#not saying that’s exactly what happened here of course | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

greengoblinswifey · 21 hours ago

Text

Off Limits

pairing— stepdad!in-ho x stepdaughter!reader

summary— since in-ho has married your mother, you’ve had him wrapped around your finger and your pussy wrapped around his cock—but lately, he’d been neglecting you in favor of her. you get his attention in the only way you know how, making him jealous.

warnings— minors DNI. age gap(19, early 50s) jealousy, spanking, face fucking, daddy kink, katoptronophilia, choking, hair pulling, cock worship, orgasm denial, begging, unprotected sex, creampie.

a/n— i feel like after this you guys can tell i have daddy issues but enjoy! requests for stepdad!in-ho are open.

You had spent the last few weeks feeling almost restless. Ever since In-ho started spending less time at home, and more with your mother at the request of wanting to hang out with her husband more, your usual interactions had been reduced to fleeting glances at dinner and quickies when he finally managed to slip away. He was distant and when he wasn’t with your mother—he was occupied with his mysterious occupation and you hated how much you noticed. How much you missed him. But you weren’t the type to sit around sulking. If he was going to ignore you, you’d make sure he regretted it.

Sure, you had no right to be jealous. He was your mother’s husband. No one told you to go fuck your stepfather, of course he’d start spending time with his own wife instead.

So when a popular frat boy from your university asked you out, again—you finally said yes. Not because you liked him, but because you knew it would get a reaction from In-ho.

Getting ready, you chose the skimpiest two piece outfit you owned. The fabric clung to your body in all the right places, the skirt riding just high enough to show your ass cheeks and your thong strings were on your hips. You knew exactly what you were doing when you stepped out of your room.

He was there, standing in the hallway, watching you with an unreadable expression. His gaze dragged over your figure, slowly, before settling on your face.

“Where are you going?” His voice was calm, but there was something sharp underneath it.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date,” you smirked, tilting your head.

His jaw tensed. “Go back inside and change that sorry excuse of an outfit. You aren’t going anywhere.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, not happening.”

He exhaled through his nose, something dark flickering in his gaze, but he didn’t say another word. You walked past him without looking back.

The date was fine. The guy was charming, a little full of himself, but he paid for dinner and made you laugh a couple of times. Still, your mind was elsewhere. And when he dropped you back home, you made sure to lean in and kiss him on the cheek before stepping out of the car.

As you turned to walk inside, you threw one last glance over your shoulder. “You know, you’re free to touch if you’d like,” you said playfully, knowing full well a certain someone would be watching.

The guy grinned, slapping your ass and biting his lip before driving off. He hadn’t gotten any pussy but he definitely scored that night.

You didn’t need to turn around to know In-ho was there, standing just inside the house, waiting. The door clicked shut behind you, locking you in with the storm brewing in his gaze.

You swallowed, your heart pounding in your chest. Maybe you had pushed too far.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the irritation beneath it.

You rolled your eyes and moved to push past him. “Isn’t my mother waiting for you?” you said, asked.

Before you could take another step, his hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but not painful. “It’s just us right now,” he said, his voice heavier.

You tried to yank your arm away, glaring up at him. “Let me go.”

His jaw tightened. “You’ve been a brat all night,” he muttered. His gaze dropped briefly, taking in your outfit again, and his grip tensed just slightly. “And you really walked out of here wearing this? For him?”

You scoffed, looking anywhere but at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “You think I didn’t see you? Letting that kid put his hands on your ass like that?”

You lifted your chin, crossing your arms. “And?”

That muscle in his jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist only to grab you again, firmer this time, pulling you toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” you started, trying to dig your heels into the floor, but he was stronger.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind you. “You’ve been running your mouth all night.”

You shoved at his arm, cursing under your breath. “This is ridiculous.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you forward over his lap. You gasped, trying to push up, but his hand pressed against the small of your back.

“In-ho—”

“You went out with that little boy wearing nothing but a thong?” he asked, lifting the hem of your skirt, scoffing. “Figures.”

You squirmed. “Let me go.”

“You know the drill.” His voice was calm, almost amused. “Count.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sharp sting that followed had you sucking in a breath instead.

“One.”

Another.

“T-two.”

His hand came down again, this time a bit harder. “I’m sorry,” you whined.

He scoffed, smoothing his hand over your burning ass. “Sorry who?”

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

It clearly wasn’t enough for him as his hand came down once more.

By the time he reached fifteen, your breath was shaky, and your ass tingled with heat.

He exhaled, running a hand over your ass before finally letting you go. You sat up quickly, glaring at him through glassy eyes.

He smirked, leaning back slightly. “That little stunt of yours was cute.”

You huffed, wiping your eyes. “S-shut up.”

Still, the way he was looking at you made it clear—he knew you weren’t going to pull something like that again.

You pouted, the look on your face making his resolve falter. “Can you hold me? Please daddy.”

He wanted nothing more than to scoop you into his arms and tell you all was well but you needed to learn. He tilted your chin, meeting your watery, pouty gaze. “When you’ve learned to be a good girl but you’re not there yet.”

He undid his belt, his hard cock springing free and you immediately knew what you had to do.

“Get on your knees, worship this cock and show me exactly how sorry you are.”

You nodded, getting on his knees to place a soft kiss on his tip, murmuring, “I love how perfect you are.” Your lips traced a slow path on his shaft, and you could feel his gaze on you. “So big daddy,” you whispered, your words a mix of praise and awe. You knew he liked hearing it, the way his jaw tightened and his fingers threaded through your curls told you so.

“Shut up,” he said, his tone more commanding now. “I don't need you to tell me, you're going to show me.”

Your lips parted, and you took him in your mouth, your gaze flicking up to meet his. His hand tightened in your curls, guiding you to remind you who was in control. “That's it, baby,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Keep going, just like that.”

You continued, your focus entirely on him, feeling his quiet approval in the way his cock throbbed, though his hand remained firmly in your hair. He let out a soft moan, “You're doing so good for me,” he murmured, his words making your pussy throb. “Sometimes you can be a good girl.”

You glided your tongue along his length, your voice barely above a whisper as you said, “I love making you feel good, daddy.” Your fingers traced gentle patterns on his balls, adding to the warmth of your affection.

You took him deep into your throat, gagging as you did but it only turned him on. His grip on your curls remained, pushing your head down then thrusting when you got too comfortable. You swirled your tongue around his shaft, saliva and pre cum dripping down your chin, and you made sure your eyes looked up at him, full of admiration as he fucked your face.

“Such a beautiful fucking slut for your daddy,” he moaned. He began thrusting faster, ready to shoot his load down your throat. “Get ready, and you're going to swallow every drop.” You hummed in response, the vibration sending him over the edge and he pushed your head all the way down until your nose touched his pelvis. His cum shot down your throat and you swallowed every drop like the good girl you aimed to be.

He pulled you off him by your hair, his breath shaky, cock twitching.

“I’d eat your pussy but you don’t deserve that right now.” You pouted at his words. “Get on the bed. Face down, ass up. Move.”

You obeyed, biting your lip as you crawled onto the bed, positioning yourself as he instructed. Your heart raced as you glanced at the mirror in front of the bed, where you could see the reflection of the both of you. In-ho stood behind you, his intense gaze fixed on you as he pulled off his shirt, revealing the muscles of his torso.

He tore your skirt and your thong off, then your skimpy top followed. His smirk was almost cruel, his hands brushing along the curve of your now bare ass as he positioned himself behind you.

“You're going to behave now, aren't you, sweetie?” he murmured. “Or do I need to remind you who's in charge?”

You rolled your eyes and he slapped your ass in response, making you yelp. He didn't hesitate, gripping your waist tightly before plunging into you with a force that left you screaming. Your face buried into the pillow instinctively, but his low, commanding voice brought you back.

“No,” he growled, his fingers tightening around your hips. “Look at yourself. Look at what happens when you act out. Watch me punish you."”

You turned your head toward the mirror, catching sight of him in all his glory. His dark eyes met yours in the reflection, a look of dominance swirling in them.

“That's fucking right,” he said, slamming into you harder, making your entire body jolt. “Don't you dare look away.”

Your breath hitched as his pace quickened, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “Daddy, I'm sorry,” you cried, your voice trembling.

“Too bad.” he said sharply, his lips curving into a smirk. “You've been a brat and a damn whore all night. You don't get to apologize now.”

His rhythm didn't relent, his grip firm as he hit that spot inside you that made you tremble uncontrollably. “You're enjoying this way too much," he murmured, his tone almost teasing as he noticed the way your pussy soaked his cock.

He could feel the way you clenched around him and he grabbed your throat, pulling you back to his chest.

“You wanna cum for daddy? Yeah?” he asked.

“Yes, daddy,” you sobbed. “P-please let me cum. I promise I’ll be good.”

He chuckled darkly, shoving you back down into the mattress, your face pressed into it. “Beg me, scream for me. Tell me how sorry you are.”

The overwhelming urge to cum was so much, you couldn’t hold back the words that tumbled from your lips even if you tried.

“Please daddy! Please, let me cum. I- I’m so sorry! I won’t be a brat anymore, I swear. Please, wanna cum s-so bad,” you cried, your voice breaking into a pathetic sob.

You could feel the way his cock throbbed inside you at your words. He pulled you back by your neck, your gaze locked on him in the mirror.

“You’ve earned it, baby. Cum for daddy, soak my cock.”

His words were all you needed, your body shook in his arms, and your orgasm took ahold of you. Babbling incoherent words, you squirted, the sensation so intense that his cum spurted deep inside your pussy. He pressed your face into the bed, moaning loudly as he fucked his cum into you and rode out his high. When he was satisfied, he collapsed onto the bed, laying kisses all over your face as he tried to ground you.

In-ho exhaled as he stood up, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before returning with a warm cloth. He crouched down beside you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he wiped your face, brushing away the dampness on your cheeks then cleaned between your legs. His fingers lingered for a moment, thumb grazing your cheek.

“What’s really wrong, sweetie?” His voice had softened now, no longer edged with frustration.

You pouted, crossing your arms. “You’ve been spending so much time with mom,” you muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “I feel alone.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he sat beside you. “You don’t have to be jealous or seek attention from some little boy to get a reaction out of me,” he said, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him. “You’re the one I want. You know that.”

Your defenses crumbled at his words, and without thinking, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you close, stroking your hair and your back.

“Good girl,” he murmured, running his hand down your back in soothing strokes. “You know I’m yours regardless.” His lips brushed the top of your head. “And you’re mine. My princess, my baby girl.”

You exhaled, finally relaxing against him as he held you, warm and a bit—fatherly, exactly where you wanted to be.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

Tags: @chrisgetsmewetter @namsgyu @pillowtalk6 @namelesslosers @verouys @megangovier @torasgfreal @badasoneandonly @nicholaschavezslut69 @cathers-world @hisokasimp1 @matcham1lk @blushlaced

279 notes · View notes

someonegoood · 1 day ago

Text

SUTURES & SCARS part 1 ✫ jeon jungkook

CONTAINS: medical!au, surgeon!jungkook x surgeon!reader, slow burn, teasing, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, fighting turned bonding, past and present love, fluff & angst :)

NOTE: well... i'm back with a medical!au inspired by doctor slump (that drama was so good omg). thanks so much for reading, hope you enjoy it!! this work is not revised, and english is not my first language. next part will be uploaded tomorrow!!

my main masterlist! ❀ comment to be on the taglist!

taglist 🩺 @senaqsstuff @jjkluver7 @lovingkoalaface @khadeeeeej @pipipipiiiii @jungkooksmytype @jkxlvrr @whoa-jo @anemonatae @iviamagatitos @nerdycheol @thelilbutifulthings @banana-creampie @beomluvrr @user-190811 @mar-lo-pap @jiminismine4ever @boringmichelle @marilo11 @jenniebyrubies @littlestarstinyseven @kooeuphoria @rayyrayy10 <3

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

This hospital—one of the most prestigious medical institutions in the country—was never meant to be your landing place. It had a reputation for being exclusive, only taking in the most skilled and accomplished doctors. Under normal circumstances, your application wouldn’t have even made it past the first round. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

They were desperate.

A sudden shortage of doctors had left the trauma surgery department scrambling to find specialists who could take on the relentless workload. And that’s how you, despite not being part of their initial selection, had been handed a contract at the last minute.

Still, there was no warm welcome waiting for you. Your arrival hadn’t been met with admiration or respect. Most of the staff knew exactly who you were—not because of your surgical skills, not because of your work ethic, but because of that video.

The one that had gone viral.

A single moment of frustration, caught on camera and spread across the internet like wildfire.

At your last hospital, you had been drowning. The shifts were relentless, the expectations impossible. No matter how many hours you put in, no matter how many patients you saved, it was never enough. Your superior—an arrogant, self-important man who treated younger doctors like disposable tools—had pushed you too far.

