#not to mention that chase was the first to be hired

[rantingwhileraving]

the fact that some people genuinely believe chase only got his job bc of his dad calling in a favour baffles me

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegaverse, omega reader, careless alpha husband, marriage problems, poor communication

♡ GN reader

He’s a little reckless sometimes—not always paying attention to the feelings of those around him, but he means well, you’re sure of that.

He’s just a little high-strung, is all—doesn’t really have the time to think things through.

He’s always been like that—ready for just about anything and everything anyone would throw his way, and just sort of expecting everyone else to be onboard. He’s an Alpha, after all—it’s not in their nature to worry or look back.

All your life, he’s been the leader—all you others could do was chase after him and just hope on your life to keep up. And as an Omega, you were comfortable like that—with having someone to follow. It felt natural to you—safe and good and correct.

But when he started courting you, you admit being a bit skeptical—weren’t sure if it would work the same way, not sure if it even could. Being mates is different, after all. You’re supposed to be in tune with one another, and you weren’t sure if you’d be heard or just end up being bulldozed.

But you figured, since you weren’t too big on making decisions anyway, that you’d just go along with it, and it would be fine. You’d put your trust in him and follow his lead, and maybe that would be enough.

And it was. Everything worked out perfectly—for the most part. You married in the spring and moved into your new house the day after. He’s a good husband and nice man, deserving of the respect he garners, and he’s successful. A true Alpha. Perfect on all fronts.

What more could an Omega ask for?

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[turquoizxe]

𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬

Sevika x Piltover!Fem!Reader

content ― one-shot; hatefucking, "til' the room stank", light pain kink, degradation, some biting, the reader is also bratty highkey, smut, overstim, fingering, strap, pillow talk, mentions of possible feelings, Sevika is down bad for you, #needdat #realbad

author's note ― this was supposed to be a small < 500 word drabble, but ovulation had other plans. enjoy!

wc ― 2.445k

You didn't have it in you to give up whatever this was. It felt too good. She wanted to hate your guts, ruin you, and deprive you of any happiness that she thought you didn't deserve. But I guess other plans were written on the cards.

Thoughts about how you were, how you felt ― it plagued every corner of her brain. And even you didn't understand how much she needed you.

Despite you being from Piltover, your parents were from Zaun. And due to your luck, your family had somehow found themselves outside of poverty. The unfortunate thing is that their corrupt principles still remained despite being surrounded by riches; It in fact made it worse.

Politics was always a rough issue at the dinner table, and you had your opinions about the council. You'd be lying if their narcissism didn't rub off on you quite a bit, and Sevika could tell from miles away that you'd be a problem.

Despite your background and upbringing in Piltover, you and your friends would sneak out to Zaun on more than one occasion. Your parents were unaware that you had as many connections to Zaun as they did, and possibly even more. You'd often run into Sevika more often than she'd like to. Your favorite interaction being within the brothel.

Silco had recently hired you and asked you to find Sevika, who hadn't known that you had become a partner in their line of work. She was often seen at The Last Drop when she was on downtime. You knew her features all too well, and it'd be nice to greet her with your lovely face.

You didn't think she would be able to fuck as good as she looked. While it had been made to your knowledge that she was also a regular at the Brothel, you had been browsing, the familiar voice had echoed. And you hated admitting to yourself how her baritone and shaken up the core inside you. You were gone before you could even make an attempt to find a partner that night. And you couldn't help but hear the filthy words that left her lips every time you had to interact with her.

"That pretty little cunt is mine, isn't it?"

God, you hoped those thoughts didn't chase through you with every moment she spoke with you. Once you started working together more, the tension got stronger, and neither of you could pinpoint when and where it started. But you knew what strengthened it. Your quick wit and smart mouth kept her entertained, and some days she wondered how the hell you didn't end up in this line of work sooner.

Your involvement with Zaun made her feel like the mission was being prolonged with your presence, and she made it known with every passing moment the aversion she had reserved for you. You'd believe it if she spent less time staring at your ass when you were tweaking with her mechanical arm.

The small audience that knew of your partnership was often left in question, as they couldn't describe the relationship you had with one another. And fondness wasn't a word they would state it as.

The seamless flirting felt so harmless at first, the prolonged stares. She could tell how she made you feel, and she always refrained from acknowledging it because she wants to fuck you more than she hates you.

And she couldn't tell if that hate was mutual when all you did was toy with her when under pressure. And finally, she gave in to what she knew you both wanted.

You two got caught up when you started bringing up your parents and your involvement with Zaun. You had spent so much time trying to convince her that this wasn't some sort of savior complex moment for you. You had known better than to engage with someone of her stature. You'd be as good as dead. Sevika was impressed with your combat skills, but that fell short once your teeth sunk into her skin. The lust that clouded her eyes was clear as day in yours.

You knew better than to use Silco's desk for anything other than work, but neither cared enough about him to consider that.

You had Sevika right where you wanted her.

Her mechanical arm had you pinned upon Silco's desk. Your breasts were on display, riddled with bites and hickeys; Your bottoms dangled over your ankles, and your undergarments were barely recognizable after Sevika tore them. And you whined under her so desperately.

"What happened to that shit you were talkin' earlier, huh?" She scoffed, her fingers working inside your walls, eager to pull more cries from you. It was embarrassing for her to admit how much pleasure she derived from you crying like a bitch in heat.

You had stopped counting how many times she had made you come at this point. It was constant teasing and banter until you took it upon yourself to rile her up.

"Fuckin' brat, I just knew you'd break.." Her wrist flicked up, her strong arm adjusting your bottom half. The pressure on your clit only intensified once she realized the change in her angle led to finding your spot.

She had slowed down her movements to get a better look at you, and going only slower every time you averted your gaze. She looked down, your fluids soaking her palm. She let out an audible moan when she slowed down to take a better look at the white ring that was forming around her fingers that prodded you. If Sevika knew anything, you hated when she got under your skin, but how much does that matter when she's already gotten in your pants?

Sevika leans forward, peppering kisses across your chest, soothing the love bites she left behind on your neck, leading up to your ear as your body arches to feel her, yearning to be closer. Her breath ghosted over your ear, softly biting the skin. She slowly lifts her body so she can see the torment in your eyes.

"Look at me when you come, doll."

You cried out, tears welling up in your eyes. It was hard for you to form words, incoherent mumbles, and uneven breaths. You were only able to form a string of "fuck" as she abused your puffy clit. Your mind was clouded by lust and yet despite the knot in your stomach once again creating and becoming painful; You took it upon yourself to move your hips to meet the thrusts of her digits.

Sevika clicked her tongue before removing her fingers from your cunt, your remnants coating her fingers and desk. She backs away and turns away from you, wandering off to a dark corner of the office. A loud groan of frustration falls from your lips. Despite your body being pushed to its limits, you felt you could come for her once more than the last. You couldn't remember the last time anyone has fucked you that good, or if anyone even has until she strolled along.

"Following the rules seems to be a tough concept for you."

"You're such an ass" you sneer, sitting up. Your partner seemed to have stopped entertaining you, your hands finding their way to your pussy, frantically searching for its release. Much to your dismay, Sevika was not far away enough to not hear the cries of your pussy.

"I didn't say you could touch yourself."

"Not like you're doing it", you heave. A strong hand had taken hold of yours, halting your movements. You had been too busy trying to chase another orgasm, you hadn't realized Sevika's strap-on was excited to greet you― a thin layer of lube covering it. As prepped as you were, neither of you doubted you took whatever she gave you.

Sevika's stature was much larger than the average woman's, and she could tell how much you enjoyed feeling small under her with every moment she took to hover over you. While her mechanical arm held you up, firmly grasping your ass, the sharp metal, left small scratches on your backside, while her other hand ghosted over your thigh, her orbs remaining on yours. Your bottom lip stuck between your teeth to stifle a moan. You didn't think you'd become much weaker under her than you did at that moment.

Sevika had you right where she wanted you.

You both leaned forward, your chests heaving against each other, and were enveloped in what would be your first kiss. You were messy, and she adored you. Her tongue quickly found its way into your mouth, your lips softly suckling on the flesh as your hips started to grind against her, craving for Sevika to use her toy. She quickly took that into account, but she still had a sliver of pettiness within her.

"Sev..." drawls from your lips. Your only support is your arms upon Silco's desk as Sevika has her bionic arm grasping under you, her other hand wrapped around your neck, forcing you to look at her as she slowly inserts herself inside. Despite your slick being noticeably scattered across Sevika's hands and Silco's desk, you couldn't remember the last time you had something so big inside you. She pushed further, her thumb caressing your cheek, still holding your neck to see you lose any form of restraint you have left.

Sevika had finally removed her hand from your neck, retreating back to your breasts, pinching your nipples between her fingers. Once her length bottomed out, a gasp forced out of you from the sudden probe. Sevika grunts, your weight causing the friction against her clit. Your head flung back, white was the only thing you could see. You could feel the head of her strap probe at your spot once again.

"So fucking sexy...you're mine aren't you?"

You weakly moaned out a yes, too fucked out to even think of a witty comeback. Seeing you this fucked out was a dream before her eyes. Ever since she saw you catch a glimpse of her animosity at the brothel, she had only wondered how much of a beating you could take when she took you to pound town. She placed both of her hands on your hips, a grasp so powerful, that you were more than sure they would leave marks more than she already has.

You felt her hips rut against you, the guttural moan that erupted from your throat felt almost embarrassing. It was unfortunate for you that this was the calm before the storm. Still, Sevika searched your eyes before escalating.

She placed her hand on your stomach, where you could feel her with every thrust, you felt the knot forming faster than you'd had hoped. Your legs had begun to shake, tears prickling at your cheeks once again after Sevika's thumb applies pressure to your clit for the umpteenth time. You felt her bionic arm exert a warm sensation beneath you, only heightening your sensitivity.

"I thought you said you could take it? Be a good little bitch like I told you to."

The grip she had on your hips only tightened, the fervor in her ruts only reaching desperate heights, chasing her own orgasm. Seeing you coming undone like this was heavenly, and she'll never let you live this down.

The sweat beads formed on your forehead, and your body felt like it was on fire. You were reaching the edge, your hips quickly finding Sevika's rhythm, eager to reach ecstasy with her. Your hand intertwined with hers, your gaze never leaving her orbs as you witnessed her coming undone.

She didn't need to be told much else, as you hadn't been able to form coherent sentences after your first nut.

"ah..Sev― I'm gonna"

"Fucking do it", she commands, landing another bite on your neck as you both reached your climax. Her hips hadn't shown any signs of stopping, but her intensity decreased as she guided you through your orgasm.

You were already thinking about the next time she would tear your shit up like this. I think the passions you shared would only be the beginning of a unique relationship.

"Thaaaat's it baby..", she coos, landing kisses on your temple before placing a final one on your lips again. You both moaned at the sight of the aftermath, slowly pulling herself out of you. Her strap coated in your juices, your chest rising, a small chuckle leaving your lips admiring the mess you made. Sevika cackles weakly. She was still working on catching her breath from your physical activity.

Sevika's bionic arm squeaks, some steam erupting from the device. It seems like her new adjustments cause some overheating when exerted too much.

"I can take care of that", you motion toward her arm, slowly walking over to your toolbox, careful not to embarrass yourself from the short distance to acquire your items. From your peripheral, you could see Sevika's smirk, taking amusement from watching you struggle to make it. You finally make it, picking up the heavy box. Sevika took it upon herself to carry you back over to the chair across from the desk.

You took some time to gather yourself while Sevika cleaned up the desk, cautious to make it look as if nothing had taken place moments prior.

Afterward, she plopped next to you, putting her arm on display as you removed her vials.

Despite her ruining you just minutes prior, an awkward silence fell between the two of you. While it started rough, the displays of affection made it feel as if there was something else to explore further.

"Soo..." you start. You could feel her gaze upon you, likely wondering the same thing.

"I'd like to think whatever this is may be worth exploring."

Even if it remained this way, you wouldn't mind, but the moments when you both could hold a conversation, there was something else lingering in the air.

Sevika didn't know how to feel― this was beyond lust, but she didn't want to put other labels on it unless she knew for sure.

"I wouldn't mind exploring this with you", she admits, her hand caressing your thigh, your muscles loosen after the assurance from her, continuing to fix her arm. A small smile forms on your lips, and Sevika follows, averting your gaze. You were eager to tease her again, but that wasn't until Silco walked through the door.

The both of you looked in his direction. While his room looked the same as he left it, he couldn't ignore the stench that invaded his nostrils, including the state of your clothing, the only thing covering you being her cloak. You both felt the glares on you, his teeth gritting through his words of frustration.

"Fucking degenerates.."

― turquoizxe

[starry-bi-sky]

Danielle and Danyal's meeting... very, very quickly goes very sour from, basically, the moment Danny steps into his room and finds Ellie sitting on his bed (strike one) and reading the comic books Tucker introduced him to (strike two). By the time she's looked up to address him, Danny has the door locked, and a hand hovering near the knife hidden under his shirt.

