubbed your calf along his leg. He could have stayed just like this all night. You felt that good.

Just as he looked up at you, about to ask if there was any way you'd want to see him again this weekend, you laughed softly.

"Wow. That was fun."

Fun. He wanted to be more than a fun time. "And good, I hope?" he asked softly.

"More than good," you whispered, laughing again. "Amazing."

Bradley smiled at you, and he knew he was blushing. "Yeah. Amazing is the right word for it."

And you were smiling so much, Bradley laughed as you tried to hide behind your hand. He leaned in and kissed your wrist. "Ace, I-"

Bradley jerked away from you as an alarm went off somewhere in the room. When you sat up, he gently eased himself out of you with a grunt.

"That's my thirty minute warning," you told him, scrambling out of bed. "I need to finish my article and submit it."

"Oh," he said, watching you bend to locate your phone. "Right."

You looked at him and licked your lips nervously as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. And then you bent to start retrieving your clothing, and Bradley's heart sank as he stood as well. Wordlessly, he went into the bathroom to take care of the condom and wash his hands, and when he came back out, you were dressed in your underwear and the white shirt he had messed up.

"I guess," he whispered, pulling on his own underwear, "I should go then."

You pressed your lips together and nodded slightly. "I guess so."

"Okay," he said, quickly getting himself dressed in everything except his Padres tee. He just held that while he looked at you. "You have my number."

"I do," you whispered.

"You can use it," he told you with a smile, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek. And then your lips were on his. And then your fingers were in his hair again.

You moaned and then pulled away from him, and Bradley forced himself to walk backwards to the door, not wanting to take his eyes off you.

"Bye, Bradley."

He didn't want to say goodbye to you, so he said, "See ya, Ace," and then he was out in the hallway with the door closing behind him.

-----------------------------------

Oh, Bradley! I love Ace, and I hope you do, too! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 2

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christopherisfoive · 10 days ago

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Dead Air (K.SM.)

(request) : order up, thank you for sending this combo in! I wanted to do my best to create something special with a original taste . hope you enjoy the jealousy, angst, and soft unraveling of it all 💜

Description: Seungmin is the sharp-tongued sound engineer for your college radio show, always lurking just out of frame—until distance turns to jealousy, and silence says more than words ever could. When unspoken feelings and mixed signals build to a breaking point, all it takes is one late-night confrontation to change everything | Edited: No

The low hum of the radio booth was oddly soothing at this hour—past midnight, when most of campus was asleep but the station was still awake and whispering into the dark.

You were slouched in the co-host chair, headphones crooked over one ear, flipping aimlessly through a stack of scribbled show notes while your actual co-host, Jaehyun, was mid-monologue about indie film scores that “no one appreciates enough.” His voice carried through the mic with smooth confidence—he was good at this. Too good, sometimes.

Behind the glass, Seungmin sat in the production room, hood up and arms crossed, eyes flicking between the mixer board and the window like he had better places to be. He was always there for your shifts, always two coffees deep and always pretending not to care.

He caught your eye and raised a brow as Jaehyun launched into a third tangent. You stifled a smile.

Text from Seungmin [12:17am]: You gonna rein him in or should I fake a system failure?

You bit your lip, typed back quickly.

You [12:17am]: Let him crash. It'll be funnier.

Across the glass, his mouth twitched—half amusement, half exasperation.

When Jaehyun finally paused for air, you leaned into your mic. “And that, folks, is what happens when you ask Jaehyun about composers past midnight. Apologies to our one loyal listener in Finland.”

Seungmin’s dry laugh crackled through your earpiece.

The rest of the segment went smoothly. Jaehyun took off after the outro, muttering something about early class. You stayed behind, pulling off your headphones and rolling your chair back until it bumped the desk.

The door opened and Seungmin walked in, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows now, hair a little messy from his headset. He didn’t look at you right away—just went to unplug something from the console.

“You know,” you said, voice still soft from mic volume, “you could’ve told him to wrap up.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.” He shrugged, still not looking up. “No one does. Except maybe you.”

You blinked. That wasn’t a typical Seungmin thing to say. “Are you okay?”

Finally, he looked at you. Tired, sharp-eyed, unreadable. “Yeah. Just… been a long week.”

You nodded. The station was quiet now—no more sound cues or blinking lights. Just you and him in the hum of leftover static.

“Want to stay a bit?” you asked. “I could use the company.”

He hesitated, then sat in the co-host chair Jaehyun had vacated, spinning it once before settling in. “Only if you promise not to psychoanalyze me.”

You grinned. “No promises.”

You tossed your jacket over the back of the chair and curled your fingers around a can of something cold from the studio mini-fridge—one of those sparkling energy drinks Jaehyun always left behind. You weren’t sure if you liked the taste or just the familiarity.

Seungmin was watching, kind of. Not directly, but in the way people do when they’re pretending not to. His arms were folded again, foot tapping against the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“You hang out with him a lot now,” he said eventually, voice casual—too casual.

You glanced at him over the rim of the can. “Who? Jaehyun?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the desk instead of you. “Mhm.”

You leaned back, let your chair tip on two legs. “We host a radio show together, Min. That’s kind of the job.”

He made a noncommittal noise, then reached for a rubber band on the console and started stretching it between his fingers. You knew that tic—it meant his thoughts were spiraling faster than he wanted to admit.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, more amused than irritated. “You don’t even like the guy.”

“I don’t dislike him,” he said too quickly. “I just think he likes the sound of his own voice. And yours. Lately.”

Your chair thudded back onto four legs.

“Wait—are you seriously jealous right now?”

He scoffed. “Why would I be jealous?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

He flicked the rubber band onto the table and stood up, pacing a few steps toward the wall where old show posters were pinned in crooked rows.

You didn’t push—yet. You watched him in silence, letting the quiet fill with static and the unsaid.

Finally, he exhaled and turned, arms crossed tight now. “I just don’t get why you need to do everything with him.”