And you had snapped.

You hadn’t planned for your voice to carry across the entire ward. You hadn’t expected someone to be filming. And you certainly hadn’t expected the clip to be uploaded with captions like "Doctor Stands Up to Toxic Work Culture!" and "She Said What We All Wanted To Say!"

But that’s exactly what happened.

You had told your superior—bluntly, unapologetically—that you were tired of being exploited. That working 36-hour shifts with no breaks wasn’t a sign of dedication, it was a sign of systemic failure. That no matter how much you loved medicine, you wouldn’t let yourself be crushed under its weight.

The words had barely left your mouth before his furious response had followed: “if you think you’re so indispensable, why don’t you find somewhere else to work?”

So you did.

Or at least, you tried.

But the video followed you. Some people admired your courage, others saw you as reckless, unprofessional. A liability. Your name was whispered in hospital halls, passed around in hushed conversations. Respected institutions suddenly had no available positions when your application landed on their desks.

Still, you told yourself it didn’t matter. This was a fresh start. You would put your head down, do your job, and prove that you belonged here. But then, of course, there was him.

Jeon Jungkook.

The person who had, at one point, made you want to pull your hair out in medical school. There had always been a gap between you and Jungkook. A space carved not just by time but by opportunity. It started with the entrance exam.

You had worked yourself to the bone, studying until the words blurred together, until caffeine barely kept you functional. And yet, no matter how hard you pushed yourself, Jungkook had ranked higher. He had scored near the top effortlessly, securing his place in the best medical program without breaking a sweat.

While you had to fight for your place every step of the way, Jungkook had walked through the doors like he belonged there.

And, to be fair—maybe he did.

His talent was undeniable. He was the kind of doctor who made procedures look easy, who had an instinct for trauma surgery that couldn’t be taught. But that wasn’t the only reason people gravitated toward him.

It was his face.

The moment Jungkook entered the medical field, his reputation exploded. Patients wanted to be treated by him, some even exaggerating their conditions just for the chance to see him in person. His name spread through social media—the handsome trauma surgeon, the genius doctor who looks like he walked out of a magazine.

You had seen the way people looked at him, how his mere presence commanded attention. And deep down, you hated to admit that you understood why. Because you remembered a time before all of this.

Before the fame. Before the Dr. Jeon Jungkook reputation had taken over.

You remembered late-night study sessions when he was just an annoyingly competitive classmate, back when you were both just students fighting to survive. Back when there was no distance between you. Back when he was just... Jungkook.

And now?

Now, you stood in the same hospital, both specialists in trauma surgery. But while Jungkook had been welcomed with open arms from the beginning, you had barely made it in. You were a last-minute addition, a second choice.

And worse?

He probably didn’t even care.

Maybe he didn’t even remember.

The trauma surgery unit was the kind of place that didn’t allow for distractions. It demanded focus, precision, and expertise. Every decision counted. Every second mattered. That’s why Jeon Jungkook thrived here.

He was respected, no, admired, for his technical skill. But if there was one thing Jungkook lacked, it was an emotional connection to his work. He could save a life with a steady hand and a clear mind, but when it came to anything beyond that, his walls were impenetrable. He’d spent years cultivating that distance—after all, trauma surgery wasn’t the place for sentiment.

The day he returned to the hospital after an extended time away, it should’ve felt routine. But as soon as he walked into the trauma bay, something felt different.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the trauma surgery unit buzzed above, their hum a constant, almost soothing companion to the chaos unfolding below. The scent of sterile antiseptic mixed with the faint tang of blood in the air, and yet, Jungkook moved through it with practiced ease. This was familiar territory. The pressure, the critical patients, the intensity of saving lives—he thrived in it.

Yet today, there was a subtle undercurrent of tension he couldn’t quite shake off.

His gaze swept over the trauma bay, the usual clamor of activity surrounding him, but something felt off. The familiar presence of his colleagues was there, but it wasn’t until he stepped into the main OR corridor that he saw her.

You.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected to see you. The hospital was a big place, and you were a trauma surgeon now, just like him. You were bound to cross paths at some point. But the reality of it hit him all at once. His pulse quickened before he could stop it.

You—the one person who had always challenged him. Who had made him question his approach to everything. You were part of this team now. Not that he had expected anything less. You were brilliant, after all.

You, with your patient-centered approach, always thinking of the person beyond the injury, beyond the trauma. He’d never understood that about you. You were too empathetic, too invested in the stories of the people you saved. To him, it was all about the procedure, the perfection, the technical execution. The detachment was necessary. It kept him sharp.

You were standing by the operating table, your back to him. Your movements were fluid, efficient, as you spoke to a resident with the calm authority that had always been so effortless for you. You had a way of speaking, not loud, not commanding, but with such quiet conviction that it felt like everything you said was an undeniable truth.

His breath hitched in his throat. He hadn’t expected the old feelings to resurface so quickly. There had been years—six of them—between now and the last time he’d seen you. Six years since you had been his rival in medical school, six years since that fateful day when everything had changed.

When Jungkook first heard that a new surgeon was joining the trauma team, the thought barely registered—just another name on the roster, another doctor to either impress or ignore. But for a fleeting second, as he skimmed the email announcing the department’s newest addition, his mind had entertained a thought he hadn’t let in for years. What if it’s her?

It was ridiculous, really—he hadn’t seen you in so long that you’d become more of a memory than a real person.

But some part of him, buried under layers of pride and time, still remembered the way you used to challenge him, push him to be better, and make him feel something he never quite understood.

But here you were, looking the same as you had back then—composed, confident, untouchable.

As his eyes lingered on you, the noise of the trauma unit faded into the background. The beeping of machines, the rushed footsteps of nurses, the rustle of surgical gloves—all of it seemed to dissolve into a soft hum. He didn’t want to feel this way, but the old animosity—the rivalry that had always thrummed just beneath the surface—flickered back to life.

It had started innocently enough. You had been another medical student, just like him. The two of you had been assigned to the same rotations, but where Jungkook was determined to prove himself with hard work and sheer perseverance, you had a different approach. You made it seem easy. Effortless.

It wasn’t that he disliked you—it was the way you moved through everything. The way you never seemed to struggle, never seemed to fall behind. You were always ahead, always one step further. And no matter how much he tried, no matter how much effort he put into studying, it never felt like enough.

The real clash had come in the third year of medical school. Both of you had been assigned to the same trauma surgery rotation. The patient had been a young girl, barely seventeen, who had been in a car crash. Her injuries were grave—broken bones, internal bleeding, and a collapsed lung.

In the OR, there had been no room for egos. At least, that was what Jungkook had thought. But you, always calm, always calculated, had known exactly what to do. The attending had left the two of you in charge, and the moment you had stepped in, it was clear that you were taking control.

“I’ll handle the internal bleeding,” you had said, your voice soft but firm. Your eyes locked onto his, and he had felt something shift in the air, a small but undeniable challenge.

This was your first surgery in a while since the video. And now, standing in the operating room, hands steady despite the weight of everything that had led you here, you knew there was no room for mistakes. Not when everyone was watching. Not when he was watching.

Jungkook had felt his throat tighten. There was no way he was going to let you take over—not now, not after everything he had worked for.

“I’ll lead this one,” he had said, his voice tight, almost too tight.

You had raised an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Of course you will, doctor. But if you miss something, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Now, Jungkook tried to push the past from his mind as he walked back into the trauma bay. The noise of rushing footsteps, the shouts of nurses, the beeping of monitors all flooded back to him. He had a job to do, and he would do it perfectly, just as he always had.

But there you were, standing at the head of the patient’s bed, giving orders with that same calm, steady demeanor that always made him feel like a novice. Your presence was unmistakable, and though he told himself he didn’t care, the tightness in his chest said otherwise.

The OR was a chaotic, controlled madness. Every second counted, and every decision had to be precise. But even amidst the pressure of a life-or-death situation, there was one thing that always managed to break through: the undeniable clash between you and Jungkook.

The patient on the operating table had sustained severe trauma—a shattered femur, multiple fractures to the ribs, and internal bleeding. The first few minutes had been smooth, the team working together efficiently to stabilize her. But the situation had quickly escalated. She wasn’t responding to the fluids they had administered, and her vitals were dropping rapidly. Her blood pressure was dangerously low, and the internal bleeding was proving harder to control than they anticipated.

Instead, your eyes were on him. Watching him. Your gaze was sharp, almost like a challenge.

"Get the hemorrhage controlled," Jungkook ordered, his voice sharp as he focused on the screen displaying the vitals.

"I’m on it," you replied, stepping in to assist the anesthesiologist with stabilizing the airway, watching her oxygen levels as the other doctors worked on her fractures. There was a quiet efficiency to your movements. It was the same calm approach you’d had in medical school, the one that had driven Jungkook crazy all those years ago.

But this time, the two of you weren’t in sync.

You reached for a clotting agent, about to administer it, when Jungkook’s hand shot out to stop you.

“No, that’s not the first thing we should be using,” he said, his tone dismissive as he moved to the other side of the table. “Clotting agents aren’t going to solve this if we don’t address the internal bleeding first.”

You paused for a moment, the air thick with tension. “I know what I’m doing, Jeong-woo. We don’t need to delay any longer. Her vitals are crashing.”

“She’s not going to survive if we don’t control the internal bleeding first. You’re always looking for the quick fix, but you can’t just keep throwing medications at the problem and hope it’ll solve itself,” Jungkook shot back, his words sharp, his focus never wavering from the patient.

There was a small but noticeable pause before you spoke again, this time more firmly. “I’m not throwing anything at the problem. I’m trying to stabilize her enough so we can actually get to the root cause of the issue, instead of playing catch-up with her blood pressure. You’re too focused on your sterile approach, Jungkook. This isn’t about just getting it done—it’s about caring for the whole person.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “We are caring for the whole person, but we need to stop acting like we’re treating some emotional case. This is trauma surgery. We need to act fast and with precision, not waste time comforting a patient who’s already in critical condition.”

The words cut through the tension like a knife. It was always this way with you—compassionate, almost to a fault, and unwilling to see the raw practicality that Jungkook valued so highly in this field.

"You don’t understand," you said quietly, but there was an edge to your voice now. "It’s not just about speed, it’s about being mindful of the body’s limits. You’re not seeing the full picture here."

Jungkook took a deep breath, trying to rein in the rising irritation in his chest. He had always found your approach frustrating. The way you treated patients like emotional beings, rather than just cases to be solved. To him, it was a weakness, one that had no place in trauma surgery. This wasn’t some soft-care ward; it was a battlefield where the strongest survived.

“Your approach is too emotional,” he finally spat out, barely keeping his voice low enough for the team not to overhear. “You’re making decisions based on what you feel instead of what’s medically necessary.”

Your eyes narrowed as you shot him a look, but you didn’t let the argument show on your face. Instead, you focused on the patient, your hands still working with precision, despite the fact that you could feel every word he threw at you like a punch.

"We’re all in this for the same reason, Jungkook," you muttered, your voice unwavering. "The difference is, I’m not willing to sacrifice everything else for the sake of 'just getting it done.' I won’t lose my patients just because I’m trying to be quick and detached."

The tension was palpable. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, but neither of you could back down. It wasn’t just professional pride at stake; it was something deeper—something that had started back in medical school, that simmered beneath every exchange. You were both experts, both brilliant in your own right, but the differences in how you viewed your profession were beginning to clash violently, both on and off the operating table.

The situation was growing worse, faster than anyone had anticipated. The patient’s blood pressure plummeted even further, and despite the efforts to control the bleeding, she was slipping away. The constant beeping of the monitors only intensified the pressure mounting on both of you.

“I’m telling you, we need to clamp the artery,” Jungkook said, frustration seeping into his voice now as he leaned over the patient’s abdomen. "We can’t waste any more time with these temporary fixes."

“No,” you retorted quickly, taking a step forward to assess the patient yourself. "She’s bleeding internally because her system can’t cope with the stress. Clamping the artery will only worsen the shock. I’m going to administer a vasopressor first to help stabilize her blood pressure before we do anything more invasive."

It was clear you weren’t backing down. Jungkook shot you a look—angry, dismissive—but he didn’t have the luxury of time to argue further. He had to act.

“Fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth, "But this better work."

You kept your gaze steady on the patient’s vitals, ignoring his sharp, biting criticism as you prepared the medication.

For a moment, the room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the sound of rapid beeping as the seconds ticked by.

Just as the situation began to spiral out of control, the anesthesiologist called out. The patient’s heart rate dropped drastically. It was now or never.

Without thinking, you and Jungkook moved in sync, both of you leaning over the patient, working together despite the tension that had been building all along. You shoved him aside just as his hand was about to clamp the artery, pushing your way in to apply the pressors. Your heart raced, your hands steady despite the heat of the moment.