She gets her third strike when Danny, in a voice that could make the mountains tremble, demands to know how she got into his room, and she lies (with uncertainty of her decision growing in her chest) that Jazz let her in. Danny's hand shifts closer to his weapon, and he turns towards her fully, and says that Jazz would never let someone he didn’t know into his room, and who was she.

(Vlad Masters had underprepared Danielle for her meeting with Danny -- not out of any completely direct malicious intent, but he failed to mention just how... 'touchy' Daniel could be -- he failed to mention the scars littering up his arms, unhidden by the hoodie tee he meets Ellie in. He failed to mention that along with those scars, that Danny was visibly lean, capable of doing very real damage without the use of his powers.)

(He tells Ellie that he’s adopted, and that he is observant and clever, but ungrateful and has a bad attitude.)

Her final strike occurs when Ellie, trying to keep her facade of cheeriness, tells him that she’s his third cousin once removed. Immediately, Danny has his dagger pulled out, and Ellie finds herself with the cold metal of a blade pressing against her throat.

Danyal 'A.G' Fenton hasn’t killed since he arrived in Amity Park. At first it was because mother told him to keep a low profile, and killing would do the opposite of that. But, he's been slowly learning from his sister and friends over the years the value of human life. So it's become a combination of keeping his head down, and also that life has value to it.

But. That doesn’t mean he can’t kill, nor is he opposed to doing it if the situation calls for it. It just means that he doesn't do it. And ‘Danielle’ is an unknown in his room, claiming to be family to him, and appearing uncannily similar to him and his family. Either someone hired her and she was trying to pass herself off as a relative to him because that someone realized Danny was the biggest threat, or, his false death has been compromised, his mother was unable to tell him, and the league was aware he was alive.

No matter how he looks at it, this Danielle was a threat to him, his sister, his friends, to Damian, and to the Drs. Fenton. Danyal Fenton doesn't kill, but he has no problems doing so.

(Ellie, pinned under Danny’s knee and the blade to her neck, is too terrified to think of phasing out of his hold. Not that it would help, he would just chase after her.)

“You have broken into my home, dared to lie to my face, and when I demanded to know the truth, you dared lie to me again." Danny's scowl could cower even Skulker, his glacier blue eyes burning. "Your continual breath has been a favor from me, that I have graciously allowed, from the moment you entered my room, dahkil."

"So I will ask one more time," he hisses, "who. are. you."

Danielle, only a few months old, unprepared for the ice storm that is "Daniel" Fenton, and his clone in only flesh and blood, and not memories, immediately breaks. And tells him that she was his clone, that Vlad sent her to come capture him, and to please not kill her.

Danny's face twists with anger, Ellie thinks he's going to kill her anyways. Instead, he withdraws his knife and gets off her, stringing out curses in Arabic as he sheathes his weapon back into its hiding place faster than Ellie can blink.

He switches to English as she is collecting her bearings (and contemplating fleeing), and Danny paces the room like a tiger in a cage. "--of course that wretched, arrogant, peacocking little ingrate would do something so infuriating. I should have driven my sword into the shrivel of his heart when I had the chance--"

Ellie, for a moment, thinks of leaving while he is distracted. And starts to slowly creep away. But Danny notices instantly, and whirls on her. His too-bright eyes bore into her head: "Where do you think you're going."

"...I'm leaving."

And Danny scoffs at her, "Why? So you can fly back to Masters and tell him that you failed to capture me, and that I know that he cloned me?" He says, and Ellie remains silent -- that's exactly what she was going to do. "He will destroy you within seconds."

Of course, Ellie rears back in offense, and she finds the footing to glare at him. "He would not! He's my dad, he loves me!"

Danny gets in her face, glowering back with an equal intensity. "He does not." He snaps, "Vlad Masters has not a soul in his body nor a heart in his chest. He would sooner cut off the hand that helps him stand, than to take it along with him."

"If you're really made of my blood, then I will teach you only this: we bow not our heads nor our hearts to anyone." Danny's too-blue eyes narrow, and his voice dips into a hiss, "Especially not to a conniving snake like Masters. Your heart: cut it off, or cut it out. He will sooner leave you to bleed."

Then, he unlocks the door and drags her out before she has much time to act. And as he drags her down the hall he shoots Sam and Tucker a text, and they meet up at Nasty Burger. Ellie is a spitfire, but Danny has her too intimidated to leave.

"This is Danielle," he tells them bluntly as he corners her into the booth, "she's my clone. Masters created her."

Ellie is with them for a week, and somehow throughout that time, Danny manages to actually get her to like him throughout that time. He's callous, blunt, and full of sharp edges that you can cut yourself on. But when he's not spitting venom, he's fretting.

When he drags her back to the house after being with Sam and Tucker, he pulls her to Jazz's room and opens the door to tell her the same thing. "This is Danielle." He says upon abruptly opening the door, interrupting Jazz's studying as he pulls Ellie inside. "She is my clone, Masters created her. She needs clothes."

Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Ellie, in that moment, thinks that now's her chance to flee. But Jazz then squeals, and she is trapped in new arms, shaken around by Jazz Fenton, excited for a sister.

(Ellie finds herself complaining to Jazz that night, shoved into old pajamas. She's in utter disbelief that Jazz could care about a jerk like Danny.)

("He's rough around the edges, but Danny does care." Jazz tells her, combing through her hair with her fingers. "We've been working on it ever since he joined the family, but Danny warms up slowly. He's usually less stoney; I think your arrival spooked him.")

("Spooked him?" Ellie repeats, she doesn't believe it at all. "He has a funny way of showing it, he threatened to kill me!" And she turns around just in time to see Jazz's press her lips into a line.)

("He's... very protective. He'll deny if you ask him, but he worries a lot." Jazz's fingers find her hair again. "What I do know for certain though, is that he wouldn't have kept you here if he wasn't worried about you at least a little bit.")

(Ellie doubts it.)

But Ellie is indeed there for a week, and the day after her initially rocky introduction with Danny, he is a little bit kinder to her. Still kinda a bitch, but he's less harsh to her, if... almost uncomfortable around her. Flighty, kinda.

Whenever she gets mouthy at him though, he looks oddly smug about it and, infuriatingly enough, praises her attitude. He is very, very annoying. And still kinda terrifying. But hearing him shout insults via puns at someone during a ghost fight that happens that week lessens the intimidating factor,,, a little bit.

Things go about,,,, relatively,,,, similar to canon. In the sense that it ends with Ellie defecting from Vlad because she finds out that Danny was right and that Vlad didn't actually care about her. (And that Jazz had been right too; Danny, in his weird, mean way, had been worried about her as well)

Danny looks out of his depth as she talks about how he was right, and he cuts her off with a vaguely uncomfortable clearing of his throat. And gives her the most awkward, but genuine apology he can muster.

"I should've used more tact when telling you about Masters, and I... apologize for threatening you when we met. I was..." he makes a face like he's sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "worried. First about my family, and then later about you."

(Ellie will be damned: Jazz was right)

Before Ellie leaves, Danny puts a hand on her shoulder and tells her: "I wasn't kidding about what I said to you when we first met: you are of my blood, and as such, you do not bow your head nor your heart to anyone."

Ellie looks at him, thinks about the last week, and smiles like she's caught him in a trap. "What about Sam and Tucker then? And Jazz?"

Danny smiles, it's awkward and tilted, like his face isn't used to the gesture. "We bow not our hearts, but that doesn't mean we can't share."

[realcube]

— mall security! toji who coudln't care less about people shoplifiting.. until he meets you.

tw & tags ;; klepto! reader x security! toji. degredation. power imbalances. implied age gap. vaginal fingering. mentions of anal play. tit play. unhinged. p with NO plot.

why did he even bother attending such a banal and 'wet blanket' style job? well, he needed the fucking money. but they couldn't force him to be good at it or even try; they gave him the job without a second thought because he visually appears like an adept candidate. unfortunately the mall hiring team didn't probe any further, otherwise they would've realised how unsuitable he is for such a position.

he made it clear on several occasions he wasn't going to concern himself with chasing petty thieves. not only is it below him, but if he figured that if someone is so broke that they need to steal from a cheap ass mall, they probably need whatever it is that they are taking. so he never bothered to confront people, even when he knew for a fact they were stealing.

that is, until he first laid eyes upon you.

and he could instantly recognise your type: innocent and sweet-looking girl who wears pretty dresses and the most feminine hairstyles. who has such kind eyes and even smells like the embodiment of an angel. yet when no one is looking, you'll slip a nail polish into your pocket, or allow a chapstick to 'accidentally' fall into your purse.

albeit, when he initially saw you, he was moreso ogling at your perky ass in your dress and watching your plush thighs rub together as you walk, but during his lecherous staring sessions, he also happened to pick up on your thieving habits.

maybe you femininity and wholesomeness wasn't necessarily a charade, but you certainly did use it as a defensive mechanism and a way to mask your true intentions. toji realised this as he watched you exit a jewellry store, still wearing a designer ring which you didn't pay for; one of his try-hard colleagues approaches you as you are leaving, and accuses you of stealing the ring. but he cannot even finish his sentence before the waterworks begin, and you are gently sobbing into the sleeve of your jumper and apologising profusely, claiming that it wasn't on purpose and you had simply forgotten to take it off after trying it on. in your squeaky voice, you hiccup and plead that he doesn't arrest you for your terrible act of thoughtlessness.

the other customers and even the jewellry store manager begin to rally around you and chastise the security guard for even implying that a sweet girl such as yourself would ever do such a thing. because why would a shy, docile girl like yourself even think of shoplifting?! it doesn't make it any sense, so clearly he was just some mean bully on a power trip that got-off on victimising young women. the people around you console you, while the secruity guard is scorned for attempting to do this job.

usually toji couldn't give less of a fuck about what happens at his shitty day job, but this scene happened to pique his interest. because he knew for a fact you intended to steal that ring; there was not a doubt in his mind. the reason he was so certain was that he's seen you do it a million times before. you were a certified kleptomaniac. but since it was none of his business, toji never mentioned it before.

however, seeing your reaction and defense to be confronted about your shoplifting by the other security guard intrigued him. you clearly had experience in guilt-tripping the people around you and feigning innocence. you were almost too good at it.

admittedly, toji wanted to try — he wanted to see if he could make a crack in that perfect little facade of yours. perhaps it was just his affinity for humbling spoiled brats, but he wanted to sort you out himself. so, he did.

the next day, he watches you like a hawk. he probably looked like a massive creep staring down a younger girl as she (seemingly) innocuously perused the aisles of a make-up store. but his keen eye wasn't just fixed on your tits or ass this time, no, he was watching all of your little sly tricks. you'd keep a empty foundation container is your purse so you could sneakily swap it with a full one. or when you'd hold a fresh eyeliner pencil in your hand while 'fixing' the buttons on your blouse, but really you were just slipping the pencil under your shirt and into your bra.

leaving the shop without buying anything after another successful 'browsing' session, you were ready to move on to the next store. that is, until a buff, overwhelmingly big security guard cornered you in an awkward spot between the make-up store and an adjacent staircase. his overbearing frame cast a chilly shadow over you, and his mere presence made you back away into the darkness of the corner, hidden away behind the stairs (just like he wanted).

"erm, can i help you, sir? is everything alright?" you gaze up at him with gleaming doe eyes.

toji swallows a lump in his throat as he mentally reminds himself of your charade and not to fall for it! even if you were just the cutest thing he's ever seen. "take your top off." he states bluntly.

your eyes widen, your voice cracks, unable to believe what you're hearing. "w—what?!"

"don't play dumb with me." he scoffs, flicking your forehead with his strong hand, "look, kid, i know what you're up to. so there's no point in putting up the whole 'innocent little girl' act with me. i can see right through you." he grinds his teeth together and his imposing figure moves forward, caging you in as you stumble back against the wall, "you're just a spoiled brat and klepto bitch who thinks she can take whatever she wants without consequences."

your heart skips a beat at the sinister way he speaks to you, as though he has something planned. there's a fullness in your chets upon hearing him pierce straight through your demeanour. despite being busted, you would've continued to play clueless for a little while longer, but unfortunately, his words provoked you and caused you to snap back at him, "and what's it to you? gonna arrest me, mall cop? just leave me alone."

toji smiles down at you, girmly. there's a darkness in his eyes that sends a spark of fear down your spine. "i'm gonna do far worse than arrest you, darlin'." he coos, hot breath tickling your face and making even the faintest hairs on your neck stand on edge. "first, you're gonna take that top of and give me that pencil you stole."

you cross yours arms over your chest and pout. "not happening."

"if you do what i say, it'll make things a lot easier for you."

you narrow your eyes up at him, and after properly soaking in his features, you realise that perhaps taking your top off wouldn't be such a bad idea — especially if it meant you could avoid the alleged trouble he was going to put you in.

your eyes quickly dart around the space. currently, he has you cornered under a staircase. there is no one around that would be able to see you, but there are plenty of people who were walking up the stairs. if any of them were to hear what was happening, they could quite easily investigate and would hence find you half-nude in the mall. wouldn't be a good look for you.