You blinked. “Min. I don’t. We literally just—”

“He offered to walk you home last week,” he cut in, jaw tense. “And you said yes.”

There it was.

“You were busy,” you said softly.

“I would’ve made time.”

The silence hit different now.

“I didn’t know you wanted to,” you added, voice lower.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring at you like you’d said the wrong thing and the right thing at the same time.

The booth lights buzzed faintly above you. The clock ticked toward 1:00 AM. You reached for your jacket.

“I’ll walk myself tonight,” you said, half-teasing.

But Seungmin was already pulling his own hoodie on, voice flat. “No, I’ve got it.”

When you stepped out into the empty hallway together, your arms brushed.

He didn’t move away.

It started small.

Jaehyun’s laugh echoing through the studio as he leaned a little too close to your mic to adjust it. The way he nudged your shoulder during ad breaks, playfully teasing you about your “radio voice.” The late-night snack runs he invited you on when a segment ran long — always offering to buy your favorite, always remembering your order.

Seungmin didn’t say anything at first.

He just adjusted the sound levels with a little too much precision. Made notes on your segments that were more nitpicky than usual. Cut the post-show banter short with a clipped, “We’re off air.”

It escalated.

One night, Jaehyun walked you back to your dorm after a rainstorm. You came in laughing, sweatshirt damp at the sleeves, cheeks pink from cold or something else. Seungmin didn’t even look up from his board when you said hi. You thought he didn’t hear. But he had—he just didn’t want to.

Another time, Jaehyun posted a behind-the-scenes photo on the station’s social, you in the frame with your head tipped toward him, smiling at something out of view. The caption was harmless: Late night chaos, brought to you by your favorite duo. But the next day, Seungmin asked someone else to handle audio for your segment. Told the faculty advisor he was catching up on classwork.

And then came the final straw—an end-of-week show where you and Jaehyun shared a mic for a special collab segment. Seungmin watched from behind the glass, jaw tight, arms crossed. You saw the shift in his eyes the second Jaehyun called you “the heart of the station” on-air. And when he brushed a curl from your face mid-sentence?

Seungmin was gone before the outro music even started.

No note. No goodbye.

Just an empty booth. A muted console. And a week of silence that followed like static in your chest.

The studio felt colder without him.

For days, you came in early and left late, hoping the door might creak open, that he'd mumble something sarcastic as he passed your mic. But the sound booth stayed empty. Someone else was adjusting your volume levels now—someone competent but quiet, without the familiar rhythm of Seungmin’s sighs and muttered critiques.

You saw him once. In the quad, earbuds in, hands buried in his hoodie pocket. He didn’t notice you. Or maybe he did, and that was worse.

When he finally showed up for a weekly station meeting, you didn’t think. You cornered him in the hallway after, heart thudding louder than your footsteps.

“Seriously? That’s it? You just vanish and avoid me like I don’t exist?”

He paused, but didn’t turn around. “Didn’t think you’d notice,” he said flatly.

You stepped in front of him, blocking the exit. “Of course I noticed. You ghosted me. After everything.”

He looked up then—eyes unreadable, mouth set. “Everything? You mean the shows you do with Jaehyun now? The ones I barely need to be here for?”

“That’s not fair.”

He laughed, a small, bitter sound. “No, what’s not fair is watching your best friend get replaced one joke at a time.”

The word “replaced” hit you in the chest like cold air. You blinked. “Is that what this is about? Jaehyun?”

“No,” he snapped. “It’s about you not noticing how it’s always him now. Him you text after shows. Him you look for first when you walk in.”

You folded your arms, stung. “What, you want me to apologize for being close with someone who actually shows up?”

His face fell. Just for a second—but it was enough.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly. “Of pretending it doesn’t bother me. Of feeling like an afterthought when I used to be your favorite person.”

Your throat tightened. “You still are,” you whispered, voice cracking.

But it was too late.

He shook his head, stepping back. “You say that now.”

And then he was gone.

This time, the silence didn’t just settle in the studio. It followed you home. Hung in the corners of your room, in the gaps between messages you didn’t send. Days passed. Then a week. Then two. No texts. No run-ins. Just static where he used to be.

You didn’t know what hurt more: that he’d walked away… Or that you didn’t chase him fast enough.

The station feels colder without him behind the glass.

You sit in the booth, mic live and smile forced, pretending the hum of equipment fills the silence he left behind. Jaehyun still cracks jokes like always, leaning in too close when the songs fade and flashing that same grin that made Seungmin roll his eyes. You laugh on cue. Not because it’s funny—but because it’s easier than letting the silence say too much.

The worst part is how familiar everything still feels. Like Seungmin could be in the next room, tapping notes into his laptop, one earbud in and the other looped carelessly around his collar. You imagine him there sometimes, just past the window, scowling at your mic technique with that half-irritated, half-amused expression he wore like a signature.

But the chair is empty now. His hoodie still draped over the back of it, forgotten—or maybe left behind on purpose. You almost took it with you once, fingers curled into the sleeve like it might anchor you to something. Instead, you let go.

The last time you spoke, it ended in fragments. His voice low, clenched around something too sharp to name. Your own words rushed and defensive. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. But maybe you had. Or maybe you just hadn’t realized how much space he’d taken up until he wasn’t there to fill it.

Now, you wait later after shows than you should. Pretend you're organizing notes. Pretend you’re not hoping to hear his footsteps down the hall.

You haven’t texted. Not really. The thread sits open sometimes, your thumbs hovering, typing and erasing. You’ve written him a dozen versions of “Are we okay?” and “Talk to me,” but none of them feel right.

So you just let the silence linger.

You don’t ask Jaehyun if Seungmin’s been around, even when you want to. You don’t bring him up in meetings. You don’t let anyone see the way your chest tightens when someone says his name too casually.