And then, something happened. Amidst the frenzy, as you both fought to save the woman’s life, you found that the team was working together in a way that only you two could manage. Despite the constant bickering, despite the criticisms, you both knew how to make it work—however begrudgingly.

The crash didn’t happen. Slowly, the woman’s vitals began to stabilize.

Hours later, as the team was finishing up, you stood off to the side of the break room, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline. Your back was to the wall, and you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension that still buzzed through you.

Jungkook entered shortly after, a slight frown on his face as he grabbed a cup of coffee, his usual detached demeanor firmly in place. But as he took a seat, he couldn’t ignore the strange, lingering feeling that sat between you two. It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was... something else. Something unspoken.

He glanced at you briefly. “You did good,” he said, his voice unusually soft.

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you focused on your coffee, not daring to look at him directly. “You did too,” you replied, though it was more a formality than a compliment.

And yet, as you exchanged those words, both of you knew something had shifted. The rivalry hadn’t disappeared, but there was a quiet acknowledgment of each other’s strengths. A crack in the wall that had been between you for so long.

But neither of you was ready to confront it—not yet. Not while there was so much left to prove.

The conference room buzzed with quiet chatter as the trauma team assembled after the surgery. The air felt thick with unspoken words, the weight of the earlier tension hanging heavily over the room. Jungkook was already seated at the front, a posture that suggested his usual calm confidence, but even he couldn’t mask the storm that had been brewing throughout the surgery. His thoughts, his frustrations, still swirled around his mind like a whirlwind.

You walked in, the door clicking shut behind you, as you made your way to your seat. Conversations stilled, subtle glances exchanged across the room. They all knew. Knew about the video, about the controversy, about how you had barely made it into this hospital.

You could feel the weight of their curiosity, the silent judgment lingering in the air, as if waiting to see if you’d live up to your reputation—the surgeon with a sharp tongue and an even sharper fall from grace.

The rest of the team, quieter now, took their places, sensing the undercurrent of tension between you and Jungkook. Everyone had noticed the clashes earlier, but none of them dared to speak up. It wasn’t their place. Not now.

The meeting began. The attending physician, Ryuk Jinho, quickly moved through the cases, reviewing patient outcomes and discussing next steps. He started with a breakdown of the trauma cases from the past 24 hours, highlighting complications and successes.

“For the MVA patient from last night,” Jinho began, flipping through the reports, “the splenic rupture was managed well, though there was significant blood loss pre-op. Good call on prioritizing vascular control first.” His eyes skimmed the room before landing on you.

“But I’d like to discuss the choice of a non-operative approach for the hepatic injury. In cases like these, aggressive management can lead to better outcomes.”

“I don’t understand why you insisted on using pressors before the hemorrhage was under control,” Jungkook began, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. “It’s not an approach that works in trauma. You can’t stabilize someone with just medications when their vitals are crashing because of direct blood loss. You just don’t get it.”

You took a deep breath, meeting his eyes across the table. The weight of his words pressed on your chest, and though you’d spent years perfecting your ability to stay calm under pressure, something about his cold dismissal stung. He was so sure of himself. And the worst part was, he was doing this in front of everyone, as though it were a public spectacle, a way to undermine you.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” you shot back, your voice firm, but just under the surface, there was the anger you’d been holding in. “I’m not the one who was about to clamp the artery without considering the bigger picture. You’ve been so wrapped up in your textbook approach that you didn’t even think about the patient’s whole condition. I don’t operate just on numbers and guidelines, Jungkook. I care about how they’re doing, not just what is happening.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that look of cold detachment never leaving his face. He was used to people criticizing him. He had perfected the art of shrugging it off, of distancing himself from anything that wasn’t logical, wasn’t quantifiable.

“It’s easy to care about how when you don’t have to make the hard decisions,” he said dismissively, eyes narrowing. “You don’t even understand the weight of the responsibility. You think your feelings will save these patients, but it won’t. The reality is, if you don’t make decisions based on science, you won’t survive in trauma.”

The words cut deeper than you wanted to admit. For a moment, the room seemed to close in on you, the faces of your colleagues blurring as the anger flared within you. You weren’t just defending your methods anymore.

You were defending yourself.

“You don’t even know what it’s like to care,” you said, quieter now but laced with an emotion that surprised even you. “You hide behind your cold, sterile approach because it’s easier than facing the fact that these patients are people, not just cases to check off.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. The team—trauma surgeons like Dr. Min Jihoon, meticulous and composed; resident doctors like Seo Hana, always eager to prove herself; and interns who had barely gotten comfortable in the OR—froze in place, eyes darting between you and Jungkook. No one had ever spoken to him like that, not in this hospital.

Seo Hana shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze flickering to Dr. Min, who remained impassive but was clearly intrigued. One of the interns swallowed hard, while another subtly leaned forward, as if waiting to see how Jungkook would react. Even Ryuk Jinho, who had seen his fair share of heated exchanges, looked taken aback.

Jungkook’s lips tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he looked around the room as if challenging anyone to speak up or question him. His reputation as a skilled surgeon was unshakable, and he knew it. You, on the other hand, knew that no matter how good you were, your methods would never be enough in his eyes.

But there was more, wasn’t there? This wasn’t just a disagreement over how to treat a patient. This was deeper, rooted in something that had never been resolved. And just as you were about to respond, the attending physician called the meeting to a close.

Jinho raised a hand before the conversation escalated. “Both approaches have merit. In trauma surgery, decisions are made in seconds, and not every call is black and white. That said—” he looked between you and Jungkook, clearly aware of the tension crackling between you “—we need to focus on cohesive teamwork. Let’s move on.”

The three co-workers began to gather their things, heading out of the room, but you and Jungkook stayed behind, your hands gripping the edge of the table as you stared at the empty chairs in front of you.

You could feel Jungkook’s presence behind you, his posture still rigid, still exuding that coldness that had been a constant throughout your medical journey. And just as you felt like you couldn’t hold it in any longer, you turned to face him.

His expression remained unreadable, but you saw the hint of something in his eyes—a flicker of something that almost looked like regret, or maybe it was just frustration. Either way, you couldn’t hold back.

"I didn’t remember you were this cruel," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The weight of the statement hung heavily in the air between you, and you could see the immediate tension in his eyes as if the accusation had stung more than he cared to admit.

Jungkook’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing at first, just standing there, like he was deciding how to respond. But you could see the walls he had built around himself, the ones he’d used to protect himself from feeling anything, crack ever so slightly.

“I’m not cruel,” he finally replied, his voice quieter now, but still firm. “I’m just... practical. It’s easier that way.”

You shook your head, trying to process everything in your head. “No, Jungkook. It’s easier to shut people out. Easier to treat everything like a puzzle, like you’re just solving a problem and not dealing with the consequences. That’s what makes you cold.”

He didn’t look at you, instead turning toward the door, but you caught the briefest flicker of something in his eyes. A crack in his armor. Something vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. “But I can’t afford to be anything else.”

You didn’t have a response. Not for that.

The door clicked shut behind you as you walked into the apartment, your mind still reeling from the tense encounter with Jungkook earlier that day. The sound of laughter and chatter from the living room broke through the cloud of frustration hanging over you.

"Doctor, you’re back!" Coco called out from the couch, her voice upbeat as she kicked her feet up on the coffee table. She was sprawled out with a book in one hand and a can of soda in the other.

“About time, girl,” Aerum added, sitting next to Coco, already holding a bottle of soju and a bowl of Kimbap on the table between them. “We were just about to start without you.”

You couldn’t help but let out a tired sigh as you dropped your bag by the door, your shoes clicking on the hardwood floor as you made your way over to them. "Long first day," you muttered, sinking into the chair next to Aerum.

Coco grinned, reading the mood perfectly. “Let me guess. The ever-so-charming Jeon Jungkook is as insufferable as always?”

You laughed bitterly, running a hand through your hair as you thought about the morning’s events. "Worse," you admitted, accepting a beer from Aerum and leaning back against the couch. “I didn’t remember him being that cruel.”

Aerum raised an eyebrow as she grabbed a piece of Kimbap. “What happened?”

You took a sip of your beer, trying to calm the rising frustration. “We had a patient today. Pretty critical trauma case. It was bad, but we both... we were both working on it, and he just—” You paused, trying to put the words together. “He criticized every single thing I did. Like, everything.”

“Classic Jungkook,” Coco said, clearly not surprised. “He always did that back in med school. The whole ‘I’m right, you’re wrong’ attitude.”

You remembered a particular group assignment where Coco mentioned her interest in dermatology. He had scoffed, eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair. “Dermatology?” he had said, the tone dripping with condescension.

“You really think you’re going to make a difference in skin? It’s like choosing the easy route when everyone else is dealing with real, life-and-death stuff. You’re wasting your potential.” The way he said it, like her choice was somehow lesser, made your skin burn with frustration.

Aerum nodded, adding, “I don’t get how someone can be so brilliant but so… detached, you know? He’s like a robot with a scalpel. No warmth at all.”

Jungkook and Aerum, now a gynaecologist, had clashed during a highly competitive clinical rotation in obstetrics and gynecology. The tension between them escalated when they were both selected to perform a delicate procedure—an emergency C-section—on the same day.

You shook your head. “It’s like he’s too focused on just fixing the body and not looking at the bigger picture. It’s frustrating. He always acts like he knows everything. But today—today, it was like he didn’t even see the patient as a person.”

Coco scoffed, leaning forward to grab another Kimbap roll. “So, the ‘ice prince’ is still stuck in his ways, huh? He used to be the same in school, always acting like he had all the answers. But I remember—he’d never admit when he was wrong.”

"Yeah," you said, letting out a deep breath. "But what really got to me today was the way he shut me down in front of the entire team. It was like he was trying to make me look bad in front of everyone. Like he couldn’t even see what I was doing for what it was."

Aerum exchanged a look with Coco before turning back to you. "Isn’t it kind of funny though? The way you two still go at it after all these years."

“Funny?” You raised an eyebrow, half-amused and half-exasperated. "It’s infuriating."

Coco laughed, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. "No, seriously. The amount of chemistry there was between you two was honestly… ridiculous."

You choked on your beer a little, shooting her a glare. “What? I don’t—I mean, it’s not like that.”

Aerum smirked, leaning back in her seat. “Oh, please. You two were always at each other’s throats in med school, but it was obvious. We all saw it. You just refused to admit it.”

“Admit what?” you asked, now feeling like you were under a spotlight. “There’s nothing between us.”

Coco rolled her eyes. “Right, sure. Whatever you say. But back then, it was like you both thrived off being at each other’s throats.”

You shook your head. "He’s impossible!"

Aerum snickered. "Sure, whatever. But if you’re going to be miserable around him, at least admit that there’s something there."

You threw your hands up in mock frustration. "Okay, fine! Maybe there’s some kind of… I don’t know… tension between us. But it’s not like I want anything from him. He’s just… he's so cold and detached. There’s no way I could—"

“Please,” Coco interrupted, giving you a knowing look. “It’s obvious to anyone who’s ever seen you two together. You hate him, but you also can’t stand being apart from him. The minute he starts being a jerk to you, you snap back. But the minute he does something… even slightly kind, like today, you get all flustered.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you stared into your beer bottle. "I’m not flustered."

Aerum leaned in closer, her tone playful yet serious. “Look, girl, we’ve known you for a long time. We’re not saying you like him—at least, not in the way you think. But it’s clear that you’ve got something with him. Whether it’s hate, chemistry, or whatever else—it’s there. Don’t pretend it’s not.”

You felt a mix of irritation and disbelief. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’re just imagining things."

Coco smirked, reaching for her drink. “Tell me this then: when’s the last time you’ve ever been this mad at someone and still wanted to talk to them afterwards?”

You went quiet for a moment, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Sure,” Coco said with a raised eyebrow. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You groaned, dropping your head back against the couch. "I didn’t expect him to be like this. It’s been years, and I thought he’d changed. But now I feel like we’re back in med school again, and he’s still acting like the same insufferable guy he always was."

“Well,” Aerum said, her voice a bit more serious now, “he’s probably still carrying a lot of that same baggage. And honestly, I’m not sure it’s just a matter of work. The way he treats you—like you’re beneath him, or like he’s always trying to prove something—it’s so familiar.”

You felt a slight pang in your chest. "Maybe you're right. I just don’t know how to handle it anymore."

Coco nudged you gently. "You don’t have to handle anything. Just keep doing you—you’re brilliant. Don’t let him get inside your head."

Aerum grabbed another piece of Kimbap, her expression turning sly. “But if you ever decide to actually get close to him, just make sure to invite us to the wedding.”