"there's too many people around." you whisper.

"then you better be quick."

you huff in response. there was really no pleasing this man. "fine," you begin to undo the buttons of your blouse, and you can feel his rough eyes boring into your chest as you do so. once the buttons are fully opened to reveal your pastel, lacey bra, you dig your hand underneath the fabric and begrudgingly pull out the pencil.

he swipes it from your grip and returns a cocky smirk. "thank you, sweetheart. see how easy it is when you just do what you're told?"

"pssht." you scoff, rolling your eyes. your arms subconciously move to cover up your exposed chest and bra, "whatever, can i go now?"

his strong hands wrap around your forearms and viciously yank them away from your supples tits, so he can appreciate the unobstucted view. "nope. i need to search you for the rest of the contrband." his big hands caress your supple boobs as he looks down at you.

you don't even question it at this point. you've already established that he's a (hot) perverted creep who somehow convinced you to unbutton your shirt so he may as well fondle your tits while he's at it. though you do mewl and jerk away from his touch from time to time, lest you enjoy it too much.

"what contraband? i didn't steal anything else.. oh, besides this," you pull out the foundation bottle that you traded with your empty one from your purse and offered it to him. "take it. i've not got anything else on me." but he didn't seem interested; he plucked it from your grip and simply tossed it aside.

"i need to check, don't i? can't be to thorough." his hands wandered over your body and down your back, until he got to the hem of your short skirt. "and you're not exactly the sort of girl i can trust." he muses, then straightens himself out, abruptly pulling his hands off your body. just as you were beginning to melt into his strong touch.

"turn around and bend over against that wall." he motioned the wall behind you, the one that was supporting the stairs above your head. you sighed, and were surprisingly obidient. you pressed your palms against the cold surface of the wall and bent over, just as instructed. you weren't sure exactly what his agenda was, but in this situation, you weren't too afriad to find out.

toji's hand ghosted over your ass and stroked your supple skin, before pulling up your skirt to reveal a sight for sore eyes. thankfully you were facing the other way otherwise you may have been turned off by his crazed grinning. but he couldn't help it; you were just so beautiful. the way your damp panties clung to your folds so he could see the outline of your perfect cunt. and how the fabric moulded to the curve of your soft ass.

"sorry, darlin'. just got to make sure you didn't pick up anything else. let this be a lesson 'bout stealing." he mused, but he wasn't sorry at all. in fact he was quite the opposite; absolutely elated to finally get a try at the sweet cunt you've been hiding all this time. he pulled your panties aside to reveal your sopping pussy. all slick with arousal just like he anticipated, "fuck, baby. you like this, don't you? being caught red-handed and dealt with. dirty klepto freak."

his fingers dwadle over your sticky labia and clit, causing you to wince and writhe down in front of him. he roughly grabs a handful of your ass and rasps into your ear, "keep it down. don't want people hearing you and gettin' curious, huh." he chuckles lowly to himself at the thought, while still massaging your needy clit, "don't want them seeing you getting busted for stealing. they wouldn't think you're such a good girl after seeing this, would they?"

"no.." you mewl, and toji huffs in agreement.

"no, because then they'd realise what a horny slut you are. how your pussy's dripping for a man you don't even know. you proud of that, baby?"

"no.." you sob quietly, and he smiles.

"what i thought. anyway, need you to relax a bit so i can check you.." and just like that, without any further warning, he sticks two of his fat digits into your pleading hole. naturally, you gasp, and begin to moan as his fingers squirm and poke around inside you, as though he was actually looking for something.

"what the fuck?—" you groan, but not too loud, still weary that people might hear you.

"i already told ya, need to check to make sure you haven't hidden anything. girls do that all the time, y'know. it's their favourite hiding spot." he almost made himself chuckle at the observation. his eyes drilled into your cunt as he watched your entrance suck on his fingers; your needy cunt grew visibly wetter by the second, until a small ring of fluid had gather at his knuckles. "fuck, i think you're good though. probably tried but couldn't fit anything into this tight cunt. huh, klepto freak?"

you grimaced at the notion. normally you would've jumped to defend yourself against the implication that you have ever tried to hide stolen objects inside you — as that's a bit too far, even for you — but right now you were too concrated in surpressing your eargerly rising moans from the way his fingers deliciously curl within your walls.

but a couple of shallow and breathy whines do slip past your defences, causing him to say hoarsely, "you like that, needy bitch? thought so. your pussy's so wet, your basically begging for it." he emphasises his point by rapidly fingering your cunt, which causes embarrassingly loud squelching noises. your legs quiver and you begin to whine at the satisfying sensation, but it's over just as quick as it started, as he yanks his fingers straight out of you after around four seconds.

"too bad i'm not here to make you feel good. you don't deserve it, brat." he hisses while wiping his fingers clean against his black secruity top, "but at least your not hiding anything else. you're free to go."

you raise your eyebrows at his unexpected judgement, and without standing upright, you look back at him from over your shoulder, "really?"

"yeah."

still shocked to move, you inquire further, "h-how? aren't you gonna the other one?"

he erupts into laughter, so loud that it causes your whole body tot tense and was sure to alert any surrounding pedestrians of his presnce under the staircase. but he didn't seem to care. "what, you want me to? aw, you desperate spoiled slut. are you really that horny that you need an ass fucking too?"

"no!" you squeak defensively, finally straightening yourself out and whipping around to face him. albeit, you still can't muster up the courage to look him in the eye. "i was just worried about the consistency."

"you don't need to worry, that's not your job." he clicks his tongue, slipping his hand under your chin and using his index finger to force you to meet his piercing stare, "do you have stolen goods still hiden inside you right now?"

"no! obviously not."

"good. then, we're done here. you can get lost." he states casually, folding his strong arms over his chest, smirking down at you, "and don't ever come back. you're banned for life."

"huh, what?!" you huff, kicking at the tiled floor from frustration, "this is my only local mall; i've got no where else to go. you can't ban me!"

"of course i can. that's what happens to stupids little brats who steal shit. they get barred." he tilts his head at you, in horrifically mocking way. "simple as that." he clicks his tongue.

there's a sudden shift in your demeanour, as you slowly ease into a new act as it occurs to you. your head falls, and your balance on your own legs becomes unsteady as you begin to waver in place, "bu— but, if you kick me out, then.." you stutter, mostly staring at the ground but glancing up at him through your thick lashes, "i'll never get to see you again."

he can tell your being disingenuous: pretending to be all cutesy so you can weasel your way into his heart like the sneaky, conniving little urchin that you are. he grinds his teeth. unfortunately for him, your spell is just far too powerful.

he's hypnotised by the way your exposed tits push together, and how your glossy lips call to him. your eyes are sinister yet so so inviting. "fuck." he grits under his breath, "fine. you can come back. but only when i'm working, okay?"

he doesn't need any of his co-workers catching wind of his pretty new toy.

[spidermiguell]

What you do to me— Tangerine (18+)

—fem!reader x tangerine (wc; 3.5k!)

—synopsis: Rival hitmen, hired by opposing hands, constantly crossing paths but never pulling the trigger. Not on each other, at least. Now you’re both on the same train in Tokyo, chasing the same silver briefcase, and you know it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. You just didn’t expect it to be inside a locked bathroom stall, his hand around your neck, breath hot in your ear, and years of tension finally snapping into something raw and uncontrollable. Tangerine knows you’re dangerous. But he’s learning just how badly he wants to be ruined by you.

—warnings: unprotected p in v, slightly public ? (bullet train bathroom), gunplay, assassin rivals, very brief mentions of blood !

—song recs while reading : what you need — the weeknd + again — noah cyrus + xxxtentacion

Tangerine had a long-standing rule: never get personal on a job. Especially not with competition. But rules had a funny way of going to hell the moment you showed up. You were everything he hated in a rival. Unpredictable, relentless, always three steps ahead and smug as hell about it. He wanted to believe the jobs you pulled were just lucky breaks, sloppy shortcuts, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that hard. You were a ghost with perfect aim and no conscience, and every time your name came up on an assignment, something in his chest twisted, because despite everything—the clashing contracts, the bodies left behind, the taunting messages you sometimes left in lipstick or bullet holes—he was starting to think about you more than he should. And that pissed him off more than anything.

The messages, at first, started simple. A kiss in red on a mirror, right after you took out a mark in Istanbul seconds before he got there.
“Too slow, pretty boy.”

It wasn’t subtle—and it sure as hell wasn’t professional. He told himself it was just a provocation. Mind games. But the kiss mark stayed burned into his memory longer than it should have, and when he finally wiped the glass clean, his hands shook in a way he couldn’t explain. Then came the shell casing in Prague. One of his own, engraved with “Miss me?” and balanced perfectly on the edge of a windowsill. The way you left your mark wasn’t just bold—it was personal.

You knew his work. Studied it. Mirrored it. Mocked it. And he knew what that meant, deep down. You weren’t just trying to piss him off.

You thought he was hot.

And fuck if that didn’t turn something over in him, violent and immediate. His ego hated it. His instincts screamed to shut it down. But his body? His brain? They burned with the idea of you. That swagger you walked with, the slick confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove a damn thing but still enjoyed showing off. You made murder look like art. You made violence look good.

He’d caught a glimpse of you once, slipping away after a job in Venice. Tight clothes, blood on your cheek, a cigarette dangling from your lips, and a smirk that could’ve stopped traffic. You didn’t even run—you strolled, like you wanted him to chase you. Like you knew he would.

And that was the thing. He wanted to catch you.
He just wasn’t sure if it was to end you, 
Or to get you under him.

Either way, it wasn’t going to be clean.

The feelings that Tangerine had slowly developed for you could never make an appearance, until Tokyo. Your boss had told you to steal one case, and one case only. A silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle.

One of the simpler missions; or so you thought.

You knew that youd be coming across Tangerine, simply because you knew his every move, and he knew every single one of yours. Wherever Tangerine was, Lemon was too. Unfortunately for you, he only served as a barrier—another issue to deal with before you could get what you wanted all along.

You didn’t mean the case.

The bullet train felt like a trap the moment you stepped on it—clean, quiet, deceptively sterile. But your instincts prickled for an entirely different reason. You knew he was already here. Somewhere in one of these cars, probably pacing with a scowl, suit crisp, mustache twitching, tension wound up tight in that gorgeous frame of his. You could already picture him—adjusting his rings, tapping the gun under his jacket, muttering insults about your boss, your style, your mouth. Especially your mouth.

And then there he was.

Two cars over. Leaning against the wall like he owned the goddamn train, scowl in place, eyes already locked on yours the second the door slid open. He was not supposed to spot you that early. Not before you could remind yourself to have your priorities set straight. 1st mission, 2nd Tangerine. This would mess with you. He looked like sin in that tailored coat, blood on his collar from something recent. His lip was split, but he hadn’t bothered to clean it. It made him look even better. Rougher. Real.

Lemon saw you as well, muttering something under his breath and reached for his weapon—but Tangerine’s arm snapped out, blocking him.

“Don’t,” he said low, never taking his eyes off you. “She’s mine.”

That wasn’t part of the plan. Not Lemon’s. Not yours. But the words made something twist low in your stomach.

You should’ve gone for the case. Should’ve ducked, rolled, fought. But you stood your ground instead, like you wanted him to come closer. And maybe you did. Tangerine took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down your figure like he was sizing up a target. Or something far more dangerous.

“You’re looking a little overdressed for a job like this,” he said, voice gravelly, tinged with a smirk. “What’s under all that attitude, sweetheart? Still got a gun tucked between your thighs?”

You tilted your head, let your lips part just slightly. “No. Just waiting for you to come check.”

His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched.

Lemon groaned behind him. “For fucks sake, not again—“

“Shut it,” Tangerine snapped, and this time it wasn’t playful.

He moved toward you like a storm coming in fast. All heat, smoke, and bruised knuckles. You couldn’t help but take in all of his features, his strong walk causing the carpeted flooring of the bullet train to rumble with the sounds of his chelsea boots. Before he could catch up to you, you were reminded of why you were here in the first place. You quickly turned on your heels, the automatic doors splitting the train carts opening for you with a whizz. You had to focus. Get the briefcase, hide it, then continue your play with Tangerine.

You were walking fast—too fast. Not running, but close enough to catch glances as you weaved through the crowded train car, slipping past suitcases, elbows, and confused tourists. You felt him near you, even though you somehow believed that you were weaving between people as flawlessly as you usually did.

You told yourself you were in control. That you had the upper hand.

Until your heel clipped the edge of someone’s abandoned duffel bag. And just like that—

You stumbled.

Before your knees could even hit the floor, a hand was on your back, steady and strong. Familiar.

“Christ,” a voice drawled behind you. That voice. Lazy, smooth, and soaked in a thick London accent that curled around your spine like smoke. “Bit clumsy for someone so bloody cocky, ain’t ya?”

Your stomach flipped.

Tangerine didn’t yank you back. He peeled you up, rough but smooth about it, like he had all the time in the world and still didn’t need to try. One hand in your jacket, the other catching your hip like he owned it.