Instead, you learn to talk around the ache. You let the music play. You fake your laughs. And when the show ends, you sit in that empty studio and stare through the glass, wondering how it got so hard to breathe without the sound of his voice bleeding through.

Seungmin stopped showing up to the studio.

No one told him to. No one asked questions either—he was the type to get away with silence. He still sent in files from home, kept things running remotely when needed. But he wasn’t behind the glass anymore. Wasn’t perched on that old creaky stool, twisting knobs, eyes darting to the co-host mics—especially yours.

He said it was for convenience. That he was “just too busy.” But the truth was simpler and harder: he couldn’t stand being there without you.

The shift was sharp. One day, your voice was everything—cutting through static, laughing at dumb jokes, dragging him into late-night conversations about music and playlists and what it meant to care about something. Then the next, it was gone. You were gone. Not literally—you still had your show, still sounded like yourself—but not to him.

He missed your eyes through the glass. The way you’d look over mid-broadcast, eyebrows raised when Jaehyun got off-track. The way you’d throw your crumpled script at the booth window when you thought no one was listening. The way you always waited until the red light faded before mouthing something just for him.

Now, there was nothing. The red light would flicker on, and he wouldn’t be there to see it. Wouldn’t be there to catch the way your shoulders slumped when Jaehyun said something annoying, or the way you lit up when you got to talk about something you really cared about.

He told himself it was just a break. He’d come back. Maybe. Eventually.

But the soundboard felt colder now, and the studio felt too quiet. He couldn’t shake the weight of all the things he didn’t say. Couldn’t shake the memory of your voice the last time you spoke to him—not angry, but disappointed. Hurt.

And the worst part was: he didn’t even know how to fix it.

Not yet.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not again.

But campus had a way of pulling ghosts back through old halls. His steps slowed outside the station building, knowing she was inside, probably laughing with Jaehyun again. That sound—her laugh—used to belong to him. Or at least it felt that way.

Now, every time he thought of it, it hurt.

He turned to leave.

“Seungmin.”

Your voice. From behind him. Sharp. Breathless.

He froze, but didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

“Are you seriously just walking away again?” Y/N said, closer now. “You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“That’s such a load of shit and you know it.”

He finally faced you. You looked like you hadn’t slept, and it wrecked him more than he’d admit.

“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he said. “The way I felt. The way he looked at you.”

Y/N’s mouth tightened. “So you ghosted me? You couldn’t just talk to me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I didn’t want to say something I’d regret.”

“You already did,” you snapped.

Silence. Heavy. Alive.

He swallowed hard. “I hate how much I love you.”

The words dropped between them like a match.

Your breath hitched. “You don’t get to say that after disappearing.”

“I know,” he said, voice breaking. “But it’s the truth. I hated seeing you with him. I hated knowing I walked away and left space for someone else to fill.”

You shook her head, eyes glassy now. “You didn’t have to walk away.”

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“But you did,” You whispered.

The look on her face shattered him. She turned to go.

And that’s when it slipped out—too quiet, too desperate:

“Don’t go. Not yet.”

You stopped.

“I need to fix this,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t turn around. But you didn’t walk away either.

It was enough—for now.

He sounded broken. Not angry, not annoyed—just tired. And honest.

You inhaled through your nose, slow and careful, like breathing wrong might make it worse.

“I waited for you,” you said, not loud enough to be cruel, but enough to sting. “Every single day, I thought you’d say something. Anything.”

“I know.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “And now you say that—you hate how much you love me like it’s supposed to fix everything?”

There was gravel under your boots, wet from the morning rain. You focused on it. Not on him.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t fix anything. But I wanted you to know I didn’t disappear because I didn’t care. I disappeared because I cared too much, and it scared the hell out of me.”

You finally turned.

His eyes looked softer than you remembered. Or maybe you just hadn’t let yourself really look in weeks.

“You hurt me,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’d take it back if I could. All of it.”

You crossed your arms, more to keep yourself from shaking than to prove a point. “So what now? You say sorry and I’m just supposed to forget how awful it felt to be left behind?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But maybe you could let me start again.”

There was a pause.

You sighed—frustrated, tired, aching in places he couldn’t see. “You really are the worst sometimes.”

“I know.”

“But I still—” You looked away. Then back. “I still wanted it to be you.”

His breath caught.

“Don’t say something unless you mean it,” you warned.

“I mean it,” he said without flinching. “I want you. Even if it takes time. Even if you’re mad forever.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But your fists relaxed.

And when he took a careful step closer, you didn’t move away.

The studio felt the same—flickering overheads, a whirring fan in the corner, mics still slightly too sensitive. But the silence between segments was different now.

Seungmin sat beside you, close enough that his knee bumped yours every time he shifted. He didn’t move away anymore. His arm rested behind your chair, casual and confident, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your sweater. You were pretending not to notice, but you were also… very aware.

Jaehyun cleared his throat across the room, glancing at the two of you, then back at the soundboard. “We’re live in five,” he mumbled, fiddling with levels he already knew were fine.

“Thanks,” you said, not looking up. Your eyes flicked to Seungmin instead, catching the small smile tugging at his lips.

As the ON AIR sign lit up red, Jaehyun’s voice snapped into its usual smooth charm. “Welcome back, everyone. You’re listening to Late Night Frequency with Jae and Y/N—”

“—And Seungmin,” you added, leaning toward your mic, grin unmistakable.

Seungmin didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t realize I got promoted.”

Jaehyun laughed, but it landed flat. “You’re not even on the show.”

Seungmin leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Weird. I’m still here though.”

Jaehyun glanced at you again. You offered a tight smile. There was a time you might’ve felt the need to fill the awkward air between them. Now, you just leaned into Seungmin’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright,” Jaehyun sighed, signaling the music track. “Here’s another one for your late-night thoughts.”

As the song played and mics went dead, Seungmin tilted his head closer. “That was petty.”

“You were worse,” you whispered back, unable to stop smiling.

“I’m catching up,” he said, smug.