Coco laughed, leaning over to grab her soju bottle. “Yeah, we want to be the first ones to know when it happens.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "You’re both ridiculous."

But despite the banter, you felt lighter. A bit of the weight that had settled on your shoulders after that surgery and the confrontation with Jungkook had lifted.

149 notes · View notes

lilbabypanda-blog2 · 1 day ago

Text

Mydei x (fem) reader (3)

Mydei’s secret friend

Part1 Part2 Part3

Y/N moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, setting out ingredients and lighting the stove. The warm glow of the flames flickered against the walls, casting a cozy light over the small home. As she worked, the scent of sizzling meat, fresh herbs, and fragrant spices gradually filled the air, wrapping around them like an inviting embrace.

Phainon sat at the table at first, lazily leaning back in his chair. Mydei, meanwhile, remained as he always did—silent and observing, arms crossed as if he had no interest in anything happening around him.

But after a few minutes, Phainon’s fingers started tapping against the table. Then his legs bounced a little. He glanced around, looked at the food, looked at Mydei, then back at the food. Finally, with a groan of impatience, he stood up.

“Alright, I cannot just sit here doing nothing,” he declared, rolling up his sleeves. “Let me help.”

Y/N raised an amused eyebrow. “You cook?”

Phainon scoffed, placing a hand on his chest as if deeply offended. “Of course I do! I’m a man of many talents.”

Mydei snorted. “I’ve seen you cook. It was a disaster.”

Phainon shot him an unamused look. “That was one time.”

“You nearly burned down the barracks.”

“The fire wasn’t my fault,” Phainon huffed. “It was the stove! Clearly defective.”

Y/N chuckled, handing him a knife and a bundle of vegetables. “Alright, let’s see if you’re as good as you claim.”

Phainon grinned and got to work, chopping away with enthusiasm. His technique was... passable at best. His slices were uneven, and his movements a little reckless, but at least he wasn’t entirely useless.

“So,” he started, casually sliding some diced onions into a bowl, “since Mydei is acting all mysterious about you, maybe you can tell me—what’s your story?”

Y/N stirred the pot on the stove, adding spices as she considered her answer. “That’s a broad question.”

“Fine, I’ll make it simpler,” Phainon said, pausing to dramatically wipe his imaginary sweat. “Where are you from?”

Y/N hesitated for only a fraction of a second before replying, “Here and there.”

Phainon stopped chopping. Squinted at her. “That’s not an answer.”

She smirked. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes! It’s exactly the kind of vague nonsense Mydei would say.” He groaned, running a hand through his white hair. “You two really are alike.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re friends.”

Phainon gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “You admit it!”

“I never denied it.”

Mydei, still seated, smirked slightly. Finally, someone who could match Phainon’s energy.

Phainon, recovering quickly, grinned. “Alright, fine. If you won’t tell me that, then how about—”

“Don’t,” Mydei cut in, already seeing where this was headed.

Phainon turned to him with an innocent look. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t start prying into things that aren’t your business.”

“Oh, please, Mydei.” Phainon rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to get to know our dear new friend.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to interrogate her.”

Phainon smirked but didn’t deny it. He turned back to Y/N and leaned against the counter. “I mean, you do have this whole ‘mysterious traveler’ thing going on. You can’t blame me for being curious.”

Y/N chuckled, flipping a piece of meat in the pan. “I don’t mind a little curiosity.”

Phainon shot Mydei a smug look. “See? She’s fine with it.”

“But I mind,” Mydei muttered.

Phainon sighed dramatically but didn’t push further—for now. Instead, he focused on helping with the cooking, sneaking in smaller, more casual questions whenever he could.

“So, what are we making?” he asked, watching as Y/N mixed ingredients together.

“A little of everything,” she replied. “Braised meat, some roasted vegetables, stew on the side.”

Phainon whistled. “You really know how to cook.”

Y/N shrugged, stirring the stew pot. “I like good food.”

Phainon nodded approvingly. “I respect that.”

The meal came together quickly, the flavors blending into something rich and savory. Mydei had remained mostly quiet, watching from his seat. But even he had to admit—the smell of the food was tempting.

Eventually, Y/N turned around, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Alright. Let’s eat.”

Phainon grinned. “Best thing I’ve heard all day.”

And as they sat down to share the meal,

The meal was nothing short of a success.

The rich aroma of the braised meat mixed with the savory warmth of the stew, perfectly complemented by the crisp, roasted vegetables. The food was flavorful, well-seasoned, and filling—something Phainon had no problem voicing.

“This—” Phainon took another bite, nearly humming in satisfaction, “—this is amazing. Y/N, you might just be my new favorite person.”

Y/N chuckled, sipping from her bowl. “Glad you like it.”

Phainon turned to Mydei, jabbing his spoon at him. “How come you never told me she could cook like this?”

Mydei sighed. “Because it’s not relevant.”

Phainon gaped. “Not relevant? Mydei, this is incredibly relevant.” He turned back to Y/N with a pleading expression. “If you ever need someone to taste-test your dishes, I volunteer.”

Y/N smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Phainon took another bite, visibly savoring it before looking at Y/N again. “Alright, alright, I’ll admit defeat. You’ve won me over with food.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Now, let’s get back to the important part—you and Mydei.”

Mydei groaned, already regretting staying.

Phainon grinned. “Come on, Y/N. You can’t keep dodging forever. You’ve already fed us, so why not throw in a little storytelling?”

Y/N tapped her fingers against her bowl, pretending to consider it. Mydei, sitting across from her, narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew she was enjoying this more than she let on.

After a few moments, she sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. Since you’re so curious.”

Phainon beamed, leaning in. “I am.”

Y/N placed her bowl down, glancing between the two men. “It happened at the ruins of Kremnos.”

Silence settled over the table as she began.

“I was exploring the area out of curiosity,” she explained. “The ruins are fascinating—old, crumbling, but still standing. I wanted to see what secrets they held.”

Mydei huffed. “Reckless.”

Y/N smirked. “Says the man who practically lives in battle.”

Phainon snickered. “She’s got a point.”

Y/N continued. “Along the way, I ran into some Titankin. Nothing I couldn’t handle. A few fights here and there.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “You took on Titankin alone?”

Y/N shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time.”

Phainon let out a low whistle. “Alright, impressive.”

Y/N nodded. “But then I spotted him.” She tilted her head toward Mydei. “At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. He was moving through the ruins like a ghost—silent, purposeful. He didn’t seem like the usual treasure hunters or ruin explorers. There was something… different about the way he carried himself.”

Phainon grinned. “Creepy.”

“Focused,” Mydei corrected, rolling his eyes.

Y/N smirked. “Creepy and focused.”

Phainon burst out laughing. “I like you.”

Y/N chuckled before continuing. “I didn’t approach him at first. Instead, I watched from the shadows, keeping my distance. I wasn’t sure if he was a threat or not. But then…” She glanced at Mydei. “He noticed me.”

Mydei crossed his arms. “Of course I did.”

Y/N hummed. “But you didn’t know who I was. I had my hood and mask on, after all.”

Phainon’s eyes widened with amusement. “Wait, so Mydei was paranoid?”

“Agitated, more like,” Y/N corrected. “Neither of us knew who the other was, but we both assumed the worst. One wrong move, and suddenly—”

“A fight broke out,” Mydei finished, smirking slightly.

Y/N nodded. “And it wasn’t a small one, either.”

Phainon leaned forward, very invested now. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N took a sip of water before speaking again. “He was fast. Strong. He fought like he owned the battlefield, like nothing could stop him. I held my own, matching his attacks, dodging when I could. But Mydei…” She exhaled. “He doesn’t go down easily.”

Phainon grinned. “Trust me, I know.”

Mydei remained silent, simply listening.

“I realized something was off about him as the fight dragged on,” Y/N continued. “Most people—no matter how skilled—slow down eventually. Their stamina wears out. They make mistakes.”

“But he didn’t.”

She turned to Mydei. “You didn’t falter. Not even once. You just kept going.”

Phainon smirked. “Yeah, that’s the annoying part.”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “You sound bitter.”

“I am bitter.”

Y/N chuckled. “Eventually, I reached my limit. I wasn’t exhausted yet, but I could tell if the fight kept going, I’d lose. And then—” She glanced at Mydei again. “You won.”

Phainon clicked his tongue. “Of course he did.”

Y/N smirked. “You say that like it bothers you.”

“It does.”

Y/N laughed softly before continuing. “After that, I expected him to finish me off. Or demand to know who I was. But instead… he just stood there, looking at me. Studying me.”

Phainon turned to Mydei. “So? What were you thinking?”

Mydei shrugged. “I was curious.”

Phainon blinked. “That’s it?”

“There aren’t many who can match my strength,” Mydei said simply. “Besides the Chrysos heirs, most people don’t last long against me.” He glanced at Y/N. “But she did.”

Y/N smirked. “And so, instead of enemies, we became…”

“Rivals?” Phainon suggested.

“Friends,” Y/N corrected.

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird way to make friends.”

Y/N chuckled. “Maybe. But it worked.”

Phainon leaned back, arms crossed, clearly intrigued. “Huh. And here I thought Mydei was incapable of making friends on his own.”

Mydei groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“I try.”

Y/N laughed softly, enjoying the banter between them. The conversation continued, shifting between jokes, light teasing, and small stories.

For once, Mydei didn’t mind the company.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind sharing this story either.

The meal was nearly finished, but the conversation carried on, the air warm with lingering laughter and the scent of spices still thick in the air. Phainon, still savoring the last bites of his meal, leaned forward with his usual mischievous grin.

“So,” he drawled, tapping his fingers against the table, “you and Mydei. Fighting, exploring, being all mysterious together. That’s nice and all—but surely, surely there’s more.”

Y/N tilted her head. “More?”

“Oh, don’t play coy now,” Phainon said, grinning. “You must have some good stories about our ever-serious prince here.”

Mydei sighed, already regretting not leaving earlier.

Y/N tapped her chin, as if considering it. “Well… there is one thing.”

Phainon perked up immediately. “Yes. Spill.”

Y/N smirked, casting Mydei a glance. “Did you know he likes baking?”

The room fell silent.

Phainon stared. Then he slowly turned to Mydei. “What?”

Mydei, who had been drinking water, exhaled sharply through his nose and set his cup down hard. “Y/N.” His voice held a clear warning.

But Y/N only smiled, resting her chin in her hand. “Oh, did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

Phainon blinked, as if trying to process what he just heard. Then, a slow, delighted grin spread across his face. “No. No way.”

Y/N nodded. “It’s true.”

Phainon pointed at Mydei, barely holding back his laughter. “You—you bake?”

Mydei scowled. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Phainon let out a short laugh. “You, the Mydei, Crown Prince of Kremnos, warrior of Okhema, immortal being rejected by death itself—stand in a kitchen and bake?”

Y/N chuckled. “And he’s good at it too, i love his honey cakes.”

Phainon gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated shock. “I—I don’t even know what to say.” He turned to Mydei, eyes practically sparkling. “Why have you never told me this?”

“Because it’s not your business,” Mydei grumbled, shooting Y/N a look.

Y/N just smiled innocently. “You never told me to not mention it.”

Phainon was clearly enjoying this revelation far too much. “What do you even bake?”

“Does it matter?” Mydei snapped.

Y/N, still unbothered, answered for him. “Mostly cake. Sometimes pastries or bread.”

Phainon’s mouth fell open. “You bake pastries?”

“… Occasionally.”

Phainon nearly collapsed in his seat. “This is the best thing I’ve ever learned.”

Mydei groaned, rubbing his temples. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

"can I try some...." phainon ask but mydei cut him off "NO!"

Phainon ignored him, still grinning. “So, what else? What other hidden talents does our dear prince have?”

Y/N hummed. “Let’s see… Oh, sometimes we go on walks together.”

Phainon blinked. “Walks.”

“Mmhm.”

“You mean like, patrolling ruins? Training?”

“No,” Y/N said casually, “just strolling around.”

Phainon looked between the two of them. Then, with an absolutely incredulous expression, he burst into laughter. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Y/N replied, still amused.

Phainon turned to Mydei, who looked deeply, deeply (very deeply) unamused. “You—you take walks?”

Mydei scowled. “I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue is that you don’t even like talking to most people, let alone casually strolling with them!” Phainon exclaimed, still grinning. “Yet here you are, taking relaxing little walks like you don’t have the reputation of a battle-hardened warrior prince.”

Mydei exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to contain his irritation. “Are you done?”

Phainon smirked. “Not even close.”

Y/N chuckled, continuing, “Sometimes he even accompanies me when I explore ruins.”

Phainon shook his head, feigning shock. “Mydei? Voluntarily exploring with someone else?”

Y/N nodded. “He’s surprisingly good company.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?”