And then he shoved you.

Not into a wall. Not onto the floor.

Right into the train’s tiny, fluorescent-lit bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind you a second later, and suddenly the cramped space was filled with him—his scent, his heat, his presence swallowing the air. He wasn’t out of breath. Not even ruffled. That perfect shirt was still tucked just right, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking through. Blood stained his knuckles, sure, but it wasn’t fresh. He hadn’t fought anyone yet today.

He’d been waiting.

“You gonna explain what all that was?” he asked, voice low, accent thick like honey over broken glass. “Speed-walkin’ like a bloody commuter. Thought you were tryna give me the slip.”

You leaned back against the sink, breathing hard, your jacket sliding off one shoulder. His eyes followed it like a hawk.

“Maybe I was,” you said, trying to level him with a stare.

Tangerine laughed once, dry and quiet. “Sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself. If you were tryin’ to lose me, you’d have to be twice as clever and half as obvious.” He stepped closer. No hesitation. One slow step at a time, like he was reeling you in on a line he’d cast hours ago.

“You saw me get on the train,” you said, throat dry. “Didn’t even blink.”

“‘Course I saw you. Wanted to see how long you’d pretend not to notice me watchin’.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your face, your mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “You’re easy to follow when you walk like that—hips swingin’, like you want me behind you.”

Your breath caught. He was right. You had walked like that. Had wanted his eyes. His attention. And now he was here.

Inches from you.

Unbothered. Amused. Dangerous.

“Touché,” you muttered.

Tangerine smirked—sharp and pretty, like he knew you were already folding.

He brought a hand to your throat, slow and deliberate, not to choke—but to feel. The pulse. The proof.

“There it is,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under your jaw. “That little fuckin’ drum in your neck. Been chasin’ that sound for months.”

You should’ve pushed him away. Fought. Taken the chance to strike.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

He just kept looking at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with teeth and bruises.

Like he wasn’t letting you leave that bathroom without making a mess first.

Tangerine’s thumb remained pressed just beneath your jaw, steady, like he was listening to your pulse—measuring it. Mocking it.

His body boxed you in, close enough that the heat of him poured straight through your clothes. His breath was calm. Focused. Dangerous.

“I should shoot you,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

and yet, you didn’t even flinch.

“And risk never finding out what I was gonna do next?” you murmured, chin tilted up into his hand.

He exhaled a humourless laugh, eyes flickering with something sharp.

Without warning, his spare hand moved unexpectedly—quicker than anything else you had ever seen him do. You didn’t even need to look down at your chest, you could already feel the cold metal pressed directly under your rib, digging sharply into your skin.

His pistol.

A matte black thing, customized and deadly. Sleek. Like him.

“I’ll do it right here,” he said, pressing it tighter. “Clean shot. Quick. No one’ll even hear.”

You grinned slowly, teeth flashing. “You won't.”

“Wanna bet your life on that, love?”

You moved your hand with maddening slowness, drawing your own weapon from the holster at your thigh. A small silver piece. Elegant. Lightweight.

You clicked off the safety.

Pressed the muzzle right under his chin.

Now that made his eyes light up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The guns held steady. The air between you trembled like the second before lightning hits.

Then—you spoke, voice low.

“Dead standoff. How romantic.”

Tangerine smiled, sharp and wolfish. “You really do get off on this, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s you.”

And that broke him.

In the span of a breath, he knocked your gun aside with his wrist, sending it clattering against the tiled floor. You ripped his pistol from his hand with a twist, throwing it in the same direction your gun had been tossed. Both of you tangled in the hot mess of each other, arms colliding, breath mixing and ragged. He slammed you back against the door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame.

His mouth was on yours before either of you could think.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth and lips, no finesse—just need. Obsession. Months of watching each other bleed and win and take, all crashing down in a single messy collision. You dragged your fingers through his curls, yanking just enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. His hands gripped your thighs and hoisted you up without warning, setting you on the sink like you weighed nothing.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against your mouth, his voice wrecked and furious with want. “A fuckin’ chase just to end up right here?”

You bit his lip in response. “It’s not over.”

He grinned against your skin. “No. It’s not.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time.

The kiss had turned savage. Full of lust and need.

Tangerine’s hands were everywhere—under your coat, dragging it off your shoulders, then gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. His rings scraped the bare skin beneath your skirt, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh like he wanted to mark you, make sure you remembered exactly who had you like this.

You gasped into his mouth as he shoved your legs wider with a knee, the cool edge of the sink digging into your back. Your heels locked behind him on instinct, pulling him closer—like there was still some goddamn space between you.

He grunted, lips dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make your hips jolt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’re unreal.”

“You’ve had months to do this,” you breathed, gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “What took you so long?”

“I thought if I touched you I might not stop,” he growled into your skin, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. “I was right.”

His hand slipped between your bodies, dragging roughly up your stomach, under your top, calloused fingers brushing over your chest, possessive and unrelenting. You arched into him, breath stuttering when his teeth caught your earlobe.

“Every time you ran a job near mine,” he whispered, grinding against you with brutal precision, “I knew you wanted this. Could see it in the way you watched me. Like you wanted me to fuck you against the nearest surface.”

“Maybe I did,” you shot back, voice low, dangerous.

His hand shot back to your throat, not choking—just holding. Claiming. Keeping your chin tilted up so he could look straight into your eyes.

That’s when the moment shifted.

The lust didn’t fade—it deepened.

But underneath it, there was something hotter. More fragile. Intimate.

His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His other hand kept moving—slow, rough, greedy—between your legs this time, dragging a sound out of you that made his grip tighten.

“Say it,” he whispered, barely audible.

You swallowed, heart pounding under his palm. “I wanted you, Tangerine.”

That made him snap.

He surged forward, mouth on yours again, sloppier this time, like he needed to consume every word, every breath. His hips rolled into you, grinding with such fierce precision that it tore a moan from your throat before you could stop it.

The kind of contact that burned.

Your nails dug into his shoulder, pulling him even harder against you, making him unable to cover up the scowl that burnt deeply in his throat—like you were the only thing in the world that could unravel him like this. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment and now he was going to take every fucking second of it.

Without another second to spare, he pulled his lips off of yours briefly, his eyes still staring deeply into yours. He wanted to take it further, and so did you. His eyes had that questioning look in them, as if they had softened slightly…signalling that you could still back out if you wanted to.

Luckily for him, you didn’t.

You chuckled underneath your breath, legs still hooked around his hips. Your hands left his neck, slowly tracing his body before placing themselves on his belt. Unbuckling it intimately. He helped you pull your skirt above your waist as well, panties pushed to the side before it was just you both ready to give each other everything you both had been craving.

His lips conjoined with yours once again, all while he lined himself up with one hand to your aching cunt, the other hand holding you tightly in place.

You could feel his shaft deep inside of you, causing you to arch your back, tits pressed against his chest

“Fuck—feels so good” you groaned, your body undeniably shaking from the pure pleasure of feeling him so close to you.

“That’s right…look at you, taking me so perfectly” He had a wide grin on his face once again, that smug expression that got you so hooked on him in the first place. His curls were now glistening with sweat, his gold chain rocking back and forth as his hips jolted roughly into you.

You writhed under him, every part of you alive and electric as he rutted into you harder, lips barely brushing yours, panting into each other’s mouths but refusing to kiss. It was like neither of you wanted to give in first.

As your bodies continued to pound against each other, the sound of skin on skin became deafening. The rocking of the bullet train and the heated atmosphere of the bathroom had you feeling dizzy, and yet you didn’t want to stop. You wanted this moment to last forever. Because in this bathroom, work didn’t matter. It was just you and Tangerine. Together. Not rivals.

Before you knew it, you could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, your body shaking as you reached your climax.

“God—God im gonna—“

“That’s okay sweetheart, let yourself go”

And you did.

He continued to fuck you through it, his body releasing at the same time as you, the high driving you both crazy. He drove his hot spurts of cum into you, making sure you could take as much as possible before he pulled out with a wince, his chest heaving up and down harshly.

The silence that followed was anything but empty.

The air in the bathroom was heavy—humid with sweat, the sharp scent of sex clinging to every surface. Your breath still came in shallow pulls, body trembling, fingers curled tight against the edge of the sink. The mirror, fogged and smeared, showed the wreckage of you both—your lipstick smudged, hair a mess, neck bruised where his mouth had lingered too long.

And Tangerine—Fuck.

His chest was rising and falling, hands slow as they gripped your hips. His belt remained undone, shirt wrinkled, collar crooked. His knuckles grazed your skin lazily, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. And judging by the dazed, dark look in his eyes when you turned to look back up at him, he wasn’t trying.

He looked you over like you were the last thing he'd ever see—and he’d burn the whole train down before letting it go.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low, rough from exertion. His accent thicker now, his usual sharp edge dulled by whatever just snapped between you.

You raised a brow. “After that?”

He smirked, but it was different now. Less cocky, more... stunned.

You could tell he hadn’t expected this. For christ’s sake, hadn’t expected this. It had started like a punishment, a game of control—but now? You could still feel the way he held you, the way his hand had trembled just slightly at your throat when you came undone around him. He was affected, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“You shouldn’t of pulled me into this bathroom," you whispered, knowing whole-heartedly you didn’t mean it.

Tangerine took a step closer, pressing his chest to yours again, hand sliding up your ribs until his fingers rested over your heart. He didn’t speak. He just felt it—still hammering beneath your skin, racing wild under his touch.

“You shouldn’t have worn that fuckin’ perfume,” he muttered, voice ragged. “I could smell you the second you stepped into the carriage.”

You licked your lips, staring up at him. “Thought it might distract you.”

“It did.” He leaned down, nose brushing your cheek. “Got me all worked up. Couldn’t think straight.”

You felt his hand trail lower again, teasing down your thigh, then stopping just short of anything meaningful.

“We’re not done, are we?” you asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Tangerine tilted his head, lips curling. “With the job, or with each other?”

“Both.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Not even fuckin’ close.”

You smiled, and it wasn’t soft.

It was dangerous.

Because whatever this was between you—it wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance.

It was need. Raw, sharp-edged, relentless. Born from years of rivalry and admiration and frustration and lust all packed into the same explosive space.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, just for a second.

Then he pulled back.

“You’ve still got a briefcase to steal,” he said, reaching down to zip his pants. “And I’ve got a twin brother with a nose for trouble.”

You finally moved from the sink, running a hand through your hair, body still humming with aftershocks. You bent to pick up your jacket from the floor, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I say, you let me steal the case with no effort in stopping me…” you suggested. “And I let you do whatever you want with me on the next mission.”

Tangerine’s grin spread slow and lethal, eyes narrowing like you’d just given him the best idea he’d heard all week.

“God, you’re dangerous.”

You winked. “You like it.”

and he definitely didn’t deny that.

please remember, requests are always open and feel free to reblog ! <3

[milfsloverblog]

first of all, i love u and ur works so much

second, this is the request >:) the cannibalism as a metaphor of love thing. been obsessed with it lately so i just had to request it.

so here, larissa has spent her life chasing after someone’s love—always the second choice, always in the shadows, like back in their nevermore days where she was just "morticia's shadow"

then now, y/n is a newly hired professor at nevermore. they'll have an interaction that will trigger or "spark" something in larissa. maybe like y/n is the one showing interest at first then larissa will fall harder. larissa will have them in her grasp. but something will happen that will make y/n want to leave (i believe you've mentioned before that you believe that larissa will always be somehow still in love with morticia...? 👀). but she will refuse to ever let go. even if that means making sure they can’t leave her. even if that means they must become a part of her, in the most literal sense.

honestly u can do whatever here :) while writing i've realized that the request seemed a bit long... so u can remove stuff as you wish.

-

"Shh. No more fighting. Just let me hold you. Let me have you."

Raw and Tender

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: absolutely ADORED writing this. I love getting sick and twisted requests that I can turn into something beautifully abhorrent. I hope you’ll enjoy this, have fun <3

The fading evening light cast a golden glow across the grand halls of Nevermore Academy, filtering through the towering windows in fleeting, bittersweet hues. It was the kind of light that always brought memories rushing back—memories Larissa Weems had long since buried. She had stood in these same halls, once upon a time, just as the golden light had always found her. The girl who had cast the longest shadow.

Morticia.

That name echoed now, like a ghost of the past. Larissa remembered standing next to her, feeling both taller and smaller all at once. Taller because of her height, always taller, always looking down while everyone else looked up to Morticia. Morticia with her effortless charm, her confidence, her laugh. That laugh. It still haunted Larissa’s quietest moments, ringing in her ears like a distant melody she could never escape. She thought she'd left those feelings behind, buried under layers of silk, authority, and the years she spent hardening herself into the figure she now embodied.

Yet here she was again, back in the shadows.

Larissa's fingers hovered over the old, faded photograph tucked into the drawer of her desk. Two young women—Morticia smiling with effortless radiance, and Larissa beside her, a pale imitation. Always beside her, never at the centre. The photograph had grown dull with age, the edges curling as if to retreat into itself. Much like Larissa had over the years.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. She straightened instinctively, adjusting her posture, smoothing her skirt as if to pull herself together before being seen.