Across the desk, Jaehyun stared straight ahead, headphones slipping slightly off one ear. The third wheel had never been so obvious.

And maybe it was unfair, but after everything, it also felt like the exact right ending.

#author jules ღ #jules skz requests 𝄢#skz x reader #stray kids #skz imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #seungmin #seungmin stray kids #seungmin scenarios #seungmin x you #seungmin x reader #seungmin x y/n #seungmin imagines #seungmin angst #seungmin skz

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facesofthefog · 2 years ago

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[ Ask me "What color is your heart?" and I'll tell you how my muse feels about yours. ]

@midnight-radio-host asked: Elijah to most (you know) What color is your heart?

Bass

Pink- Sweet Love, Red - Romantic Love, Purple - Sexual Desire, and Blue - Respect

What else could the Bastard choose for Eli? At the start it was irritation and curiosity. One that eventually bloomed into sexual desire. And that turned into romantic love. Now, the Bastard is gentle and nurturing towards Eli. The only reason he feeds from his husband in trials is because he doesn't want any other Entity to feed from him, and he doesn't want to force Eli to stop the trials. He might not understand why the other doesn't just stop performing them, but he will not go against Eli's wishes.

Simon

White - Neutral, Yellow - Surprise

Simon doesn't even know what to think about Elijah. He finds the other strange for liking the Wolf. Perhaps if he had control over the beast, but no. Simon cannot remember most of his meetings with Elijah, and worries each time that he might hurt the survivor. For that reason, he is surprised that Eli prefers the wolf form, over his human side.

Wolf

Purple - Sexual Desire, Yellow - Surprise, Multicolor - Amusement

In comparison to his human side, in his wolf form Simon enjoys the company of Eli. He finds the other amusing, rather than strange, even if he is surprised at the other's constant presence. And he just can't help but find Elijah irresistible.

Nathan

Orange - Infatuation

It's not love. What Nathan feels for Elijah is raw obsession. He feels jealous over the idea that Eli can spend time with others, he wants to entirely own the survivor. And he will show it through marking the other's body using most often blade, but sometimes also teeth.

#the bastard [ ooc ]#wolf [ ooc ]#simon [ ooc ]#nathan [ ooc ]#fog walkers [ asks ]#[ midnight radio host ]

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contentabnormal · 2 years ago

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This week on Content Abnormal we present Boris Karloff in The Inner Sanctum mystery "The Wailing Wall"!

#boris karloff #the inner sanctum #inner sanctum mystery #radio #horror #classic #the wailing wall #horror host #frankentyner #pleasant ridge michigan #2023 #fall fest and hayride #cider #donuts #the veil #1958 #genesis #hazel park library #midnight movies

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darl-ings · 9 months ago

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midnight radio | jeon wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader

genre: fluff, college au

warnings: none

word count: 2390

summary: in which you are a new host for your school’s midnight radio broadcast and wonwoo makes a call to the show

a/n: this has been in my drafts since 2021…

“Good evening, everyone. Welcome to KU’s Midnight Radio. The song you just heard was Sabrina Carpenter’s Bed Chem. I’m Y/N, your host for this semester. As you may know, Midnight Radio is usually hosted by Soonyoung Kwon, or DJ Hoshi, our favorite eccentric dance major, but he’s studying abroad in Japan right now, so I’m here to host the show for him until he comes back in January.

“You know, I’m actually not that nervous right now, even though I’m alone. I don’t know if any of you know me, but I hosted the show with DJ Hoshi and DJ Hong for a bit during last fall semester. I had a great time since I got to chat with my fellow peers during the late hours of the night. By the way, I hope you’re all having a good night so far. The first week has been really hectic for me, so I’m sure it was for a lot of you too. Make sure to get some rest. After the show, of course.”

You winked at the camera filming you, watching as the comments of the show’s Twitch stream began flooding in. You leaned forward, squinting your eyes to read them.

“Welcome, welcome. I see a few song requests, so I’ll make sure to play some of those later. Does anyone want to have a chat? The number is in the pinned comment if you guys want to talk. I get it if you don’t want to though. I’m having a pretty good time by myself.”

It took only a few moments for the phone to light up next to the laptop. A grin appeared on your face as you reached out to answer it, pressing the speaker button before leaning back to get comfortable in your chair.

“Name and social security number please,” you joked, crossing your arms over your chest as you smiled over to the camera.

“Wonwoo, 738203830,” the voice answered back, causing you to gasp.

“Did anyone get that? Surely someone wrote that down,” you asked, grinning happily as you leaned forward to read through the flood of comments. “Some people caught that number, Wonwoo. Anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry to Kim Mingyu for outing his social security number,” the person stated, his seriousness making you laugh. The person on the phone chuckled too. “It’s not his actual number, by the way.”

“I’d hope not. If we’re thinking of the same Kim Mingyu, I’m positive he wouldn’t let you live another second if you gave that information away,” you laughed again, thinking about your good friend, Mingyu.

“You’re right. Do you know him? Tall, good cook, thinks he’s good looking?”

“I do, but I’m not going to fuel his already big ego by talking about him during the show.”

“Good idea.”

“So, Wonwoo. Tell us about yourself. Anything interesting going on?” you asked, anticipating the stranger’s answer. Wonwoo hummed to himself in thought.

“My name is Wonwoo. I live off-campus with a few of my friends, Mingyu included. My major is--”

“Sorry to cut you off, Wonwoo, but if I have another awkward conversation about majors my head might explode. I said tell me something interesting! What are you doing right now?”

“Oh thank God, I wasn’t ready to have someone ask what classes I take and why I choose KU as my school. I hate when they ask that, by the way. Why do they care so much?” he questioned, making you chuckle.

“They don’t care. They’re just trying to fill the awkward silence with an awkward question.”

“Right. Well, what am I doing right now? Hm, I’m in my room watching your stream and talking to you. Mingyu’s cooking ramen for our other roommate Vernon, so I might steal some of it when he’s done making it.”