“Well, he still complains sometimes,” Y/N admitted.

Mydei huffed. “Because you get distracted.”

“It’s called curiosity,” Y/N said with a smirk.

“It’s called reckless wandering.”

Phainon was absolutely thriving in this conversation. “Wow, this is so much better than I expected.” He grinned at Mydei. “And you always act like you prefer being alone.”

Mydei shot him a glare. “I still do.”

Phainon just grinned wider. “Sure, buddy.”

Y/N, watching the exchange, only smiled. She had no regrets about letting a few things slip.

If anything, she was enjoying it as much as Phainon was.

Phainon sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples dramatically, as if he were trying to process something impossible. He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief before turning his sharp blue eyes back to Y/N.

“I just… I don’t get it,” he said, voice laced with genuine confusion. “You. Friends. With him.” He gestured toward Mydei like he was pointing at a wild animal rather than a person.

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Watch it.”

Phainon ignored him completely, leaning toward Y/N. “You do know who you’re talking about, right? Mydei? Crown Prince of Kremnos? The guy who treats most people like an inconvenience? The same Mydei who barely tolerates me—and I’m fantastic!”

Y/N simply chuckled, amused by his reaction. “And?”

Phainon threw up his hands. “And—how did this happen? How are you still here? Why haven’t you run off like every other sane person he’s scared away?”

Y/N only smiled before turning toward Mydei, her expression warm. Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a gentle, familiar embrace.

Mydei froze.

Phainon’s jaw dropped.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice their reactions—or if she did, she didn’t care. She rested her head lightly against Mydei’s shoulder, speaking softly. “Because Mydei is an amazing friend.”

Mydei remained stiff, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. His mind immediately jumped to retreating—he wasn’t used to people being this open with him. But Y/N’s embrace was warm, steady, completely unafraid.

Phainon, meanwhile, looked like he had just witnessed a divine revelation. He pointed at Mydei in stunned disbelief. “What. The. Hell.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet Mydei’s gaze, her eyes filled with warmth. “I mean it,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

Phainon gawked. Mydei stared.

The room was completely silent.

Y/N, as if unaware of the sheer shock she had just sent through them, continued smiling. “Sure, he can be a little grumpy, and he acts like he doesn’t care—but he does.” Her voice was soft but firm. “He always has my back. He listens, even when he pretends not to. He’s reliable, strong, and even if he won’t say it outright… he’s someone you can always count on.”

Mydei swallowed, his jaw tightening slightly. There was something unfamiliar twisting in his chest—something he didn’t quite know how to handle.

Phainon finally found his voice, pointing at Mydei in absolute astonishment. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Mydei?”

Y/N laughed. “Oh, he’s still the same Mydei.”

Phainon shook his head, still completely thrown. “I refuse to believe this. You like him?”

“Of course.” Y/N gave Mydei a small squeeze before pulling away fully. “He’s my friend.”

Phainon dragged a hand down his face, muttering to himself, “This is insane.”

Y/N chuckled, watching as Mydei exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to shake off whatever strange emotions had settled over him.

“…You’re both insufferable,” Mydei muttered at last.

Y/N just smiled, her expression knowing. “Sure, Mydei.”

Phainon slumped in his chair, still staring at them like he had seen a ghost. “I think I need to lie down.”

Y/N laughed again, and just for a brief moment—so brief it was almost imperceptible—Mydei’s lips twitched upward, barely a ghost of a smirk.

For once, he didn’t entirely mind the company. (Except for phainons)

Phainon stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at Mydei like he was trying to solve some impossible puzzle. His blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting between him and Y/N.

“I’m leaving,” he finally announced, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that this was real life.

“Good,” Mydei muttered.

Phainon ignored him. Instead, he pointed dramatically at Y/N. “But you. You’re strange.”

She simply smiled. “I’ve been told.”

Phainon exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his white hair. “I need—” he paused, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what I need. To think maybe. To lie down. To question reality.” He took a step back. “This isn’t over.”

And with that, he finally left, muttering something under his breath about "needing a drink" and "Mydei being secretly replaced by a doppelgänger."

Silence filled the room.

Mydei let out a deep exhale, rubbing his temple. “Finally.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “You say that, but you know he’s going to be losing his mind over this for weeks.”

Mydei just grunted. “Not my problem.”

They sat in a comfortable quiet, the golden evening light filtering through the window, casting a warm glow over them. For a while, there was nothing but the soft sounds of the city outside, the occasional distant chatter from passersby.

Then, Mydei spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“…You meant all of that?”

Y/N turned her head slightly to look at him. “Of course.”

His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. He stared at the floor, his fingers idly tapping against his knee. “…Even the part where you said you wouldn’t trade me for anything?”

She smiled. “Especially that part.”

His jaw tightened slightly, as if the words were settling somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere unfamiliar.

Y/N shifted closer, resting her head gently on his shoulder.

Mydei immediately stiffened. His entire body went rigid, like someone had just dropped a battleaxe in his lap. His first instinct was to move away—space, he always needed space—but… he didn’t.

He let out a slow breath.

“You don’t have to overthink it,” Y/N murmured, voice soft and reassuring. “I like you just the way you are, Mydei.”

His breath hitched.

“I adore you,” she added. “Grumpiness, sharp edges, and all.”

Heat crawled up his neck. He knew it. He felt it. His entire face was burning.

“…You say ridiculous things,” he muttered.

“And yet,” Y/N teased, “you’re still listening.”

He huffed, scowling slightly. But he didn’t move.

He let her stay, resting against him, her warmth a quiet comfort.

For once, he didn’t feel the need to push it away.

Meanwhile, outside, Phainon had barely made it five steps before stopping in his tracks. He placed his hands on his head, eyes wide, staring at nothing in particular.

“This—this doesn’t make sense.” His voice was hoarse, as if the very fabric of reality had just been torn apart before him.

He turned toward the nearest street vendor. “Hey, hey, quick question—what do you do when you see something so impossible, so unbelievable that your brain refuses to accept it?”

The vendor blinked. “…Uh.”

Phainon grabbed his shoulders. “Do you—do you just pretend it didn’t happen? Do you try to rationalize it? Or do you just—accept it?”

The vendor nervously handed him a roasted skewer of meat. “Uh… here. Have this. You seem… unwell.”

Phainon took it but barely noticed. He turned back toward Y/N’s house, eyes still wide in disbelief.

“I need to sit down.”

And with that, he promptly collapsed onto a bench, skewer still in hand, questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.

_______________________________________

Well here's the 3rd part XD

If u have any wishes or scenarios u wanna see, feel free to ask XD

146 notes · View notes

that-hazbin · 3 days ago

Note

Media Demon AU

Charlie-in-disguise manages to bring up the hotel before Alastor manages to go there (let's ignore the fact that he would instantly drop everything and RUN there as fast as the radio waves can take him, like the little tsundere fangirl he is) to gauge if he even knows about it and what does he think because he's practically running hell and if for whatever reason he doesn't like it we're doomed

he's practically vibrating with excitement because IT'S FINALLY HAPPENING HE WAITED SO LONG so he can't help himself but have a happy yapping session and Charlie is also SO HAPPY because THE MEDIA DEMON believes in her cause, this is just the encouragement she needed, she can do it

and then he finally goes to the hotel, puts on the scary overlord act of course, he can't have these people thinking he likes them, oh no no no

and someone asks him if he believes in redemption and he tsundere does the 'Oh no, that's preposterous, demons are evil' much to Charlie's confusion because

1. nuh uh

2. he literally just told her otherwise

but she knows him so she quickly realizes what's happening and oh my dad, look at this dumbass pretending he doesn't like them, and she can't stop her face from smiling, and soon - to everyone's confusion - she's laughing

she does try to play along 'Oh no, you really don't believe in redemption? So why are you here?' but she's still giggling and she ends up saying 'that's not what you told me earlier' and he finally connects the dots and how did he not realize this sooner but also he's mad

'YOU two-faced, lying little ****, all those years...'

he's not serious of course, she knows it and still failing to stifle her laughter she hugs him and he gives in and hugs her back cutie babies

(and maybe he finally tells them he was yeeted into the past but this ask is way too long)

🥺 HE'S SOOOO HAPPY!!! He missed the hotel and all its shenanigans and now it's BACK, and he has to play this PERFECTLY so that everything goes EXACTLY THE SAME AS LAST TIME— except whoopsies, uh oh, sorry Alastor, you already sorta fucked that up quite a while ago. You really should have guessed your plan wouldn't have worked out anyways, you've ENTIRELY changed the future at this point, it was never going to go as planned sweetie.

Charlie being unable to hold it together is so cute. She KNOWS he's pulling shit out of his ass right now and she just can't take him seriously. He's a tsundere, oh lord, she NEVER KNEW he was a tsundere! Nifty was RIGHT!

They make such a cute picture and Alastor will be SO huffy (but also high-key proud of his sorta-daughter) about being tricked for YEARS. He's going to hug her but he's also going to be pouting and complaining while subtly complimenting her subterfuge. She's just a giggly mess about the whole thing.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #charlie morningstar #media demon au

54 notes · View notes

fayes-fics · 3 days ago

Text

The Wonderful Unexpected: Chapter 3

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (future chapters), Modern AU

Chapter Summary: Boxing Day with the Bridgertons.

Warnings: not much, really… brief mentions of parental deaths.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author’s Note: The Bridgertons rope reader into their Boxing Day plans. For those wondering, Benedict turns up next chapter :) Please see the masterpost for a synopsis. Thank you to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

As you go to leave Anthony’s hospital room, his family are all arriving again.

“Y/n! Hi! We didn't know you were here,” Violet bustles up to you and gives you a quick hug, already treating you like one of the family. “Were you here all night?” She doesn't wait for your answer, instead tugging you back into the room. “So, how's my darling son?”

“Oh, well, he's got more colour.” you attempt a platitude, eyeing up the doorway wistfully.

Your plan to escape - to be an apocryphal family tale - is not exactly going as you planned.

“Oh yes!” she agrees happily, brushing his cheek affectionately with the back of her hand and then fussing with a lock of his hair—the very picture of a doting mother.

“I have to go, but it was lovely seeing you again,” you excuse, edging away.

“Tell her…” Marcus elbows Violet gently. “Go on.”

“So…” Violet begins, looking a little sheepish. “We didn't get to celebrate Christmas yesterday as planned, so we thought, now we know Anthony’s prognosis looks good, we would do so tonight. A day late, but still. And we thought… well, it would be nice if you could join us,” she rushes out, grabbing both of your hands. “ You are to be family soon after all!”

You stumble a few umms and ahs before Hyacinth pipes up: “Benedict is going to be there!”

“Oh, yes! That's right!” Violet brightens immediately. “You haven't met him yet?”

“Nope…” you confirm, having absolutely no clue who that could be. Seriously, could this family be any bigger?

“Oh, he'll be so happy to meet you!” Violet grins, and something about that makes you feel an odd flutter in your chest. “So you'll come? Tonight?” She looks so hopeful you feel bad saying no.

“I have to work until 7pm...”

“Come afterwards,” she insists. “We won't be eating until late. Give Hyacinth your mobile number. And I will call until you say yes….” She smiles, and you are uncertain how much of that is a jest.

Still, you feel unable to give them the wrong number. So, with a sigh, you take Hyacinth's proffered iPhone, the latest model you notice, and reluctantly punch it in.

Well, how the fuck am I going to get out of this one?!

—

You are waiting for the lift to take you down to the street when an orderly flags you down, holding out a large plastic bag for you to take.

“What? What is this?” you query, confused and tired, just wanting to get home and grab two hours of sleep before you have to go to work.

“These are your husband's things, Mrs Bridgerton.”

Something drops hard in your stomach at the word husband. You are glad you have finally learned his last name even as you grouse in frustration: “He's not my husband!”

“I'm sorry. Your fiancee,” the orderly corrects, shoving the bag into your hand and walking away as the lift sweeps open next to you.

“Uh, you're Anthony's fiancee?” The query comes from a tall man in a suit.

“Okay. Yep. Fine,” you shrug, defeated.

“Fife. Alastair Fife. Colleague of Anthony's,” he introduces, with the air of a man expecting you to be impressed somehow.

“l have to go…” You attempt to get into the lift he just exited, but he blocks you.

“Can't believe this has happened. Ant’s had a shit year. What with the accident in September….”

“Accident?” you frown.

“Well, of course, it was an accident!” He blusters, then seems to get agitated. “Wait… Did he tell you it was my fault?! The fucking cheek…”

He pauses to run a harried hand through his hair, then launches into a diatribe before you can even protest.

“Look, here’s the real story…. we're playing doubles down in Roehampton. l had an Apple pencil in my back pocket, but I swear I didn't know it was there. I’m always losing those blasted things. Anyway, I crouch, and Ant jumps high to hit a crosscourt smash….”