“Come in,” she called, her voice as steady as ever.

You stepped into the office, the light from the setting sun framing you in a soft glow. There was something about the way you smiled at her that was different from anyone else. Genuine warmth, unburdened by expectations. “I didn’t see you at dinner,” you said gently, stepping forward. In your hands was a cup of tea, the steam curling upward like a wisp of comfort. “I thought I’d bring this for you.”

The simplicity of your gesture, the tenderness of it, left Larissa momentarily speechless. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took the cup, the touch igniting a spark that neither of you could ignore. The warmth of the tea seeped into her hands, but the warmth of your presence was what truly settled the coldness she hadn’t realized had taken root in her chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than she had intended, betraying the vulnerability she was desperate to hide.

You didn’t rush to leave. Instead, you set your bag down on a nearby chair and stayed, the quiet hum of your presence filling the room. “You seemed distracted earlier, during the meeting,” you observed, your voice threaded with concern. “I thought maybe you could use a moment to unwind.”

Larissa’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You were always so perceptive, always attuned to the subtle shifts in her demeanour. It was one of the things she admired most about you—though it unnerved her at times, how easily you seemed to see right through her. “I’ve just been… preoccupied,” she admitted, waving a hand dismissively toward the pile of papers on her desk.

But the truth was heavier than that. Ever since you had arrived as the new biology professor at Nevermore, you had become a constant in her life, a quiet light amidst the growing shadows. Your energy, your kindness, the way you looked at her—not with judgment or expectation, but with something far more tender—it unnerved her. You were becoming more than just a colleague, more than just a welcome presence in her quiet moments. You had become a desire she wasn’t sure she could control.

In the days that followed, the space between you and Larissa seemed to shrink. Your interactions became more frequent, more intimate. What had started as casual conversations turned into lingering moments in her office, shared laughter over evening tea, and the occasional stolen glance that neither of you could explain.

There was something about the way you looked at her, how you didn’t just see the headmistress or the statuesque figure she projected to the world. You saw her. The person beneath the carefully constructed image. It terrified her, yet she found herself drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

One evening, after a staff dinner, you walked with her under the soft glow of lanterns that dotted the academy grounds. The air was crisp, the silence between you punctuated only by the soft rustle of the leaves in the wind. You turned to her, your eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her heart race.

“You’re remarkable, Larissa,” you said, your voice steady, but laced with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

Her first instinct was to deflect, to brush off the compliment as unnecessary. But something in your expression held her captive. She glanced down, trying to conceal the blush that crept up her neck. “You’re very kind,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

You stepped closer, your presence almost overwhelming in its warmth. “I mean it,” you insisted. “You have a presence that’s magnetic. There’s something about you that just… pulls people in.”

No one had ever spoken to her like that. No one had ever looked at her with such raw sincerity, as if they truly believed in her worth, not for what she could offer or how she fit into the world, but simply for who she was. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

And when you leaned in, your lips brushing tentatively against hers, she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

Your relationship grew in secret, a fragile but radiant thing, hidden from the prying eyes of Nevermore’s students and staff. With you, Larissa felt lighter, more alive than she had in years. There were moments when she thought, perhaps, she could be happy—truly, deeply happy.

But the fear was always there, lurking in the background like a storm on the horizon.

When Morticia returned to Nevermore, it was as though that storm finally broke. Wednesday’s enrollment brought her mother back to the academy, her visits infrequent but potent enough to stir up old wounds. Morticia was still every bit as radiant as Larissa remembered, her charm and confidence seemingly untouched by time.

Larissa could feel herself slipping back into the shadows. Every glance, every word from Morticia seemed to pull her further away from you, back into the past where she had always played second to Morticia’s light.

You noticed the shift almost immediately.

“You’ve been distant,” you said one evening, your hand resting on hers as you sat together in her quarters. “Is it because of her?”

Larissa’s heart clenched at the question, her instinctive response one of denial. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.

But you didn’t let it go. “I know how much she meant to you,” you said softly. “I can see how her being here affects you. Larissa, I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?”

She wanted so desperately to believe you. To cling to the warmth in your eyes, the sincerity in your voice. But the insecurities that had plagued her all her life were hard to shake. The fear that one day, you would leave her too, that she would never be enough to hold onto someone as bright as you.

As the weeks passed, her behaviour changed. At first, it was subtle—a possessive hand on your arm, an insistence on knowing where you were. But soon, it became suffocating. Her texts came at odd hours, her presence constant and overwhelming. She would appear outside your classroom unannounced, her grip on your hand tighter than it needed to be.

One evening, after another confrontation where her jealousy had seeped into your conversation, you finally spoke up. “Larissa, I need space.”

Her expression darkened. “Space?”

“Yes,” you replied, taking a step back. “You’re hovering. It’s starting to feel like… too much.”

She stared at you, the fear in her eyes almost palpable. But she said nothing, letting the silence hang between you like a thick fog.

The breaking point came one stormy winter night. You had decided it was time to confront her, to tell her that you needed time apart to clear your head, to figure out what was happening between you. But as you stepped into her office, the look in her eyes stopped you in your tracks.

She was sitting at her desk, her back ramrod straight, her gaze fixed on the photograph of Morticia and herself. When she looked up at you, there was something wild, something desperate in her eyes.

“Larissa,” you began, your voice trembling with uncertainty, “we need to talk.”

She rose slowly from her chair, her movements deliberate and measured. “Don’t say it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t say you’re leaving me.”

“I’m not—” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat as the intensity of her gaze pinned you in place. “I just… need time.”

Her hand reached out, cupping your face with a tenderness that belied the storm raging within her.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost pleading. “No more fighting. Just let me hold you. Let me have you.”

The words were gentle. Loving.

Then—

A shift. A quiet crack.

Not loud. Not violent.

Just a whisper of finality as your body slackened in her grasp.

Hours later, the candles flickered against the pristine white tablecloth.

The wine glass was half-empty, red staining the rim where her lips had been.

Larissa sat in perfect stillness, the slow rhythm of the grandfather clock the only sound in the room. Her hands were steady, her expression serene.

She lifted a napkin to the corner of her mouth, dabbing at a faint smudge of red. It could have been lipstick.

Could have been something else.

Her gaze lowered to the plate before her.

Nestled among delicate silverware and fine china, its edges still glistening, sat a half-consumed human heart.

Yours.

Larissa exhaled slowly, savouring the moment.

There was no fear now. No more uncertainty.

She had spent a lifetime chasing after love. Always yearning. Always left behind.

But now—

Now, you would never leave her.

Now, you were part of her.

Larissa picked up her fork, pressing it delicately into the soft tissue.

She smiled.

The void within her finally felt full.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary , @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent

—

Tw: vivisection mention (not in detail), bad Fenton parents

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 2 here) (Pt. 3 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was a dark, cold, miserable night, and Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, wanted nothing more than to be home, covered in blankets with the heater set to max as he worked on his most recent strain of fear toxin.

Instead he was at the docks, standing in as backup for the Penguin as he made a deal with some sleaze-bag smugglers. Something about some sort of body armor for his hired help. Crane hadn’t really paid much attention to the Penguin’s words, only caring enough to show up because of the reward.

But honestly, he couldn’t care less about the money at this point.

He was cold, and miserable, and his leg hurt something fierce (he’d had chronic pains ever since being mauled by Killer Croc some time ago), and he was so, so close to a breakthrough with his new toxin, and he really couldn’t stand the Penguin anyways. The only thing keeping him there was his reputation as a rogue.

Just as Crane was deciding that the whole ordeal wasn’t worth it, he heard the sound of a chase a few blocks down. With a deep, heavy sigh, he moved from the wall he had been leaning against, looming in the alleyway as he waited for the potential threat to reveal itself.

A few moments later, a boy came careening into the alleyway, sliding to a stop when he noticed the Scarecrow, his eyes growing impossibly wide. Beneath the mask, Jonathan grinned.

The boy swore, loudly, glancing between Scarecrow and the exit of the alleyway. As the echoing sound of footsteps grew closer, he chose to face the way he came, turning his back to Scarecrow.

What an idiotic way to get killed. Either the boy was a complete and utter fool, or there was something out there worse (to him, at least) than the Scarecrow.

Jonathan Crane tilted his head slowly, considering. He could just cut his losses and leave, Penguin be damned, or he could stay and see what had the boy so spooked.

Eventually, unfortunately enough, his curiosity won out. He shifted, bringing a hand to his side where he kept several canisters of fear toxin.

Crane had to bite back a groan when the boy’s pursuers entered the alleyway.

It was those damned idiots in white suits.

They had been tailing him for weeks now. They were easy enough to fight, but they were annoyingly persistent, and always seemed to have a way to find him. (Not to mention, the Riddler had strong opinions on their outfits, and if he had to hear the white-suit-in-Gotham rant one more time he was going to throttle him.)

Led by the men in white was a woman in a teal hazmat suit. Jonathan had seen her around, too, though less frequently than the others. He had honestly assumed that she was just a new C-tier rogue and avoided her like the plague.

Her eyes went wide as saucers when she saw Jonathan standing a few feet from the boy. No one moved a muscle.

“Danny,” the woman spoke softly. The boy, Danny, flinched, glancing between her and Scarecrow, “come on, we can talk about this. Your father and I only want to help you.”

He was running from his mother?

Scarecrow paused after that revelation, choosing to fully take in the boy’s appearance.

He was lean, almost gaunt, and wearing clothes several sizes too big for him, probably stolen. His entire body shook, from fear and cold both, and he clutched his stomach with one hand. At first, Scarecrow assumed that it was due to being out of breath, but as he looked closer he could see blood staining the dark fabric of the boy’s shirt.

He was injured, underweight, and running from his parents.

Something that felt a lot like rage swelled in Jonathan’s heart.

“Danny, you don’t get it! We’re so close now. We can fix you, and then we can go home, and everything can go back to normal,” she said, smiling in a way that was clearly supposed to be reassuring. She took a few steps forward, the men behind her clearly readying their weapons.

The boy backed away from his mother, inadvertently coming closer to Scarecrow.

He glanced up at Crane again, his blue eyes shining in fear, but not of him.

Sickening. Sickening.

In one fluid motion, Jonathan grabbed the boy by the wrist, pulling him behind him, and threw a large canister of fear gas into the group who had been chasing him.

The liquid in the container turned to gas as soon as it broke open, billowing out and filling half of the alleyway with a thick yellow smog.

The boy gasped, pulling his shirt over his face in a pathetic attempt to filter out the toxin. It would have to do, though, Scarecrow thought, rushing forward to force the boy’s aggressors to breathe in the gas.

The fight that the men put up was pitiful. The few individuals who didn’t breathe in the toxin immediately were clearly unused to fighting hand-to-hand, and dropped like flies in Scarecrow’s wake.

Just as the men began to spasm and shout in their terror, as if on cue, the familiar wail of police sirens reached the Scarecrow’s ears.

He heaved a heavy, irritated sigh, fingers twitching for a cigarette. He was trying to quit as of late, but he felt that after today, he might deserve one.

Though now was not the time to be thinking of cigarettes.

Jonathan approached the boy, mindful of any signs he might run off.

The boy didn’t seem to notice his approach in the slightest, just staring at the woman in the jumpsuit as she writhed on the ground.

Right. That would most likely be traumatic for a child to see, wouldn’t it?

Scarecrow moved in front of the boy, blocking his line of sight. The boy looked up at him now, his face completely blank.

“The police are on their way,” Scarecrow spoke, his voice low. The boy didn’t acknowledge him in any way.

“You don’t want to be here when they arrive, do you?”

After several moments pause, the boy shook his head slowly. He looked numb.

Dissociation, most likely.

“You’ll come with me, then.”

It was a statement, not a question, but he waited for the boy’s response regardless. As soon as he nodded in agreement, Jonathan lifted him up, carrying him out of the cold, miserable alleyway.

Scarecrow paused briefly to warn the Penguin of the incoming officers through the comm he had been given, and then he was off, weaving through the streets and alleyways towards his getaway car.

…

The drive back to his safe house was quiet. The boy didn’t look over at him once, instead opting to stare out ahead of him.

…

Luckily, they were able to make it back without detection. Jonathan ushered the boy into his small apartment, sitting him down on the dingy couch that had come with the lease.

“Wait here, alright?” Jonathan said, the boy nodding once in response.

With that, he retreated into the small kitchen, looking for some sort of warm beverage.

It was nearly three in the morning now, so coffee was out of the question. He was completely out of the hot chocolate he had bought for whenever Eddie or Harley came over for a visit, so that was out too.

He supposed the only option was his chamomile tea. Did teenagers like tea? He supposed it didn’t really matter, the kid was on the run from his parents in the house of a Gotham rogue. Surely he had bigger things to worry about.

Jonathan made the drinks quickly, leaving the kitchen with two mugs in hand. He gave one to the boy, who looked up at him in surprise, before settling into his own seat.