“It’s the right thing to do. But also, why are they cooking so late? It’s 11:30pm right now.”

“Vernon skipped dinner to go to the Asian-American club meeting. He’s one of the club leaders so he had a lot to do tonight.”

“That’s the best club on campus, by the way,” you pointed out to the camera. “Anyway, did you want to talk about anything, Wonwoo?”

“Hmm, let me think of something interesting. Should I ask an academic or existential question?” he asked, your eyebrows furrowing as you thought.

“While I do love existential questions, I think since it's the end of the first week of school, we should talk about academic things. Don’t make it boring though. Maybe some advice?”

“Advice is a bit boring though…”

“I could just ask the next caller…”

“How do you get close to your peers?” Wonwoo quickly asked, making the smile on your face soften. “I mean, maybe we could give a few tips on making friends?” he suggested. You nodded along, clapping your hands gently.

“I like that, yeah. I know a lot of people, including myself, who had or are currently having a hard time getting close to others. Are you the same, Wonwoo?”

“I am.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it. We’ve had a good conversation so far, I think.”

“Yeah, but it’s easier to talk when you’re not face-to-face with the person, you know?”

“That’s true. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable talking to a stranger right now.”

“Maybe… Look, I know we said we weren’t going to talk about Mingyu, but he’s a good example for our question. He’s a talkative person, right?”

“Very talkative.”

Wonwoo laughed. “I met him halfway through my sophomore year. He was a freshman but he was more popular than anyone I knew. He came up to me in the cafeteria when I was eating alone and just struck up a conversation with me. I’m surprised he didn’t stop talking to me after that since I was very quiet and gave him short answers. He’s my best friend now, so I’ve witnessed a lot of encounters when he just goes up to someone randomly and talks to them. We went to the grocery store earlier today and he just started a conversation with a worker in the bread aisle…” Wonwoo paused for a few moments, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “I guess I’ve always wanted to have his voice. Not like–not his actual voice, but his ability to talk to anyone and keep them interested.”

You hummed at Wonwoo’s words, eyes on the comments as you spoke. “It seems a few listeners have friends like this too. But, yeah, I get it. My friend Yuqi is very extroverted as well. I wish I could make friends as easily as her, but also, I can tell it’s exhausting for them to talk so much. I don’t know about Mingyu, but Yuqi comes back to our apartment after a party and immediately crashes. She pushes herself to talk to all these people, but it just tires herself out. I’m sure if I tried to be that extroverted, I would probably die.”

“Same. I remember after my freshman orientation week, I slept for twenty-seven hours straight. I was going to sleep for more, but my roommate at the time called the on-campus police saying he thought I was dead.”

“Twenty-seven hours? Jeez, you practically were dead! But seriously, talking to people is so exhausting. Especially during freshman orientation! The amount of people I talked to during then was more than I’ve talked to in my entire life.”

“Of all those people I met, I only talk to one of them today. All of it was pretty pointless, but I’ve heard some people meet their best friends during that first week.”

“Yeah, I met a few of mine during then too. But, anyway, back to the question. How do you get close to people? Well, my advice is to remember that whatever you’re insecure about, whether it's your personality, your body, whatever, it does not matter. When you’re meeting someone, don’t focus on the negative things, like if you’re making a fool of yourself or if you look bad. No one cares that much, and if they do, they aren’t a good friend.”

“This is why it took me so long to make friends. I always felt that no one was listening to me when I spoke, so I convinced myself that I had nothing important to say. But my friends now teach me that my voice matters. Vernon especially. He doesn’t talk much, to begin with, but when he does everyone focuses on him, because we care about what he has to say. And when I talk, everyone looks at me and I feel like they’re listening.”

“That’s important, by the way! Make eye contact when you’re speaking with people. I feel so shitty when people aren’t looking at me while I’m talking. I always trail off and just stop talking. Make eye contact, and don’t multitask when someone is talking to you. It’s rude.”

“Don’t get me started on that. I hate when people are doing other things during a conversation, especially if we’re talking about something deep or important. And I really hate when people don’t listen to me after I just listened to them.”

“Please, everyone, listen when people talk. My self-esteem gets so low when people don’t listen to what I have to say. So please, listen to people and be active in the conversation.”

“Being active in the conversation is really important.”

“Exactly. So, in conclusion, listen, be active, and make eye contact. If you make people feel good while you’re talking, they’ll want to talk to you more,” you stated while pointing at the camera with a stern look on your face. You heard Wonwoo chuckle, causing your hand to falter. “Why are you laughing?”

“You’re just cute,” he answered simply, causing a blush to spread across your cheeks. You looked away from the camera, suddenly feeling very shy. “Wow, really? All it took was calling you cute to stop you from talking?”

“It caught me off guard,” you whined slightly, hiding your face with your hands. Wonwoo laughed at your reaction, causing a wide smile to fall on your lips. You removed your hands from your face, smiling at the phone. “Did Mingyu finish making the ramen?” you asked, resting your arms on the table.

“Yeah, a while ago.”

“What? Why didn’t you go eat it?”

“Because I was talking to you. But I should go now. I think they’re watching Single’s Inferno without me.”

“Alright, Wonwoo,” you pouted slightly, sighing as you traced your finger on the table’s wood.

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Y/N,” Wonwoo chuckled softly. It was embarrassing how easily a stranger could make your cheeks redden. The conversation with Wonwoo was the best one you’ve had in a while, and you were sad to end the call.

“I’m not,” you denied, sitting up to scoot closer to your laptop. You read through a few comments before speaking up. “The people don’t want you to leave.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you answered, reading a few more comments. “Someone said you should co-host the show with me,” you giggled.

“That sounds fun. Maybe I’ll look into it for you.”

“Don’t be cheesy,” you muttered with a smile, switching your laptop tabs from the Twitch stream to your Spotify. “Before you go, any song requests?” you asked, trying not to sound sad as you spoke. Wonwoo hummed in thought.