You sigh, watching the lift doors sweep shut, resigning yourself to a story you know you are going to have to endure from this rather twitchy man.

Great, juuuuust great.

—

Two hours of sleep is definitely not enough to face the insanity of Boxing Day crowds piling into London to shop the sales. And then, of course, demanding coffee from you. Everyone is back on shift today but still, fully staffed; you can barely keep up with the queue, which is out of the door at times.

“I need a new place,” Prue laments at some point during the afternoon. “Me and Phillipa simply CANNOT live with Mum anymore. It's just too much….”

“The flat above mine is free,” you report as your phone pings yet again. “I mean, it's in the attic, so it's a bit small, and the landlord is… a character, but I think it's a two bed….”

“OMG, give me the details!” she demands as Gen wanders over.

You check the message, and it's Hyacinth. This time, with a pin drop to their house and a bunch of champagne and fire emojis.

“Ladies, this isn’t the time to be slacking,” Gen chastises gently, nodding to the queue.

Prue pouts but goes back to the till as Gen hovers while you wash out the smoothie maker.

“So…. your phone is blowing up. How goes it?” She wheedles, asking for even more information than you have already given her over text and during your shift today.

You groan and drop the scrubber. “I’m fucked. They think I'm their future daughter-in-law!”

She chuckles heartily, and you throw her a side stink eye.

“The grandad? He's got this heart thing. If l tell the truth, he will die. I'm not a murderer, Gen!”

“Well, then, go along with it,” she suggests, her schadenfreude almost gleeful. “Look, when he wakes up, they’ll be so happy they won't care you told some porkies. They'll probably even thank you for it, mate.”

You scoff at that. “And what if he doesn't come out of it?”

“Morbid,” she contends, then just shrugs. “Could be worse. When Henry’s mum found out I was pregnant? Her fucking intestines exploded.”

Edie whips around from manning the espresso machine and narrows her eyes at Gen. “I thought you said she shat herself?”

“Meh… po-tay-to, po-tahh-oh”: Gen fires back.

You sigh. “You fuckers are no help….”

—

You check your phone five times, looking down at the screen and then back up, certain that despite your little blue dot hovering over the pin Hyacinth sent, it can't be the right place.

This cannot be their home. That would be ridiculous.

It's a mansion in Mayfair. It looks more like a fancy consulate building than a residence.

Just as you go to text Hyacinth a ‘Haha, very funny’, Agatha materialises at your side for a second time.

“Y/n, you made it!” She greets with a knowing smile.

“Agatha! Hello! So I am in the right place?!”

“Indeed,” she confirms, tapping open an old-fashioned cigarette case as you stare up again at the handsome building, belatedly realising you haven't done your usual Googling of someone as soon as you learn their name. But then, it's not exactly been a typical 36 hours.

“So the family owns this? All of it?” You ask, secretly hoping that maybe they just have a flat inside or something.

She laughs. “Yes, dear. The Bridgertons are… not exactly wanting for money,” she attests in what is clearly a classic understatement.

“But they seem so nice, normal,” you mutter rhetorically, a knot forming in your stomach, suddenly feeling way out of your depth.

Agatha just chuckles again, and flicks open a lighter. “Keep me company for a while? l don't like to smoke in their house.”

She signals to a seat inside the gates, and you follow her after she punches in a code to gain access.

“I’m trying to quit,” she breezes, offering you one silently from her case, but you shake your head. “Did you know that I was Anthony's godmother?” she queries, exhaling a swirl of smoke.

“I did not,” you concede. “It must be nice to be around family at this time of year…” Your mien is likely wistful, for she twists to look at you with piqued curiosity.

“You have no family?”

“I'm an only child, just like my parents. I don't remember my Mum; she died when I was just three,” you shrug matter-of-factly. “It was just me and Dad. Then, four years ago, he got ill. Eventually, he sold the house in Bath and moved in with me in London to be closer to Guys Hospital for treatment. I had to give up working my old job to look after him in the end. But about a year ago, he went too.” You conclude—an economical but truthful potted history of your life.

There are a few moments of silence, just the constant swish and drone of London traffic, as Agatha shoots you a look of sympathy, tapping to discard some ash.

“My husband died when I was relatively young,” she volunteers. “But Violet was, and always has been, my rock.”

“You are friends from long ago?”

“Oh yes. We go back a long way, my dear. Longer than she even knows….” she pauses to take another drag, then fixes you with a pointed, almost intimidating look. “Y/n, the Bridgertons, you should know I consider them my family. I'd never let anyone hurt them.”

It sounds like a warning, but for some reason also an invitation.

“Neither would l,” you confess honestly, a gust of light wind catching your hair that you have to tuck behind your ear.

Agatha observes you pointedly for a beat, then seems satisfied with whatever she finds.

“l believe you wouldn't,” she opines, stubbing out her cigarette.

—

When the door to Bridgerton House sweeps open, your jaw drops. Somehow, even magnificent seems somewhat inadequate as a descriptor. The grand hallway is bedecked in heavy garlands festooned with lights, a Christmas tree almost as tall as the building you live in taking pride of place. Everywhere you look is tasteful Christmas decor, and among it antique furniture, glittering chandeliers and oil paintings of what looks to be the family antecedents.

The poinsettia from M&S you clutch seems entirely pointless now, and part of you wants just to hide it, but you don't have time. While a friendly-looking man takes your coat, the gaggle of Bridgertons descend upon you. Violet takes the plant from you with profuse thanks as they all crowd around, talking over each other excitedly in the manner you are almost used to now. All dressed up in novelty jumpers, which is a relief. A setting this grand seems more black-tie, but that would leave you woefully undressed in the simple skirt and jumper you wear.

Before you quite know what has happened, you are swept into a dining room, where a glass of bubbly is pushed into your hand.

“That’s so you don't have to take any of my dear father's mulled wine,” Violet murmurs before sweeping away.

“It can cause temporary blindness,” Agatha adds under her breath, nodding sagely in a way that suggests there could be some truth behind what you hope is a jest.

You tilt your glass in a gesture of thanks for the forewarning and take a seat in front of the place setting with your name upon it, trying not to feel overwhelmed. You thought this might be a little gathering around a kitchen table in a modest family home; this is a long way from that.

Staff from a catering company bustle in, placing platters down the middle of the long table as Violet taps a fork against her glass and stands up, a rare hush falling over the table.

“I am glad we get to celebrate today as a family. Our thoughts are, of course, with darling Anthony for his hopefully speedy recovery, but I am so happy the soon-to-be-newest member of our family can be here." You feel all eyes turn to you, smiling, a lump in your throat as she continues. “It's so wonderful you came to join us, y/n; the first of many celebrations we shall be happy to have you at!”

“Here, here!” Marcus cheers, tilting his glass in your direction.

“So here is to family, new and old, blood and found,” she smiles at Agatha and Marcus. “Happy Christmas!”

Everyone clinks glasses, and there is a round of festive greetings before people start getting stuck in—platters being passed around the table as pockets of conversation break out. However, you can't help but notice significant gaps between the chairs and spares pushed against the walls off to the side of the room. Violet, ever watchful, notices and leans over.

“I'm afraid we are rather reduced in number today. You will likely only encounter less than half of my errant offspring. In fact, just three of the eight.”

“Eight?” your eyes go wide, almost spitting out the bite of warm bread roll you had just popped in your mouth.

“Anthony did not tell you?” She looks momentarily confused. Luckily, you don't have to provide cover as she soon continues: “Well, they are scattered around the globe, and I did not want to ruin their Christmas by telling them about Anthony. I don’t want them flying back, especially now we know he should be okay. My son Colin is off travelling in the Costa Rican jungle, and my daughter Eloise decided to tag along. I think mostly to annoy him, to be honest. My musical daughter Fran is at Julliard in New York City. My eldest daughter Daphne is in Dubai…”

“I thought they were in Singapore?” Hyacinth pipes up.

“I thought Tokyo?” Gregory counters with a knitted brow.

“My son-in-law Simon, her husband, has many business interests; they do tend to zip around the globe a great deal,” Violet discloses.

“So Gregory and & Hyacinth are here…” you nod to them as they grin back. “Who’s the third you’re expecting?”

“Benedict. My second eldest.” You recall the name from earlier and Violet seems to light up in a way that suggests she might have a favourite, even if she may never admit it out loud. “Although he texted his train from Edinburgh was cancelled, so unfortunately, I don't think he’ll be here in time for dinner. But he will be later. You can meet him in the morning, if not before.” She smiles.

“In the morning? I-I-I was not expecting to stay…”

While you had left out enough food to last Chairman Meow a day, you are certain he won’t appreciate another night left all alone.

“Oh, of course you shall!” Violet contests congenially. “And if you have any of the mulled wine, you likely won’t have a choice,” she chortles, and again, you feel yourself ill-equipped to disappoint this lovely woman.

And so the meal progresses with lively conversation, stories of old being regaled to you as you relax a notch. Even though they are obviously very wealthy, there is something so warm and genuine about the Bridgertons, and you can't help but feel a glow that isn’t entirely attributable to your second glass of fizz.

After dinner, with a brief stop by the hallway tree where you are reluctantly pulled into a family group photo, you all decamp to a large living room. A fireplace is roaring, and Christmas music is playing softly from hidden speakers as you gather on a clutch of comfortable sofas, forming a U-shape. Everyone is still wearing their novelty paper crowns from the crackers you all pulled at dessert. Well, with the exception of Victor, who wears two, claiming it is his right as the oldest.

“It's presents time!” Hyacinth trills, excitedly diving into the pile under yet another beautiful tree.

You are happy just to sit back and observe, so you are surprised when she and Gregory smirk as they drop one in your lap.

“To y/n, with love from Santa,” they wink.

Your mouth goes dry, and you don't know what to say.

“Don't worry, dear. We don't buy fancy gifts,” Violet pipes up. “It's just for fun,” she reassures as Victor rips open his gift: novelty socks that start playing an obnoxious tune and flashing gaudily.

“Oh ho ho, I’ll have fun wearing these to church on Sunday,” he guffaws.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Agatha chides affectionately.

As Gregory and Hyacinth pull focus with their gifts, you open yours quietly. An odd wave of emotion at a lovely picture frame containing what is obviously a photo of a teenage Anthony smiling handsomely, holding what looks like a sporting trophy of some kind. You look up to see Violet smiling benevolently at you as Marcus pulls her in for a temple kiss for the embossed golf tees she has given him.

“That’s Anthony’s favourite photo of himself,” Violet explains. “I thought you would enjoy having a copy for your home together.”

Maybe the third (fourth?) glass of champagne isn't helping, but there’s a bittersweet pang in your chest. Feeling awful the longer the misunderstanding continues, especially with how lovely this all is. Still, you just don't have it in you to admit the truth right now and ruin their Boxing Day after their Christmas was so royally fucked. There is something so irresistible about this lovely, chaotic family and how they have welcomed you with such open arms. It's like a festive hug you don't want to leave.

And that’s without you even noticing that hung at the end of the mantle, next to Anthony’s, is a simple red stocking with your name emblazoned upon it. Good thing, too. You’d probably ugly cry into your Moet, and that would be a real waste.

—

Unbeknownst to you all, right at that very moment, half-buried on a rubbish tip somewhere on the outskirts of London, a mobile phone screen lights up with a notification:

Merry belated, etc. LA is absolutely fab, but cutting my trip short. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… and, okay, sure, why the fuck not? Bridgerton, you are on. l WILL marry you. Sxx

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

49 notes · View notes

shithowdy · 2 days ago

Text

New Vegas Divide and Big MT Locations

A lot of discussions I find on the matter tend to ultimately be met with the answer of, "It's a fake place somewhere in Death Valley, it doesn't matter exactly where". I can understand not needing this information to enjoy the story, but unfortunately, I'm roleplaying a prequel set in 2276 so I want some goddamn specifics 💅

SO. My own speculation on The Divide's more precise location below the cut. Apologies if anyone has supplied this theory before, I got a little tired of browsing reddit threads full of incurious wiki-thumpers.

(tl;dr it's a developed Fort Irwin)

The Divide and the named places in it obviously don't correlate as directly with real locations like the rest of the game, but this makes sense. In a differing timeline where the nuclear arms race seems to have only shifted in players, not ethics, it's easy to imagine that the area surrounding desert military operations and nuclear development sites would grow in importance (I similarly have mentioned Los Alamos being a much bigger city in our RP for the same reason). The Mojave was a hub for nuclear R&D and even today houses one of our warheads, of course it would boom (pun unavoidable). So the first thing I did was ignore cities, even "Ashton". A location named Ashton does exist further north beyond the Nevada border, but nothing about it geographically matches what we interact with in game.