It was an incredibly comfortable old leather armchair that he had gotten some years ago and stubbornly held onto ever since. He usually had one of the rogues he was at least somewhat friendly with pick it up when he entered Arkham.

Whenever Eddie and Harley were over, they would call it his old man chair, and he would tell them to leave.

The two of them sat quietly for a while, drinking their tea slowly. It was clear that the boy was leaving whatever headspace he had slipped into, becoming more alert (and uncomfortable) by the second.

“So,” Crane began, pausing before speaking more quietly when he saw the boy flinch, “you knew them.”

It was not a question.

The boy nodded, curling in on himself. He held the mug close to his chest, no doubt soothed by the warmth.

“They’ve been following me around for some time now,” Crane continued, “and you’re going to tell me why.”

The boy looked up at him, a pained expression written all over his face.

“You won’t believe me,” he murmured, curling up even further.

His clothes were soaked. Jonathan should have put down a towel before letting him sit down.

“Sure I will,” he said, ignoring the blood and water seeping into his furniture.

The landlord would not be happy.

“It’s gonna sound crazy.”

“I’ve been to Arkham.”

The boy paused, before mumbling something quietly.

“Again? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said,” the boy huffed, quickly changing his tone when he remembered who he was talking to, “they…think you’re a ghost.”

“A ghost,” Crane repeated flatly.

“I told you it was gonna sound crazy!” The boy protested, before wrapping his arms around himself.

“Well,” Jonathan hummed, “it’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard in Gotham. Explain it to me.”

The boy paused, glancing up at his face, no doubt looking for some sign of mockery. He found none.

Then, he opened his mouth, and explained everything he could.

Ghosts, the portal to another world, the GiW, his parents. It was all incredibly far-fetched, but also far too consistent to be made up on the spot, and Crane could tell that the boy genuinely believed what he was saying.

“…but, if you don’t believe me, fine. I know it probably sounds stupid and fake,” he mumbled, looking away.

“I’ll believe you for now,” Crane said. The boy whipped his head up, staring at him in shock.

“If I do trust that what you’re saying is true, though, then why do I show up on their equipment as a ghost? I’m not dead, and never have been.”

“Um,” the boy hummed, looking somewhat nervous. Understandable, really.

“Well, have you by any chance been involved in any lab accidents recently..?”

Jonathan Crane froze, his face dropping. The boy noticed his change in demeanor, flinching slightly.

“Penguin,” he hissed out, his voice slightly inhuman. “Cobblepot, that motherfucker.”

“Wait—calm down! The angrier you get, the easier you’ll show up on the radar!”

Crane glared down at the boy, seething with rage. He once again flinched, looking away from him. With an extraordinary amount of effort, Jonathan slumped back down in his chair, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself.

When he cracked his eyes back open, the boy was openly staring at him, curiosity written all over his face.

As soon as he noticed Crane looking back at him, he glanced away, straightening in his seat.

“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. In the morning, we’re going to discuss this in a lot more detail,” he said, standing up with slow movements. The boy stood as well, hands clasped together.

“For now, though, you’re going to let me take a look at that wound of yours, and then you’re going to take a shower and go to bed.”

The rest of the night went rather quickly.

The boy was rather hesitant to show him his wound, instead assuring him that it had been properly sewn up and that he was fine. Crane was having none of it, though, and gave him a once-over just in case.

It was, very clearly, the kind of cut used during an autopsy. Danny didn’t offer any information, so Crane had to assume that he was either back from the dead, or he had been vivisected. Either was possible in Gotham.

At the very least, Danny hadn’t lied about the stitches, and the wound was already beginning to heal.

With that, Danny showered quickly (he leapt out with a shriek the moment the hot water ran out), and went to bed in borrowed clothes without much complaint.

Thus, Jonathan was left with cold water for his shower, and slept on the still-damp couch so that the boy could have a bed to sleep in. Somehow, he found that he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

[wheeboo]

tell me that you love me | joshua hong {part one}

SYNOPSIS. in which you and joshua are simply different in more ways than one, yet only seem to find a common ground in struggling to chase your dreams. so why does life keep throwing you two at each other, despite your different worlds, and why does it feel so terrifyingly right? PAIRING. musician!joshua hong x deaf-artist!reader (ft. cafe owner!jeonghan, musician!seokmin, best friend!seungkwan, best friend!wheein, producer!jihoon) GENRE. fluff, slice of life, kdrama romance-esque, mild angst, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn WARNINGS/TAGS. cursing, shua and reader has some self-doubt issues :(, someone makes insensitive comments about reader, mention of alcohol (beer), mention of cigarettes, everyone ships them, kissing, terms of endearment, Softie Domestic Joshua™, it conveniently rains when they're together, this is 85% fluff and 15% plot and the brainrot was giving me an existential crisis, honestly there's not much warnings it's just a love story <3 WORD COUNT (FOR PART ONE). 20k WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). 37k

notes: after 7 months (minus the 2 months i lowkey abandoned this oop), it's done! this fic could have honestly been 20k words, but the brainrot refused to do so. inspired from the kdrama of the same name and the jdrama Aishiteiru to Itte Kure. any uses/descriptions of sign language (ASL) throughout the story is researched! expressing my love to all my mooties who suffered listening to me talk abt this fic. i hope this fic being long doesn't bore you all to death <3 funny enough, this was also supposed to be a very very very belated bday fic to @slytherinshua LMFAO. ty to @bananabubble for also helping me a lot with this fic too!

part one | part two

“Okay, so to recap: the espresso machines are on the right side of the counter, just next to the pastry display. You'll get familiar with them really easily. The barista station is behind them, where all the little doohickeys are, yaddi-yaddi-yadda…”

“Aren't you supposed to be teaching me where everything is?” Joshua asks in slight annoyance after securing the apron around his waist.

Jeonghan just chugs a wet, dripping rag in his direction, narrowly missing Joshua's head and landing with a damp plop on the counter. Then he wipes his hands on his apron, shooting a small wink at the other man. “Patience, grasshopper.”

“Why did you decide to hire me again?”

“So I can finally kick you out of my apartment," Jeonghan answers, a playful bite to his voice, and Joshua only rolls his own eyes. “in a non-violent way, of course.”

“You're actually an imbecile, Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Oh, but you love me.” Jeonghan smirks, plucking the wet rag from the counter and shoving it in Joshua's hand. “Chop-chop, grasshopper, you got a whole day ahead of you.”

Joshua Hong was never one to detest helping out a friend𑁋his best friend, to be specific. He knew Jeonghan was doing this in order to help him out as he had been living under the man's roof for the past two years, with the promise of finding a new place testing his patience. Even with his nightly gigs at the busking centre in the middle of town, having a day job to earn some extra money seemed like a very good idea. 

But he seriously doesn't understand how Jeonghan managed to open up his own café in the first place. It's remarkable, actually.

The day is surprisingly slow. Even with the café being in the mere heart of the city and amidst the morning and afternoon rush, barely any pastries were taken from the display. The only sounds come from the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall, and the obnoxious screech of the stool that Jeonghan sits on not that far away.

However after some time, the familiar, soft chime of the door echoes throughout the café, announcing the arrival of a customer. Joshua finds his head immediately snapping up after fumbling with the frother, a welcoming smile dawning across his face as he smooths his apron and takes his place at the register. 

The figure in front of him is momentarily enveloped by the sunlight that seeps through the large window panes. He waits for them to step fully into the warm glow of the café, his eyes drawn to the way they hold themselves𑁋shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked deep within the pockets of a lightweight jacket, and seemingly a book tucked under their shoulders. Their steps are slow, soft even as they approach the counter, and a smile, gentle and hesitant, plays on their lips.

“Hi, welcome in," Joshua greets politely. “What can I get for you today?”

You find yourself gazing at the unfamiliar barista in front of you with meticulous curiosity, before letting your eyes drift to the nametag on his shirt: Joshua. His eyes immediately dart down to your hands that you lifted up on instinct, then hesitation gnaws at you, and suddenly you drop your hands back to your sides again.

“Our menu is up here.” Joshua motions above his head. “and our pastries are over here, if you would like to take a look.”

You wave your hand dismissively, then fumble for your phone, showing him an order written on the screen.

hot vanilla latte - extra foam - name is y/n

“Hot vanilla latte, extra foam?” Joshua repeats, confirming the order with a friendly smile, and the response he gets is a pair of thumbs-up. “And the name is... Y/N?”

Your face lights up, feeling some heat threaten up your neck as you offer a small nod to confirm.

There's something endearing that blooms in Joshua's chest as he punches the order down on the register. The moment is stretched with long silence before he watches as you quickly turn around to head to the outdoor sitting of the café. He sees you place yourself down at one of the seats, back turned towards him, and all he could do is let his eyes linger for a beat longer before realising that he actually has to make your order.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as he sets to work. He fumbles slightly, steaming the milk for your latte and carefully (and clumsily) creating a cloud of airy foam.

When he places the mug on the counter, his eyes drift back to where you sat outside, the slight breeze and midday sun casting down on the patio. He notices that you're hunched over, seemingly concentrating on something, and he can't help but wonder what occupies your thoughts. With the latte in hand, he heads towards the door, the bell above the door softly chiming. 

The sun paints the city in dappled gold, and a light breeze sways through the air and catches a strand of your hair that floats like a wisp. It's a picture-perfect scene, and Joshua thinks you fit right into it, all while hunched over a small sketchbook and pencil in your hand flying across the page.

He hesitates right behind you, unsure how to get your attention without startling you. Every option that he mulls over seems intrusive and jarring.

In the end, Joshua decides on a gentle tap on your shoulder. As his fingers make contact with your shoulder, a sudden jolt runs through your body, and you visibly startle, your hand flinching involuntarily and coming in contact with the mug in Joshua's hand.

The glass mug slips from Joshua's grasp, crashing down to the floor in thousands of tiny shards. Hot coffee splashes, hitting the skin of both of your hands and splattering on your sketchbook. Gasps fly from both your lips, echoing throughout the quiet patio. You wince in your seat, nearly causing you to stumble off but you manage to catch yourself.

For a long moment, Joshua could only find himself frozen, yet when he notices the pained look on your face, he instinctively reaches out, grabbing your hand without thinking. Your fingers curl around his in a startled reflex, your skin warm against his own. He cradles your hand in his, pressing his palm against your skin, as if trying to shield you from the worst of the heat and the glass scattered around the two of you.

Adrenaline courses through him as he pulls your hand back, examining it frantically. A thin red line crosses near your thumb, a tiny bead of blood sprouting at its edge. Panic claws at his throat, but he forces himself to stay calm. You're watching him, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pain, and he sees his own fear reflected in your pupils.

“Crap, I-I'm so sorry!” he blurts out, voice rough with regret. “Are you okay? I shouldn't have... I should have been more careful…”

You watch as Joshua's eyes scan your hand, the features of his face noticeably soft and etched with concern. The warmth of his hand cradling yours sends a jolt through you, something unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.

When you look back up at him, he asks if you're okay again, your gaze focusing in on his lips then back up at his eyes. You can tell he's worried𑁋he even seems breathless from all the panic too. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you silently answer with a nod.

The air seems to thicken with awkwardness. Joshua's gaze lingers down on your hand cradled in his trembling ones, the sight of a tiny cut on the flesh between your thumb and index finger sending a fresh wave of shame to come crashing down on him.

When you both lock eyes once again, you feel a flutter in your stomach. Then Joshua clears his throat, a million apologies tumbling over each other in his mind.

“I, uh…” he begins, then stops, unsure how to proceed. “Does it hurt a lot?”

You realise he's asking about you, and you peer down at your hand, the sting of the burn momentarily forgotten in the face of his genuine worry. It's just a small red line, a minor burn that will fade in time, and a tiny cut where the glass had scratched. But the warmth radiating from his hand cupped over yours feels oddly... comforting.

You shake your head, then motion to his own hand, as if asking the same thing.

Joshua blinks in surprise. He examines it, a small line of red just starting to show from a small cut, and a tiny calloused area from the burn of the coffee. It was barely noticeable, and it admittedly stung with a dull ache, but he wouldn't acknowledge that𑁋he didn't want to make you worry. It's not that bad, he thinks, but his thoughts are instantly replaced with concern for you.

“Here, let me... I'll get some bandages for you.” He gently releases your hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and rises to his feet. “And a new drink, of course. On the house.”

Before you can give him a nod or anything, you watch him walk towards the café, the sunlight reflecting off his dark hair. He turns back once inside, and your eyes meet across the wall of glass. You offer a smile, and raise your hand in a small wave. He returns one sheepishly, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes just slightly, before disappearing to the side.

You stand up as well, shooting a glance down at your sketchbook, the brown splatter bleeding across a corner of the paper. It didn't look like a lot of it was damaged luckily𑁋you could probably incorporate it into the drawing somehow. The thought seems to soothe you.

Joshua mutters curses to himself as he struggles to find the first-aid kit underneath the counter in the employee's only restroom. He rummages through a drawer, tossing aside spare toilet paper rolls until he finally lays eyes on the small white box labeled First Aid.