“I’ve been listening to SUHO’s album recently, Self-Portrait?”

“I love that album,” you smiled.

“It’s really good. Could I request a song from it?”

“Of course.”

“Okay… maybe, Let’s Love,” Wonwoo suggested, your heart doing a million flips as you typed the song into the search bar.

“I’ll make sure to play it next. Thank you for this lovely conversation, Wonwoo. Eat well tonight and get some rest,” you stated. “Tell Mingyu to make me ramen sometime, too.”

“Will do. Thanks for talking with me, Y/N. Goodnight, sleep well after the show.”

The line ended shortly after, a sad smile resting on your face. You sighed, looking back to the camera with a wider smile.

“Now, I will be playing Wonwoo’s song request. It’s one of my favorites off the mini-album, Self-Love. This is Let’s Love, by EXO’s SUHO.”

You held two more shows on Saturday and Sunday night, silently wishing Wonwoo would call again. You had good conversations with other students, but none were as riveting as the one you had with Wonwoo. It was probably easy to search him up, and you contemplated doing so during your free period between classes on Monday as you sat in the campus cafe with Yuqi across from you. Your finger hovered over the Instagram search button, where you had typed in Wonwoo’s name, but to avoid being a creep, you exited out of the app and placed your phone on the table.

“Dude, found your mystery man,” Yuqi spoke up, causing you to nearly spit out your drink. You looked up at her, raising your eyebrows in confusion.

“What?”

“Wonwoo, that guy you talked to during the show on Friday. He’s in Mingyu’s recent post. They went to some water park,” Yuqi stated, still scrolling through her phone. “They all have really good bodies…” she trailed off, staring dreamily at her screen.

“Are you not going to show me?” you questioned, leaning forward to look at her phone. She giggled at your eagerness, turning her phone to face you.

In the photo, Mingyu was standing next to three other guys, including Minghao, who was a partner of yours in your Photography class. You tapped on the picture, revealing the tags of the others standing with them. There was a person tagged vernon_98, who you immediately identified as the Vernon that Wonwoo talked about during your call. Which meant, the other person tagged as everyone_woo was Wonwoo.

You blinked at the picture, taking in the visuals of your mystery caller. You noted his black hair and his glasses which made him look surprisingly good. You blushed slightly at how the wet suit he wore was tight against his muscles, revealing his large biceps and pecs. He held up a peace sign, your eyes trailing to his hand. He was so incredibly handsome, and you just had a conversation with him like it was nothing.

“Oh my God,” you muttered. “He’s hot?!”

#jeon wonwoo imagines #wonwoo imagine #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #seventeen imagines #seventeen college au #svt imagine #seventeen drabbles #svt x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader

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rhiannonsknife · 6 months ago

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── ❆ DAY 04: christmas with shauna shipman

— summary: christmas with shauna shipman hcs.

— warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff. established relationship. not a warning but shauna’s mom is a sweetheart in this. gn!reader. the last hc turned into its own little blurb, i fear…

the shipmans and their holiday traditions and habits…

shauna’s mom takes holiday decorating very seriously. the moment the clock strikes midnight on december 1st, she’s on a mission. boxes of tinsel, lights, ornaments, and wreaths are hauled out from the garage, and she’s already made a list of things she needs to buy to outdo last year’s setup. shauna insists she’s not a christmas fanatic like her mom. “it’s too commercialized,” she claims with a dismissive wave. still, you catch her humming along to christmas songs on the radio when she thinks you’re not paying attention. and once, when you glanced over at her watching tv, you realized she wasn’t just mindlessly flipping through channels; she was fully engrossed in some cheesy holiday commercial. when her mom found out about the two of you, it didn’t take long before you were roped into the shipman family holiday traditions. “more hands make light work!” she’d chirped, thrusting a box of ornaments into your arms before you even had a chance to decline. now, as far as shauna’s mom is concerned, you’re part of the christmas prep team, and there’s no escaping it. “y/n,” shauna’s mom calls to you, standing on a stepladder as she adjusts a string of lights. “do you think this looks okay, or does it need more sparkle?”

“uh…” you glance at shauna, who smirks. “looks great to me!”

“don’t encourage her,” shauna mutters under her breath, sliding an arm around your waist. “next thing you know, she’ll be ordering glitter spray for the whole house!”

speaking of which: going to the christmas tree farm with shauna and her mom.

the place is already bustling with families when you arrive, the air crisp and tinged with the scent of pine. rows upon rows of evergreens stretch out before you, their branches snow-dusted. shauna’s mom heads off to inspect the taller trees, leaving you and shauna alone to wander through the rows. “okay, which one screams ‘shipman family christmas’ to you?” she asks, gesturing dramatically at the nearest row of trees. you pause, pretending to consider. “that one,” you say, pointing to a sad, crooked little tree that’s missing half its branches. shauna narrows her eyes at you. “you’re joking, right?” her lip is twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh. “absolutely not. It’s got…character” she counters immediately: “it’s got issues! come on, we’re not bringing that home!” eventually, after hours of roaming the rows of trees, you do settle for one: shauna stops in front of a tall, full tree with perfectly spaced branches and deep green needles. “what about this one?” she asks, glancing at you for approval. you nod, smiling. “it’s perfect!” shauna grins, clearly pleased with herself. “knew it!”

holiday nights with shauna and the yellowjackets.

the yellowjackets throw a holiday party this year (it’s always jackie or lottie who hosts it, of course). when shauna invites you to come along, she reassures you with a small smile, “don’t worry, i’ll stick with you. they’re not that scary.” and, true to her word, she stays by your side the entire night, guiding you through conversations and quietly explaining inside jokes when you feel out of place!! at dinner, she makes sure you sit next to her, her hand brushing yours under the table whenever she senses your nerves bubbling up. ever so often, she catches your eye, giving you a small, reassuring smile that grounds you and reminds you that she’s grateful that you’re there with her <33

later in the evening, when everyone has finished their food and jackie starts rallying everyone for a game of charades, shauna gently tugs your sleeve. “come on,” she lures, her voice low. she leads you out the back door to sit on the cold steps, away from the chaos inside. the sharp winter air bites at your cheeks, and you can see your breath misting in front of you as you both laugh softly, huddled close together for warmth. she drapes an arm over your shoulder, offering her jacket for you to wear.