Instead, I thought about the geography itself. What we know about the Divide is that the detonations there made CA-127 unusable, forcing NCR supply chains trying to reach Hoover Dam to enter via the 15 and Mojave Outpost.

We also know it was east of established NCR territory, west of the main NV game map, and north of the 15.

This means its radius is limited to something like this.

Looking at the overlay, and knowing that the "default story" courier had been for some time delivering supplies between the established NCR and Ashton/Hopeville, their route taking them from The Hub (formerly Lancaster), the industrial and trade center of New California, and this new city makes the most sense.

(As an aside, I have to say that I'm very sorry to classic players upset about the map retcon, because that damn geography doesn't even match what the text implies. The Necropolis is Barstow, not Bakersfield?? Anyway.)

Further evidence that the courier's route brought them from the Hub is a note by a merchant from there who appears to have found their old route after the bombs...

... and Nash explaining that the Courier was initially hired at The Hub in the first place, indicating an established presence there.

So we have the general radius. How do we get more specific? What I think a lot of people ignore when trying to pinpoint the area are the quakes set off by the subterranean bombs and the effect they had on the landscape: gaping geological scars that run East-West, indicating a sensitive fault line at this angle.

The immediately clear answer to this was the Ridgecrest fault.

Okay, so we have a good candidate for a fault line. What sits below it? In our timeline, the remote Fort Irwin and its surrounding military desert combat training sites (complete with simulated villages), and the Goldstone site satellite complex. If you were going to use existing infrastructure as building blocks for new and grander development in this region, the roads, electricity, water treatment, and radio towers here would be the ideal choice. Let's see if it lines up.

You know what? I'll take it. A circular central interchange that branches out through mountainous areas situated just below the Ridgecrest fault. So where does that place Big MT? We know it's south of Hopeville, but it can't interfere with I-15. This necessitates an area of (currently) high elevation with caves below surrounded by darker soil, canyon networks, but an otherwise flat landscape somewhere just south of the Divide radius.

Wouldn't you know, there just happens to be a lone mountain that sits atop an opal mine, which in a different timeline could have very easily been converted into a different excavation project. Opal Mountain, or the Black Mountain Wilderness (unrelated), is a perfect match.

So! This is obviously pure speculation based on me having the specific flavor of autism that brews when one grows up having their own brain fried by 120f weather and residual nuclear fallout. I did this for the purpose of RP, but if anyone finds it useful, yippee etc.

#fallout #fnv #lonesome road #old world blues

31 notes · View notes

galahadwilder · 2 days ago

Text

Never Giving Up On You (Blisters and Bedrock)

Chapter 3: All the Ghosts I Carry

This is a preview. Read the full chapter on my AO3!

The other Powder looks wrong in so many ways.

She's skinny, unhealthy skinny, in a way that makes Powder thankful that Ekko and Claggor are always reminding her to eat while she's working. The girl seems to be practically starving herself, leading Powder to wonder if she's got anyone in her universe who cares about her, who takes care of her. She knows so little about this girl, this other her.

Some things, though, are readable on her skin. The network of scars across her arms and exposed midriff speak of shrapnel, of bullet wounds, of electrical burns and worse. The prosthetic middle finger on her left hand indicates a brutality that Powder has never known, never had to fear, not since the Peace began. The tattoos on her arm are old, older than the scars, and Powder wonders who made them for her, and why that person hasn't been feeding her. Or clothing her—all of her clothes are torn, the wrong size, either made for a child or hanging off her like she stole them from someone much, much larger.

Worse, the girl looks sick in every way that someone can look sick. Her skin, instead of Powder's healthy peach, looks almost gray, like all the blood has clotted within her veins. Her excessive mascara does a poor job of hiding the exhaustion bruises under her eyes, the emptiness of her gaze.

Her eyes, though, are the worst part. Powder's eyes are blue. They've always been blue. While Vi inherited their mother's stormy grays, Vander always said that Powder had Connol's eyes. Her father's eyes. This other girl, this... off version of her, has eyes of an impossible sickly pink. They shouldn't look like that. No eyes should look like that.

"Are you real?" the Other Powder rasps, holding her gaze unblinking, with a stare that chills Powder's bones. She's hunched, tense, like she's about to explode into violence at any second.

"I'm real," Powder says. She knows full well how this must look to the Other Powder, knows exactly what she would assume in the same situation. She holds out one hand, palm up. "Here, touch me."

The Other Powder leans forward without moving her feet and sniffs, looking for all the world like a feral cat. Then, much to Powder's surprise, she takes her hand in both hands and licks, rough tongue running up her palm.

"Ugh!" Powder yelps, yanking her hand back. "What the hell?"

The Other Powder smirks. "Just saying hi," she says.

She's starting to understand why Ekko was so scared of her. Everything about the Other Powder screams unstable, like she's a tightly-coiled spring waiting to erupt and stab someone with the end of the curved wire. For the first time, Powder notices the bizarre gun strapped to the Other Powder's leg. How many times has she pulled that trigger? How many people has she used it on?

"I met your Ekko," Powder says. "He seems like a good guy."

The Other Powder rolls her eyes, turning and pacing, flickering between spaces of the Anomaly as her body seems to break down, then snap back into place. "The Boy Savior," she sneers. "Of course perfect, prissy me would like him."

Powder grinds her teeth. "Powder—" she begins—

Only for Other Powder's eyes to snap back to her, her head lolling backward to look. "Jinx," she snaps. "Powder's been dead for years. I’m Jinx.”

You're just a jinx, child Milo says in her ear.

The last thing he'd said to her before Vi—before Vi—

"Why would you willingly call yourself that?"

The Other Po—Jinx—spreads her arms like a circus ringmaster. "Because it's what we are!" she says. "Everyone's favorite bad luck charm, who won't even have the decency to die when she's supposed to!"

Powder gets a sinking feeling. This girl cannot be her. The amount of things that would have to go wrong in her life... the very thought is staggering.

“…Jinx,” Powder says, her voice quiet, “what happened to you?”

Jinx laughs, and there's an unsettling, mirthless hyena quality to her laugh—before, suddenly, she cuts off mid-cackle, her expression dead, her eyes boring into Powder's. "I killed Vander," she says, her voice flat.

Powder's eyes widen as her heart seizes in her chest. Vander? Kind, gentle, fatherly Vander, who'd held her when she had nightmares, who'd opened his home to her when she had nowhere else to go, who'd given her every birthday cake and every kiss goodnight, who always told her he was proud of her and he believed in her, and Jinx had just... killed him?

"And Mylo. And Claggor," the emaciated girl continues. There's no emotion in her voice. It's like she's not even there, not even present in her own body as she speaks.

For a moment, Powder can't breathe, can't find her voice. Losing Vi was hard enough—she doesn't know how she could've survived losing her brothers too. She can see it, Mylo's frantic joy and Claggor's gentle kindness, snuffed out in an instant, taken by flames of electric blue, and her body hollows out at the thought. And for it to be her own fault?

"...Why?" she whispers, through tears, desperately wrapping her arms around her stomach as if it'll stop her insides from escaping. "Why would you...?"

Jinx's eerie, inhuman eyes—previously blank and empty—lock on hers. "Because that's what we do, Pow-pow," she sings. "We kill everyone we love."

"No," Powder whispers.

"It's our fault," Jinx continues in her unnerving sing-song. "Always our fault."

"Your fault," Vi echoes, blood streaming down her face.

"No!" Powder screams, wildly flinging a fist through Vi's face. "It wasn't my—it wasn't my fault!"

Jinx grins savagely. "You hear 'em too?" she says. "Who'd you kill?"

"I didn't kill Vi!" Powder shrieks, and for a moment, she feels her face split into a thousand faces, all screaming at once. "It was an accident!"

Every one of the thousand colors around Jinx suddenly bleeds pink, the same pink as her eyes, and suddenly Jinx is standing in front of her, lifting Powder by a thousand necks forced down into one by her inhuman grip. "You... killed Vi?" Jinx says with a broken voice, naked anguish raw on her face.

Powder struggles in Jinx's grip, barely able to breathe—but part of her notes that Jinx's tears are the same glowing pink as her irises. What—what is she?

“Your Vi,” Powder gasps, scrabbling at the hand on her neck. “She’s… alive?”

There's an indescribable pain in Jinx's eyes, one Powder can't even begin to understand. “…yeah,” Jinx says, blinking away poison tears. “She’s… she’s happy.” She looks down, opening her hand, releasing Powder to drop to whatever surface they're standing on. “I hope she’s happy,” she mumbles.

Everything in Powder stops.

She'd been right. Ekko had known that Vi, that strong, brave woman he'd painted on the walls that Powder had never gotten to see. Vi, somewhere, somehow, had lived.

"Does it matter?" Vi says. "I'm still dead."

No. No, her sister—she cannot stay dead. Powder has spent a month working on this, she's barely slept, she's barely eaten, Vi has been in her ear more and more every day, and it has to have been for something.

"Please," Powder says, climbing to her knees, clasping her hands, begging. "Please, I have to—I have to see her."

Jinx stares down at her, horror in those monstrous, yet somehow innocent eyes.

"Please." Powder sobs. "Bring me back with you. Carry me to Zaun. I need—" Her voice breaks. "I need to see my sister."

"I'm not going back," Jinx says. "I'm not taking you with me. Weren't you listening?" She grabs Powder by the chin. "We kill everything we touch," she growls. "If you want her to stay alive, never ask me to go back again."

Powder feels her chance, maybe her only chance, slipping away. She has to get to Ekko's Zaun. She has to find her sister. She has to get past Jinx, she has to know. She has to know.

She has to see Vi.

"Have fun in your universe," Jinx says, turning, striding towards the edge of the anomaly. "Try not to fuck it up."

"Jinx!" Powder screams, trying to stop her alternate before she vanishes. "Jinx!"

Oh, hell. She's not stopping. Jinx is ignoring her, charging off—she's going to have to do something drastic—

"Felicia!" Powder screams.

The effect on both of them is immediate.

Powder finds herself standing on the bridge again, fire and gas and blood, so small and so scared, Vi's hands covering her eyes, and Powder's heart stops.

But, however bad she has it, Jinx feels it worse. The emaciated girl immediately collapses to her knees and shrieks, a sound of raw and bloody agony tearing itself from her chest. She starts scrabbling, desperately, at the spars of magic that pass by, but each rainbow spike passes through her fingers like ghosts.

Powder forces down the bile in her throat, the rock in her stomach, and drags herself to Jinx, wrapping her arms around the other girl. "Come on," she whispers. "Dear friend, across the river..."

Jinx's fist smashes into her cheek with astounding force, launching Powder a full three feet and filling her vision with stars. When she looks up, Jinx is standing over her, bizarre gun in her hand.

"You're not my fucking mother," Jinx says. "And nobody gets to use my real name. Not even you."

Powder grins weakly, even though the very act sends daggers through the cheek Jinx struck. "Got you to stop, didn't I?" she says.

Jinx glares at her. "You're just like Vi," she says.

Then she jams her gun into Powder's gut and pulls the trigger.

Electricity courses through Powder's body like copper-hot fire, her muscles all seizing at once, dropping her to the nonexistent ground as every limb locks up in agony. She barely sees Jinx sneer at her as she turns and leaps out of the Anomaly-space, as the whole space begins to collapse.

The last thing she thinks before she blacks out is, Her gun was nonlethal?

@embershroud108 @mellkellyismyhero @echo-has-queries @citizensun @unhingedaccuracy @something-broken-failing-rotting @chaoticpinetree @jaijeijayjei @robylovi @darlingitsagathaharkness

#arcane #jinx #jinx arcane #original content #my fic #au powder #powder #powder arcane #ekkojinx #timebomb #caitvi #caitlyn kiramman #piltover's finest #ekko #ekko arcane #vi #vi arcane #pretend like its the first time

35 notes · View notes

dramaticallytotal · 2 days ago

Text

Accidentally Popular Headcanons: Part One

I decided to share headcanons for all my current ideas from my pinned:

List of Ideas/AUs.

Starting with Accidentally Popular since it was my first idea on here, I wanted to show it love! Yes, I will be going down my list alphabetically.

• As mentioned in the original idea post, Noah has learned to be less blunt due to his work as Chris's assistant and the unpaid and untitled production assistant. He constantly has to communicate with people, and he learned fast that being as blunt and sarcastic as he usually was was not helpful. This also helped him be more considerate when the staff or interns were having problems.

This whole experience was basically social skills training for him because in every au of mine, Noah had high functioning autism.

• Also, because of working for Chris for two years now, Noah's physique has changed from lanky to lithe. The amount of lifting, walking, occasionally running, and animal wrangling had him gaining muscle. But also Chris and Chef taking Noah out to eat a lot has helped him gain weight.