“Knew you wouldn't be a great match for this,” Jeonghan's voice rings out suddenly as Joshua retrieves a few pieces of bandages, the man finally emerging after what seems like a long ass hour of a break.

“You finally regret hiring me now?” Joshua scoffs playfully, waving the bandages in front of Jeonghan's face. “They haven't spoken to me at all, so I have no idea if they're okay or not.”

Jeonghan lifts up an eyebrow. “They aren't speaking?" Some silence passes. "Is their name Y/N?”

Joshua looks back at him. “Yeah, why?”

“They come here a lot, like a regular, usually just drawing and stuff, I think,” Jeonghan points out, pursing his lips together. “and… they’re also deaf.” 

The age of seven was the last time you heard your voice.

You went to bed ill with a high fever that night, only to wake up the next morning in a muted world. The change wasn't a gradual muffling or a sudden pop like a balloon bursting. It was all simply... gone. You didn't hear the pitter-patter of the morning rain against the window, the rumble of the air conditioner, or even your own heart beating in your chest𑁋but you could feel it. 

At first, you thought it was a trick, perhaps a dream that had somehow bled into reality. You screamed, but no sound escaped your lips. You shook your parents awake, but their worried questions were met with your frustrated silence. Tears streamed down your face as they rushed you to the hospital. Then all the tests, scans, diagnoses𑁋they all came to the same the same result: a sudden, inexplicable loss of hearing.

Learning to navigate the world growing up without sound was a slow, exhausting process. You learned to read lips, got used to communicating with sign language, understand the subtle cues of body language, and rely on written words. Your world shrunk, confined to the walls of your home and studio, the familiar faces of your family, the lens of your camera, and the canvases that could speak for you.

You got used to this world of silence. You got used to the fact that you have to live in harmony with those around you, to put in that extra effort to understand them so you could simply be accepted and heard, for once. At a young age, you became adept at expressing yourself through art𑁋capturing the beauty of the silent world you inhabited, the emotions that flowed through your fingertips onto canvases and photographs.

Honestly, the world is so beautiful. Even though you can't hear the bustling city around you, the distant conversations, or the groans of traffic, you've learned to see and appreciate the world in a way others might overlook𑁋finding beauty in the stillness that surrounds you. The way sunlight dances on the leaves, the gentle sway of trees, the vibrant colours that paint the sky during sunset, the look of love between two lovers. 

The city is especially colourful at night. Neon store signs burning bright against the dark canvas of the evening sky, people around you moving in routine patterns, and cars flying down the streets. You've perfected the art of capturing these moments, freezing them in time with your camera, and bringing them to life with just a simple brushstroke.

You can't hear the laughter spilling from a nearby work dinner or the murmured conversation of a couple walking hand-in-hand, but you see it all in the tilt of their heads, the curve of their lips, the spark of their eyes. You watch the way their bodies move, the sway of their hips, the swing of their arms, and their stories unfold before you like a silent movie on a grand screen. And that in itself, is beautiful. 

You click through the photos you've taken throughout the day on your camera carefully, biting your bottom lip in concentration. There's a photo of a child chasing pigeons in the park, a flock of birds flying through the cloudless sky, a cat lounging in a window sill, and a smile breaks across your lips.

However, you find yourself accidentally bumping into something, or someone. Hastily, you bring your head up to the stranger to apologise, yet they walk away before you even could. Letting out a sigh, you bring your attention back to your surroundings, and your eyes widen to the crowd of people gathered in the small square you hadn't noticed before.

Your eyes dart around, trying to scan through the sea of faces while slowly pushing through the crowd as your curiosity gets the best of you. And when you get yourself to nearly the core of the crowd, you could only freeze to the sight in front of you.

There's a man perched on a wooden stool in the middle, a guitar entangled in his grasp and a microphone stand standing idle in front of him. You can hardly make out his face since you're standing to the side, but for some reason, all you can do is watch in awe.

You can't hear his words, of course. But you feel them. You feel them in the way his fingers dance across the strings, in the way his head dips with the melody, in the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. You see them in the way the light catches his hair, in the way the shadows dance on his face, in the way his eyes flutter open for a fleeting moment.

Then a sudden urge makes you reach for your camera, quickly turning it on and bringing it up to your eyes. And with a simple click of the shutter, you capture the moment in a perfect frame, before weaving through the crowd once more and back into the fresh air of the city.

You look down at the photo, and it tugs at your heartstrings. The nearby lighting catches his face just right, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the gentle curve of his smile. He's lost in the music, his skilled fingers dancing across the strings of his guitar, eyes closed as he seems to pour his soul into every note. You zoom in on the photo, admiring the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

He looks familiar, somehow. You rack your brain, trying to place him, but your mind draws a blank. You've stumbled into the busking area by accident countless times and captured endless moments through your lens, but this one feels different. 

The vending machine swallowed his dollar. Literally.

Joshua pounds his fist on the lousy machine a few times, wraps his arms around it like a koala hug and attempts to give it a few shakes, hoping that the drink would somehow drop to the bottom, but nothing happens. Letting out a groan, he takes a step back and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. Great.

He glances around the area, scanning to find some sort of alternative solution, and his eyes set on a convenience store just a few blocks down. He takes a few steps in the direction, before something brushes past him and causes him to stop.

“Hey, the vending machine doesn't work…” Yet when he turned his body around, he didn't expect to see you making your way to the machine, tapping on the keypad and inserting a dollar, all for the machine to spit out two cans of sodas.

Joshua watches as you bend down to retrieve the cans, peering down in confusion at the second one in your hand. Then when you straighten and look back up, the two of you suddenly meet eyes. 

There's a brief pause, and you can't really tell if Joshua is staring at you like you've grown a second head or something else. Then you glance down to the extra drink in your hand, and ah, it clicks.

Your lips move in a silent question, and Joshua realises you must be offering him the extra can. He waves his hand, signaling that it's okay, but you insist, gesturing for him to take it. With a grateful smile, he steps up to you and reaches out, accepting the cold can from you, his fingers brushing over yours briefly.

Joshua watches as you click open the can and take a sip. When you glance back at him, his lips part, then close again, his brow furrowing together like his mind is cluttered. You can't hear his thoughts, of course, but the way his eyes dart from your face to your hands and back again seems like he's trying to ask you something.

“Is your…” he starts to ask, pointing to your hand, noticing that your hand appeared bare of the bandages he gave you more than a week ago. “Is your hand feeling better now?”

You catch his words by reading his lips, and you nod with a reassuring smile. Relief washes over Joshua's features, his eyes softening, and he gestures again towards your hand as if to make sure it's healing alright.

“Wait, I... Sorry, let me start this over.” Joshua seems to mentally take a deep breath. “I'm Joshua, by the way. I should've introduced myself properly first.”

You know that already, but hearing him formally introduce himself ever since your little mishap at the café brings a strange flutter to your chest. You notice Joshua shift from foot to foot, the smile to his face faltering just slightly.

“Is it okay if I ask if you're…” Joshua motions to his ear, then shakes his head, seeing that it might come across as insensitive. Instead, he points to his own mouth and then makes a questioning gesture with his eyebrows, hoping you'll understand what he's trying to ask.

You nod, understanding his question perfectly, raising your hand and making a simple sign, tapping your ear and then shaking your head. You've had this conversation countless times before, with strangers and acquaintances alike. But there's something different about the way Joshua asks𑁋something softer, more genuine.

“I should've realised sooner,” Joshua says. "I'm sorry if that came off as rude.”

You wave your hand dismissively and tap your temple, then point to his mouth, conveying that you could read his lips just as you've been doing this entire time, and Joshua could only watch your movements carefully. Though relief mixes with a tinge of embarrassment in his limbs. He hadn't meant to pry, but curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he didn't want to make you uncomfortable by putting you on the spot like that. He could tell you've probably heard this conversation many times with other people, yet you seem to handle it with such patience.

With a wry smile, you secure your can of soda under your arm before bringing your hands up, signing heartedly, “It's okay,” and Joshua watches your movements with awe and also... a little confusion.

“Can I ask what that means?” he asks slowly, curiously.

You wave a dismissive hand in front of his face, pulling out your phone, quickly typing out something before showing it to him.

It means that it's okay

“Ah, I see,” Joshua responds with a sheepish smile, attempting to clumsily repeat the action with his own hands, but he quickly brings it back to his side. “If I'm speaking too fast, feel free to let me know. I'll try to slow down.”

You shake your head, typing on your phone once more.

Thank you, but you're doing just fine, I promise

A blush creeps onto Joshua's cheeks as he reads your message. He's relieved you're not bothered by his questions, but the awareness that you've been understanding him all along makes him feel a bit silly. In a good way, of course. He takes a hesitant sip of his soda, the silence between you stretching just a bit too long. He wants to talk to you, really talk, but he's unsure where to begin.

As you both stand there, with the city's sounds humming around, Joshua feels the nerves crawling up his skin. He gestures towards the convenience store nearby, silently asking if you need anything. You shake your head, indicating that you're good, but then motion down the road, pointing at something down the street.

“Are you heading somewhere?” Joshua asks, and he feels his heart jump once he sees you nod, feeling proud for understanding what you're trying to say.

You pull out your phone again, typing:

The museum

“The museum?” Joshua repeats, picking his head back up to squint down the street. He feels the hesitation at the tip of his tongue, as if considering something. But then, the intrusive action takes over, and he points in the same direction. “Would it be okay if I walk with you? The café is near there. I was about to head there myself.”

You notice the uncertainty in his eyes. Joshua watches your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. However, you simply offer a warm smile and a nod in response, which makes Joshua feel a surge of relief. A small smile plays on his lips, and he falls into step beside you as you both start walking towards the museum.

The late afternoon sun dips below the city skyline, casting long shadows across the pavement as you and Joshua walk side-by-side, your steps falling into sync. You steal glances at him every now and then, captivated by the way his hair catches the golden rays and how the lines of his face soften. He catches your eyes a few times, which makes you both look away at the same time. It's a bit awkward admittedly, yes, but there's a certain charm to it when he's right next to you.

Joshua tries to find ways to bridge the silence, but his words tangle in his throat.

Instead, he waves a hand in front of you, earning your attention back on him.

“Do you like art?” he asks. “Back at the café, I noticed... you were drawing?” Then he does a scribbling motion with his hand.

The question hangs in the air, and you find yourself pausing to consider it. A thoughtful expression settles on your face, and Joshua watches as you take a pause to grab something from out of your bag𑁋your sketchbook𑁋before handing it to him.

He shoots a brief glance at you, as if asking for permission, but your trusting gaze encourages him. He gently opens the sketchbook. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the first page.

It looks to be a sketch of the beach, capturing the vastness of the ocean, the setting sun in the horizon, and the small details of people walking across the sands. Joshua can almost feel the warm sand beneath his bare feet and the salty tang of the air on his tongue.

He flips through the next few pages. A bustling city street, a lone bird perched on a branch, its feathers so finely detailed they seem to shimmer in the sunlight, a child's laughter echoing through a park, portrayed in a burst of joyful strokes.

Joshua feels a lump rise in his throat. He looks up at you, eyes wide with admiration and something else he can't quite define.

“Wow, these are incredible,” he manages to say. “You're so talented.”

You smile shyly, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks as Joshua flips to the last page. In an instant, he feels his heart drop, but not in a bad way𑁋it's a page significant with the brown stain at the corner, but it's the way you seem to use the stain as a part of the sketch, blending it into the colours of the sky and the warm tones of the café.

“I was worried about your sketchbook,” he confesses, looking back at you. “I thought I would have to buy you a new one. But... I'm glad it's okay.”

He hands you back the sketchbook, his fingers brushing yours once again as the exchange is made, and you both continue your way down the sidewalk.

And then, you reach the museum.

Joshua turns towards you, and you're already looking at him. Then you pull out your phone once more, typing in a message, before showing it to him.

Thank you for walking with me

“It's𑁋You don't have to thank me,” Joshua acknowledges, his eyes reflecting sincerity. “I enjoyed it. Besides, it's the least I could do after the, uh... incident.”

You both stand a distance away from the museum entrance, knowing that you have to part ways, yet there's some hesitation in there. Joshua peers at the museum building, taking in its appearance, trying to ignore the bubbling reluctance in his chest.

“Maybe I can see you around…” But when Joshua brings his eyes back to you, you're already trailing towards the museum entrance. The embarrassment catches in his throat. He stands there for a moment with his gaze following you, clutching the can of soda, feeling the warmth radiating from it seeping into his palm.

Joshua sees you stop short in front of the entrance, turn back to him, and offer a small wave of your hand, your eyes locked with his for a brief moment. He reciprocates with a reluctant wave of his own, watching as you disappear into the museum.

He lets out a breath he didn't notice he was holding as he turns away, drinking the last sips of disappointment down his throat before throwing the empty can into a recycling bin nearby.

And while on his way to the café, the thought of you tugs at the corner of his lips.

Joshua pulls one more time on the door to the café, the keys dangling in his hand clinging loudly together as he makes sure it's all locked. When he does, he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, letting out a deep exhale coming straight from the core of his chest. 