“i’m really glad you came tonight,” she says quietly, her knee brushing against yours. as the muffled sounds of the others continue inside, shauna reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours again. this time, she doesn’t pull away or has to hide. instead, she lets your hand settle into hers, her thumb tracing small circles against your skin.

shauna, whose presents are always bordering on too perfect.

she pays attention to all the little things you’ve mentioned wanting, even in passing. she’ll take mental notes of every fleeting comment you make, tucking them away for when she has the chance to surprise you, whether this is for christmas or your birthday (or any other occasion). yet, when it’s time for her to open her own gifts, shauna is endearingly shy about it. no matter how small the present is, she’ll blush furiously either way, hiding her face behind her hands for a moment as though to collect herself. then, she’ll wrap you in a tight hug, murmuring how much she loves it (and you). her soft spots are 100% handmade gifts: even the ‘smallest’ things, like a handwritten note or a card you decorated yourself, mean the world to her. she keeps every single one of them tucked between the pages of her journal so that, on the nights when she feels particularly overwhelmed, she can flip through them, tracing the edges of the paper and rereading your words as a quiet reminder of how much she’s loved. other than that, you definitely get her new clothes (like a new signature flannel) or a burned cd with all of her favorite songs!!

stealing shauna’s cozy, knitted sweaters and/or flannels.

okay i’m definitely projecting here, but maybe you’re always dressed in only a shirt/top even though it’s freezing outside. shauna doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or concerned by your complete disregard for the freezing weather. it’s the middle of winter, and while everyone else is layered up in jackets and scarves, you’re walking around like it’s spring. you practically leave her no other option but to offer her clothes. she doesn’t mind the cold at all and she always has to make sure you’re bundled up. “are you actively trying to get hypothermia?” (…🧍🏼‍♀️) she mutters, already taking off her own flannel before you can protest. shauna drapes it over your shoulders, tugging it snug around you before you can argue. “don’t even start,” she says firmly when you try to give it back. “i’m fine. you, on the other hand, are a walking ice cube” (you know, now that i’m thinking about it, maybe this wasn’t the best shauna headcanon…) it becomes a habit after that: if you’re underdressed, shauna is quick to shove one of her jackets or sweaters at you. sometimes it’s a hoodie she pulled from her bag, other times, it’s something she’s wearing herself. she doesn’t say much about it -just rolls her eyes and hands it over with a soft, “put this on before you freeze to death” (okay now i’m pushing it) what shauna won’t admit, at least not out loud, is how much she secretly loves the way you look in her clothes: her oversized sweater hanging off your frame, or the sleeves of her jacket covering your hands!! the sight sends a little flutter through her chest every time she sees it!!

shauna, who might be really good at picking presents for her loved ones…

…but who procrastinates until the very last minute, which is weird, because she’s usually so determined to get everything done in time. so christmas shopping really seem to be the only exception here. a few days before christmas, she’ll call you with a casual “hey, do you want to come to the mall? i need help!” which really means she wants someone to keep her company while she panics over what to get jackie, tai, and the rest of the team (yours is the only present she already had prepared long ago.) it doesn’t come as a surprise that the mall is a nightmare of holiday chaos, and shauna grumbles about it the moment you walk through the doors: “why do people wait until the last minute?” she mutters, completely ignoring the irony in it. and, oh, by the time you’ve wandered through literally every store in the packed mall, you’re loaded with more shopping bags than you thought you could physically carry. “thank you for putting up with me” she tells you back in the car. before you can respond, she presses a soft kiss to your cheek “i owe you. big time!”

shauna who takes you on walks through the neighborhood.

once the first snow falls and her neighbors have put up their decorations, she loves bundling up and walking through your neighborhood with you; her gloved hand is snug in yours as your boots crunch softly against the frosty sidewalk. the air smells crisp and your breath comes out in little clouds as you both take in the glow of twinkling christmas lights decorating every other house. “okay, but why does that santa look like that?” shauna asks, nodding toward a giant inflatable santa slumped slightly forward, his grin crooked. you laugh, tugging her hand lightly. “it’s supposed to be…festive, i guess” “festive?” she echoes. “that thing belongs in a horror movie. if it starts moving, i’m running!” it’s always like that with the two of you; either enjoying your walk and the other’s company or occasionally poking fun at the neighbors’ decorations.

shauna, who spontaneously spends the night at your place because you’re snowed in.

at this point, your parents are used to shauna hanging around, especially since you two have been dating for a while. they wave it off without a second thought, telling you both to help yourselves to the kitchen if you need anything. “i guess that means I’m stuck with you,” you tease, already heading to the living room, where the fire in the fireplace crackles warmly. shauna follows behind, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “you’re lucky,” she grins. you smile too and grab the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you as you settle in beside her. shauna leans against you, her usual teasing demeanor melting away in the warmth of the room. “everything okay?” you ask, glancing at her. shauna shifts slightly, her voice quieter than it normally is. “yeah” she assures. “just…i’m glad i’m here. with you, i mean!”

okay but winter mornings with shauna?

on the mornings when the weather is especially cold, shauna will wrap herself around you like a blanket. her arms are snug around your waist, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of her breath against your back before you’re fully awake yet. you stir slightly, shifting in her hold, and shauna tightens her grip with a quiet, drowsy murmur. “don’t move,” she mumbles, her voice muffled and still thick with sleep. “you’re warm. and it’s freezing” you can’t help but smile, turning your head just enough to catch a glimpse of her messy hair and soft, half-closed eyes. shauna’s face is pressed against the curve of your shoulder, her nose brushing against your skin with a cold touch that makes you shiver slightly. “good morning to you too,” you tease, your voice hushed in the early quiet of the room. “mhm,” she hums, her lips curling into a faint smile as she nuzzles closer, her legs tangling lazily with yours beneath the blankets. “too early for mornings. let’s just stay here!”