• He's still lazy, though. Of it was a choice to do something active or laze around. He will absolutely choose to laze.

• The interns and crew all respect him, even the older ones. He treats them like actual human beings, and they are endeared by him. Even with all the snark and sarcasm.

• They are also very protective of him.

• He implemented a new saying at work, completely on accident, but now everyone uses it to talk through things. It's: "I recognize and acknowledge that you're upset, I just don't understand why?"

HR bought him a cake because this helped stop arguments and bigger problems from happening.

• He has an IQ of 180 and an eidetic memory (Traits based off Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds. Y'all lucky. I almost made him OP and have Peter Parker's IQ of 250.)

• Chris introduces Noah to new people and says, "And this is my personal assistant Noah," which is the equivalent of a parent introducing their kid like "and this is my kid, Noah."

• Noah is called Boss by everyone, but when he's not around, he's called McLean Jr. or Baby McLean, especially when he ditches the sweater vest and is just in his button-up and undershirt.

• When the filming for the new season starts and the interns are already losing stuff and things are only on schedule because Noah emailed everyone an itinerary before he was "fired", Chris had to pull out the big guns. He told the crew and interns, if he saw them making mistakes or anything like that, "Noah would be very disappointed in you." And he laughs every time it works.

That is until Chef said it to him, and he immediately felt guilty about what he was doing. How dare his husband use his words against him!?

• Noah calculated how long things would fall apart without him once the season started and how long it would take before the producers and execs were begging for him to come back. He also calculated exactly when he should get himself eliminated so the producers and execs could get a feel of the dumpster fire that was their company without him and hopefully his efforts would get him a raise included with new pay and a title change to production assistant officially.

• As said before, Noah thought he would stick to Team E-Scope and Owen as his friends in the competition, but accidentally became friends with almost everyone on the plane. Which ends up messing with Alejandro's game and strategy. But he saw how popular Noah was and decided the best course of action was to become his friend until the time came to get rid of him.

• Alejandro and Heather fully believe Noah is just playing the game and creating alliances left and right.

• Noah is just accidentally clicking with people and solving problems. His whole job was literally solving problems or being prepared before problems happened. He sees a problem and, on reflex, has to solve it. Even if it's an emotional problem!

Like Tyler being said that Lindsay forgot him and how each time he failed to get her attention or for her to remember him, the more it hurt. He didn't really have advice, but he listened, and Tyler really appreciated that. Noah listened because the situation made him think of his sister Nadia, who had been seeing a guy, and she really liked him, and then out of nowhere, the guy ghosted her. Turns out they guy had a girlfriend and she had been close to finding out he was cheating (she found out anyway because eleven year old Noah let her know.) The situations were very different but similar enough that it caught Noah's attention so he sat to listen. Noah also may have out loud theorized that she was acting (she is), and thankfully, the cameras weren't on when he did because they were under contract not to reveal any deals they had with the show or talk about them in any way on camera.

Of course, Tyler believes him about Lindsay acting because Noah is the smartest guy he knows. This makes him feel loads better, and he still tries to get Lindsay's attention and memory on him, but now he's playing it up. If his girl can act her heart out, he can, too!

Also, when he doesn't understand something, he asks Noah. His new bro is teaching him so much!

• Noah connects with Bridgette because she was having a rough day of missing Geoff (when she wasn't being flirted with by Alejandro), and her expression just reminded Noah so much of his older sister Neelima and an intern names Stacy. Both of which are in long-distance relationships. He remembered the advice Neelima gave to him when he complained one night about how sad Stacy was about being long-distance and how it was affecting work. Neelima suggested he give Stacy the idea of writing letters to her girlfriend. Neelima swore it helped with her and her boyfriend and that there was just something about physically writing a letter and sending it out and getting one in return.

So Noah suggested this again to Bridgette and awkwardly added, "You can't send them now, but think of how happy Geoff will be when you give him a stack of letters when you see him next."

She's so excited that she gets started right away. Somehow, this idea led to her not being taken in by Alejandro. Instead, she gushes about Geoff to him and how they'd get along so well.

Alejandro counts this as another moment of Noah thwarting his plans.

That clever minx!

• This happens with basically the whole cast except Harold and Sierra.

• The crew and interns don't help Noah cheat by any means, but they do slip him little luxuries. Like how he gets extra blankets in first class that are weighted or heated. The extensive library in first class was Chris's idea. Somehow, his food is better than everyone else's, but not that they notice. Chef purposefully makes it look unappealing like the rest. In economy class, he somehow always ends up with the most comfortable pillow. (Yes, economy gets the single luxury of lumpy pillows... except Noah.

For stunts, Noah always ends up safe and relatively scratch or bruise free.

Little things that others don't notice.

• Noah regularly falls asleep in the cockpit with Chef. It's one of the only places that is quiet enough and one of the only places he feels safe enough to fall asleep without worrying about the show.

• Noah's still a snarky asshole but once he accidentally befriends everyone, they're like, "Yeah, but he's my/our snarky asshole."

• Owen is happy his little buddy is making more friends, but Eva and Izzy are a little jealous. Not that they'd ever admit it, though.

• Chris accidentally called Noah son during a challenge, and it's basically that one BB9 scene but reverse. (Noah gives me Kevin vibes funny enough.)

• Noah does help DJ with his curse in this au like a couple others, but while those started out as schemes, this one is genuine because DJ being so superstitious reminds Noah of his sister Nadia. He gives him the salt cleansing and the Araignan Kayiru (black thread) to which DJ is eternally grateful.

Heather and Alejandro curse at another pawn being taken from them. All the while, DJ now is very protective of Noah and starts to see him as a little brother. The two bond over their love of their family, and DJ can't wait to introduce Noah more formally to his mama.

47 notes · View notes

jks1uv · 3 days ago

Text

𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 ; jack reacher | one-shot |

summary: one eventful night brings you closer to your gentle giant.

pairing: fem!reader x alan ritchson!jack reacher.

trope: skilled ex-military man meets ordinary civilian & they fall in love while on a dangerous mission.

genre: fluff + slow-burn romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + mentions of blood + mentions of violence (a bar fight but nun too graphic) + patching up wounds + a kiss scene + my first time writing / describing tension & i tried my best so i’m very sorry if it’s a flop 😭 + things get a lil… heated (🌚) but it’s still sfw for the most part!

word count: 1,395.

────♡♡♡────

It’s quiet.

The only sources of sound are the crickets chirping outside and the occasional crack and snap of a worn out engine in an old ass vehicle.

You’ve washed your face and changed into some pajama pants and a tank top. You're sat atop your and Reacher's shared bed in some 3 star hotel room, wondering how fucked up tonight got.

It was supposed to be a simple stakeout. You and Reacher were meeting with someone at a bar a little outside of Margrave.

But of course, shit hit the fan as soon as possible.

You were drinking a soda, waiting on Reacher to finish conducting his little interview when jackass and friends came over.

“Why you drinkin’ all by your lonesome, hun?”

You act deaf but that just pissed them off.

“Hey. You fuckin’ deaf or somethin’?”

You look at them sideways which makes them laugh and oddly enough, think you’re playing hard to get.

“Come on now, baby, don’t be like that.”

“Yeahh, we could show you a real good time.”

The one that looks like the leader of the trio winks at you and you just can’t stand it anymore.

You pay for your soda, get off the stool and turn around to walk away when one of the 3 stooges grab your wrist, causing you to be yanked back.

“What the fuck-?!”

“Where you goin’?” He doesn’t sound so pleased but you don’t give a fuck.

You punch the guy restraining you in the nose, hard.

“You fuckin’ bitch.”

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

You blink and feel yourself being shielded.

Reacher.

You feel his large hand on your arm, maneuvering you behind him as he takes on the 3 short and scrawny (compared to mountain man over here) bastards quite easily.

Obviously, it’s not a bar fight without somebody playing dirty and pulling out a weapon at their convenience, and that’s exactly what happened!

Reacher is nicked along the lines of his abs before he snaps the guy’s wrist, jamming the knife into the other dude’s shoulder.

You wince and look away.

Reacher rounds up the last dickhead and turns his lights off (temporarily) before you both skedaddle outta there.

And now you’re here.

Reacher opens the bathroom door to let some steam out, you observe his shirtless and injured state.

“Reacher...” Your guilt shows.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. I was just doing-”

“Please don’t say ‘your job’.”

He looks at you with an amused smile. The mountain man takes out the first aid kit and starts disinfecting his wounds.

You walk over and sit beside him on the counter, taking the alcohol soaked cotton ball and dab it gently.

It’s quiet again for a few minutes, no sign of awkward silence.

It’s strange, you didn’t even know this man a few weeks prior and now you’re cleaning his wounds. Not to mention, you’ve never seen the guy half-naked before and hot damn is he built like a Greek God. You’re basically heating up! (from the steam, of course...)

“It doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches, right?”

Reacher’s too busy staring at you. Your fixated eyes, your furrowed brows in concentration. He lowers his eyes towards your lips, slightly bitten in focus.

“Reacher?” You blink up at him.

“No.”

The husk in his voice catches you off guard. You gulp harshly, focusing back on the task at hand.

“You didn’t have to go that hard, you know.” You change the topic, dismissing the almost electric atmosphere.

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog.

“Those bastards were giving you shit, so I handled it.” He says it with such clarity that you’d think it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shake your head playfully, a smile tugging at your lips from his show of ferocity for you.

“And I appreciate it, I do.”

“I sense a rebuttal.” He quips.

You laugh through your nose. “I just wanted to say that despite your valiant efforts,” You pause to press a bandaid on his abs.

“Uh huh.”

“I was doing just fine.”

“That you were.” He agrees.

He says it like he’s proud, like he’s so relieved to see you have your own back and toughen up when it’s time.

You know the world is a cruel place and that sometimes, only the strong survive. But you proved your strength and he recognizes it.

You meet his eyes and see him staring back into them. You see the different shade of blue in this light and angle; a dimly lit orange hue casts a nice glow onto his freshly shaved, chiseled face.

“I never noticed the many,” He inhales. “Freckles and moles and little scars on your face.”

“Now that I think about it, your nose is kind of big.” You humor him.

He squints his eyes playfully.

You really hope he picks up on the fact that you’re flirting. You want him to break the ice; to make the first move but would he be so willing? You think he’d be a tease and let you grow frustrated before appeasing.

“What are you thinking about?”

His hand comes up to rub the ends of some strands of your hair together, liking the softness of it.

“You.” You boldly answer.

He raises an eyebrow at your declaration. “What about me?”

There’s that voice again, god. The low timbre with the breathy whisper.

The smell of wood and cologne, everything clouds your senses.

Your breathing quickens just a tad when you feel the feathery touch from his fingers touch the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. You wore the tank top because you were comfortable but now you applaud yourself for the smart choice.

He inches closer and closer; you could just push yourself up on your heels and meet him halfway. Your eyelids flutter, fighting the battle between closing them to enjoy the moment or keeping them open to see the suspense.

Will he? Won't he?

Suddenly, he leans back with a tube of Neosporin, screwing the cap back on. Your eyes open up and he stares down at the tube, pretending he wasn't just about to indulge you in your wildest fantasies.

“Really.”

You know he knows, but he just has to be a teasing little shit about it.

His face cracks and his lips split open to reveal the most beautiful smile; it makes you smile a little, too.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop.” He croons.

He leans forward and grips the countertop, trapping you between him. His gaze dart around your face before landing on your lips. He takes a deep breath.

“Can I-”

“Yes!” You pull his face in with both hands, not wasting any more time.

He laughs into your mouth and you find yourself wanting to hear more of it.

You’re lifted from the countertop with such ease, you’re reminded of his strength. Time and time again, his strength makes an appearance and you can’t help your attraction.

Reacher’s hands squeeze at your hips when you lick his bottom lip, wanting a little taste of something more. He nips at your throat, leaving love bites messily across your neck and soothing the painful pleasure with the coolness of his tongue.

You bring him back to you and kiss him with tongue and teeth, feeling your nerves on fire and your heart about to burst.

He groans when your legs tighten around his core. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”

You giggle at the that and think about teasing but your resolve is weak when he lays you down on the bed.

You see a sparkle in his eyes, the kind that hypnotizes you; makes you want to swim in the turquoise waters of his mind.

“I’m so down bad for you.” You softly admit.

Your hands are in his hair, softly toying with the brown strands.

He kisses you with such fervor, you can feel everything he’s ever wanted to say. You can feel his desperation, his devotion, his care for you. You feel the longing in the way he holds you, in the way he kisses you soft and slow. He pours his emotions into the searing kiss and you can cry from joy.

To know someone cares for you as much as you do for them is rare, but never not found.

40 notes · View notes