snowball fights with shauna are inevitable.

she claims that she’s ‘above it’ but will surprise you with a sneak attack the moment you let your guard down. “we’re not twelve” she’ll say with a dramatic sigh, though the grin she’s trying so hard to oppress instantly gives her away: the second you turn your back to collect some snow for your own ammunition, shauna pounces and a snowball slams into the back of your head. you whip around to find her already grinning at you. you retaliate by tackling her into the ground next: sprinting at her, breaths coming out in clouds, and launching yourself right into shauna, tackling her to the snow-covered ground. shauna lets out a yelp of surprise, but the moment you hit the snow together, the laughter comes; loud and contagious. once it started, she can’t seem to stop, her cheeks flushed from both the cold and the giggles.

shauna who also insists on taking you ice skating.

we‘ve talked about ice skating with jackie, but i feel like shauna would also want to take you out on some fun christmassy couple‘s activities. except that, for some reason, i can’t picture her being as good at it as jackie is. in fact, you both end up stumbling all over the icy rink, giggling and laughing the entire time as you try to hold each other up right: the rink is lit up with christmas lights strung along the edges, and holiday music plays faintly over the speakers. it’s the perfect kind of cheesy, festive date, and honestly, you’re surprised shauna wanted to do this in the first place. she usually rolls her eyes at stuff like this, calling it ‘too cliché’.

“okay, full disclosure,” she says as she laces up her skates. “i haven’t done this since i was, like, eight. so…don’t judge me if i totally suck!” as soon as you step onto the ice, though, it becomes obvious that neither of you are good at this. the moment shauna’s skates touch the rink, her legs wobble, and she grabs your arm with a laugh. “oh my god, this is worse than i remember!”

the two of you end up shuffling awkwardly across the ice, your movements more like walking than skating. every so often, one of you slips, sending the other off-balance, and you both collapse into fits of giggles.

christmas eve with shauna!

spending christmas eve at her house is quiet and cozy. the living room smells faintly of cinnamon and pine from the tree her mom insists on putting up every year. you’re curled up on the couch together under a shared blanket, watching cheesy christmas movies that her mom picked out before disappearing into the kitchen to finish wrapping some final presents. shauna pretends to hate them (“how many times can two people accidentally bump into each other under the mistletoe?”) but is absolutely humming along to the soundtrack by the end of the night. she’s also made it her mission of the night to steal sips of your hot chocolate every chance she gets, even though she has her own mug sitting untouched on the coffee table. “yours tastes better,” she insists with a grin, leaning in to take another sip before you can protest. by the end of the night, her head is on your shoulder, her hand resting lazily on your thigh beneath the blanket. she’s stopped trailing circles a while ago and, as the credits of the last movie roll, you’re almost sure she’s fallen asleep. that’s also when her mom finally reappears. she pauses in the doorway, smiling at the sight of the two of you curled up together <33

but also; christmas dinner with shauna.

when mom invites you to christmas dinner for the first time, you’re SO nervous about making a good impression! you know she already adores you: she’s always been kind, welcoming, and maybe a little too interested in whether or not shauna’s “special friend” would be joining them, before she figured you two out. (let me have my moment and believe that her mom would be your biggest supporter ever!!). but this is christmas dinner. a different level entirely.

“i don’t know why i’m so nervous,” you mutter as you smooth out your sweater for the hundredth time in shauna’s bedroom. “i mean, your mom already likes me…right?” shauna, sitting on the bed and watching you fuss, laughs. “likes you? she’s obsessed with you. you could probably drop the whole meal on the floor, and she’d laugh it off!” you roll your eyes, swatting at her playfully. “not funny! this is important. it’s christmas! what if i screw it up somehow?”

shauna stands and walks over, her hands gently finding your waist to stop your nervous fidgeting. “you’re not going to screw it up. she already loves you, trust me. but…” her voice drops into a teasing whisper as she leans in close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “compliment her mashed potatoes. trust me on this one!”

you blink. “her…mashed potatoes?”

“yep!” shauna grins and pulls back, giving you an exaggerated wink. “it’s her signature christmas dish. she’ll melt. works every time.”

“you’ve tested this theory before, i take it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “oh, absolutely,” shauna says, deadpan. “it’s practically a rite of passage in this house!”

she remains right, as it turns out, and the dinner goes on smoothly once you’ve gotten through the initial nerves about it.

shauna keeps finding little ways to steady you regardless, grounding you in her own quiet, way. a squeeze of your hand under the table, her knee brushing against yours. at one point, she even reaches over to brush a stray hair out of your face, her thumb lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“you’re doing great,” she whispers during a lull in conversation, her lips curving into that soft smile she saves just for you.

by the time dessert rolls around the nervousness that had gripped you at the start of the evening are completely gone. shauna’s hand is still in yours under the table, her thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin. when her mom leans across the table to pat your shoulder and say: “we’re so lucky to have you here this year,” you feel your heart swell.

later, when you’re helping shauna load the dishwasher, you turn to her with a small, sheepish smile. “okay,” you admit proudly “you were right. she does like me”

shauna snorts, nudging your shoulder. “told you so. she loves you more than me at this point. i should be worried!”

“never,” you say softly, and before you know it, she’s leaning down to press a quick, tender kiss to your lips. “merry christmas” she mumbles and you can feel her smile against your mouth without needing to open your eyes.

#˙ ❆ ̟ !! ─ christmas works #shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #shauna shipman x female reader #shauna shipman x fem!reader #shauna shipman x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x female reader #yellowjackets x you

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