The sounds of fallen, dried-up leaves crunch below with every step he takes. Joshua wearily casts his eyes around, watching as surrounding local shops and other cafés switch their lights off for the night. A bus rushes past him as he continues walking down the street, bringing with it a gust of wind that ruffles his hair. The city is slowly settling into its nighttime rhythm, and Joshua can feel the shift in energy around him.

As he walks, his attention is drawn to a figure up ahead. It appears to be an elderly lady, a large box in her grasp, her movements slow and careful. The box looks heavy, with whatever inside threatening to spill over the top with every wobbling step she takes. Joshua quickens his pace immediately, concern knitting at his brows.

“Wait, ma’am! Let me help you.” Once he arrives at her side, he shifts his backpack down to the ground and reaches out to steady the box. The elderly lady looks up at him with surprise and relief. 

“Ah, thank you, young man,” she says, voice quivering slightly as Joshua hoists a hold of the entire box, a groan leaving him at the unexpected heaviness.

“Where are we heading to?” he asks.

“Just… into there.” The older lady motions with a slender finger to the tiny store tucked between a closed dry cleaner and a flower shop.

He can’t really see where he was going, but he hears the ding of a door opening and the old woman’s voice gently guiding him inside. He carefully navigates through the narrow doorway as the smell of old books, musty paper, and something faintly sweet hits him as soon as he steps inside. When he feels his foot seemingly hit the leg of a table, he cautiously sets the box on top of it, making sure it's stable before straightening back up.

“There we go,” he mutters, huffing out a tired breath. “Is there anything else that you need help with?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” The elderly woman shifts past him to examine the box, before reaching over for a pair of scissors to begin tearing into it. “These old bones can’t do much anymore these days.”

Joshua laughs faintly at that, setting his hands on his hips as he takes a look around the bookstore. It’s noticeably tiny, with only a few tall shelves taking up more than half of the space and a cluttered counter at the front with stacks of books waiting to be set out.

He swipes a random book off the shelf, some dust particles hitting his nose and causing him to sneeze. He chuckles softly, feeling a bit sheepish. The elderly lady looks up at him, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Bless you,” she says kindly. “Not many people find their way here these days. It's nice to see a young face.”

“Really?” he questions. “It’s very vintage. I bet there’s a lot of history here.”

“For sure,” the lady responds wistfully. “You should head home now. Sleeping early is good for your health.”

Joshua places the book back on the shelf before heading his way back to the front. The elderly woman hands him back his backpack, wiping away some grime and dust that may have settled on it in the meantime. She continues to shower him with thanks even after he steps past the door. He bids her a wave and a good night before beginning to head his way back home. 

However, a sudden thought crosses his head, and he doesn’t give the way his feet turn back around much hesitation at all. 

He pushes the door open to the bookstore, swallows a lump in his throat, and lets his eyes meet back with the curious old lady. 

“Actually,” he starts, smiling somewhat bashfully. “Do you happen to have any books on sign language?”

“Did you finish totaling it up?”

“Hmm, yeah. Give me a second.” Joshua quickly flips through the bills in his hand, splitting it up as evenly as he could, before handing the rest to Seokmin. “294 dollars.”

Seokmin chuckles, grabbing the money from Joshua before unplugging the microphone. “Not too bad, to be honest, and it's on the worser days of the week.”

“It did help that you were here today. I owe you for that,” Joshua admits cheekily, packing up his guitar inside the case and zipping it up. “Got time for a meal later? My treat.”

Seokmin clicks his tongue, shaking his head while wrapping the microphone cord around the stand. “Maybe next time? I have plans.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow, picking his head up to look at Seokmin. Oh, he knows what's going on, and Seokmin isn't really the best at hiding his facial expressions, or anything really at all. The older man just rolls his eyes, chucking a small pebble in his direction, making Seokmin let out a loud yelp as he dodges it.

“Alright, alright. I get it. Go enjoy your date.”

Seokmin's face reddens, and he huffs, “It's not a date! We're just getting dinner, that's all.”

“Sure, sure,” Joshua continues to tease, standing up and slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. “Whatever you say, buttercup. Have fun, though.”

Seokmin just shoots him a playful glare, grabbing a bag of his own belongings and the microphone stand before heading off, promising another day to catch up, and leaving Joshua alone in the quiet square.

Letting out a sigh, Joshua glances down at his watch, noticing the late time displayed. He contemplates whether he should head back to the café to help Jeonghan with closing, head straight back to the apartment, or stop by somewhere to grab some food, and the thought of food makes his stomach rumble𑁋he decides on making a quick stop at a convenience store.

The convenience store is a familiar sight, one that he goes to often and tucked away in a quiet corner of the street, its bright lights illuminating the surroundings outside and the wet streets. There's a slight drizzle that starts as Joshua enters inside, the door letting out a soft chime. The cashier welcomes him with a nod as he starts to stroll through the aisles.

Joshua wanders through the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves for a quick bite to eat. His gaze lands on a shelf filled with instant noodles, and he grabs a couple of cup noodles (and a can of beer for good measure), figuring they would be enough for a simple dinner. As he makes his way to the cashier, the door rings once more, and he turns to spot a familiar face entering inside𑁋you.

Your eyes meet in an instant as Joshua fumbles with the stuff in his hands, the cup noodles and can of beer suddenly feeling heavier than a sack of bricks. His guitar nearly slides off his shoulder too.

You stare at him for a moment as if in confusion or contemplation. Joshua thinks he sees a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Then your lips curve into a hesitant smile, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. You hadn't expected to see him again, not so soon, but the sight of him fills you with a sense of... comfort, perhaps.

A bashful look washes over your face, and you offer a small wave, your fingers curling into a silent hello. Joshua returns the gesture, his own smile hesitant but clearly genuine.

The silence hangs between you, awkward but strangely filled with something, both of you seemingly unsure of what to say.

Joshua shuffles the abominable weight in his feet, the cup noodles in his grasp feeling like ridiculous boulders.

“Hey,” he mutters out, struggling for words, mentally slapping himself in the face. “I was just about to grab some dinner.”

You watch him, gaze tracing over the lines of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the nervous glint in his eyes. You feel a sudden urge to reach out and somehow wipe away the worry engraving his features, but your hands remain clasped at your side. 

He catches your gaze, and his cheeks flush with a faint blush.

“Would you like to join me?”

The offer floats in the air, hanging between the two of you like a question mark. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, and Joshua fidgets nervously, almost regretfully, while waiting for your response.

Yet unusually, there's something about this that feels... right. Perhaps it's the familiarity of his presence, or something else entirely. You've never really been asked this before, and it feels weird and a bit intimidating, but for some reason, you don't exactly want to step away. The thought of sharing a meal with someone𑁋with him𑁋shoots a bullet of curiosity through you.

Whatever it is, you want to trust it. 

Taking a deep breath, you raise your gaze to meet his. Then you give him a shy smile, one not quite reaching your eyes, and nod ever so slightly.

The cashier looks between the two of you as Joshua places the cup noodles and can of beer on the counter. The chime of the cash register rings out as he pays, and you soon follow after with your own food, placing your own items on the counter, then you both head towards a nearby seating area together.

A growing tapping of rain hits the earth outside as the two of you pick a spot in front of the windows. Joshua sets down his leather bag and guitar, and you place your own painter-splattered canvas tote right next to it.

Joshua feels a tap on his shoulder while aimlessly stirring through his ramen, and he watches as you sign him something with your hands. He doesn't entirely understand what you were signing, but he picks up the motion of a guitar, and he brightens up.

“Guitar?” He gestures to the guitar case nestled at his leg, and he watches as you nod and point at him. “Me? Guitar?”

You give a thumbs-up, and Joshua chuckles, feeling proud for picking up on your words.

“Yeah, I... I've been playing since I was young,” he answers, and you read his lips carefully. “Just as a hobby though, not professionally.”

Your mouth opens in awe, then you lift your hands up again, making a swinging motion with one arm and motioning at him, and Joshua tilts his head curiously.

“Book?” he questions, and you shake your head. He thinks again, repeating your movements. “Oh! Music? Do I make music?”

When you nod again, his heart flutters with victory.

“I play and sing sometimes. Just... small gigs and stuff, nothing too fancy,” he admits meekly. “I've written a few songs too. I guess it's a way to express myself, you know?”

You soak in his words, your eyes focusing on his lips and the subtle shifts in his facial expressions. Joshua swears he feels himself shrink under your gaze, but it feels almost relieving to tell this to you.

You bring your hands up, signing something, and Joshua watches intently, attempting to replicate your movements himself while trying to catch the meaning behind the gestures.

“You... like music?” he ventures, and you give him a small nod.

Joshua smiles at this, before it falters slightly. He opens his mouth up to speak, and you perk up, but then he closes it quickly. He feels the anxiety blooming within him, not knowing how to approach the question without making you uncomfortable.

“Can I…” he starts, feeling regretful already. “Can I ask... how do you…”

You notice the hesitation in Joshua's eyes, seeing how he's trying to ask as delicately as possible without crossing a line. But you already know what he's trying to ask, and you feel yourself willing to answer.

You reach for your phone, and Joshua observes as you type out your words, eyes lingering on the features of your side-profile for a few moments. You show him the message:

Sheet music, song lyrics, vibrations, chords, memories of sounds

“Vibrations, chords…” he leisurely reads out aloud to himself, feeling a mix of understanding and admiration course through him. And when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes widen and seem to burn brighter than the city lights outside. He understands. He gets it.

Silence stretches between you again, but it's no longer awkward; it's more comfortable now. Joshua finishes the rest of his ramen, his gaze occasionally darting towards you, and he catches the way you seem to be staring outside as the rain pours down.

He stares outside too, listening to the rain crashing loudly against the window and the occasional burst of thunder that rumbles in the distance. But then when he looks at you, all of those sounds seem to fade away.

He can't tell if you're lost in thought or simply taking in the scene, but there's a quiet comfort in your stillness that seems to draw him in.

As you watch the raindrops dance on the windowpane, a soft smile plays on your lips, and Joshua catches it. He watches you for a moment, then a sudden thought occurs to him. Slowly, he brings his hands up to his ears, covering them completely, and stares back outside. The muffled sounds of the rain and the faint hum of the convenience store fade into the distant background. It's more peaceful this way.

He likes this quietness, especially if it's with you. 

You face him, tapping lightly on his forearm. Joshua brings his arms down and veers his attention back to you as you draw your hands up, separate and curl your fingers like a claw, before doing a downward motion. He finds himself repeating it as well, head tilted slightly, and then it clicks.

“Rain?” he guesses, motioning to the rain outside before signing it again. “This means rain, right?”

Your eyes widen in victory, a grin curving at your lips, giving him an approving nod. Joshua feels something catch in his throat, but you turn back to the window before he can say anything.

“Rain,” he mutters to himself, unconsciously signing the word right next to you. Then he brings his hand up again, shooting a glance toward you𑁋you're still staring out the window, and the look of content on your face makes his heart flutter a bit more𑁋before slowly fanning his hand across his face, as if to sign the word, “Beautiful.”

“I've seen you do better than this.”

The look of disappointment to your art teacher's face is unchanging as he signs to you. You feel your hands mold into each other under the desk, fingers fidgeting as you try to process the criticism. The words bounce off the walls in your mind, and the weight of them settles in your chest. 

It's not that your painting is bad𑁋it's just not living up to the potential he knows you possess. The colours lack vibrancy, the brushstrokes lack emotion. He leans in, his face mere inches from the canvas, inspecting every detail.

“If you're ever going to put your work in an exhibition, it has to tell a story,” he assures sternly while continuing to sign. “Your art should speak, not just visually, but emotionally. I know you can do better.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod in understanding, though the disappointment lingers. You've been wrestling with this painting for weeks, trying to capture a fleeting emotion, a moment in time that you believed would speak to others, yet you realise you don't have a clear answer. He observes your reaction, and though his expression softens just the slightest, the expectation lingers.

“He’s probably just in a mood,” Wheein reassures you, hands flying in the air as she signs. “You know how he is with deadlines.”

“I can beat his ass for you,” Seungkwan chimes in, emphasizing a punching motion with his hands, which makes you let out a quiet laugh. 

Wheein playfully shoves the younger boy in the shoulders, before snatching away the cup of iced coffee in his hands.

Seungkwan pouts in mock disappointment as Wheein steals a sip of his coffee, but the playful banter manages to lighten the mood a bit.

Wheein hands back the coffee to Seungkwan and gives you a few pats on the back. “You'll get it right, you always do. Just take a step back, clear your mind, and try again, okay?”

Her words make you faintly smile. It's not a secret that you've been experiencing a lot of pressure for this upcoming exhibition competition at the museum, an opportunity for you to finally get your art out there in the world. But the thing is that there are plenty of other artists also fighting for the spot as well, and never in your life have you felt so stuck, so drained of inspiration, so dried out of colour. 

You feel a little lighter from the reassurance from your friends, but at the same time, you feel like it isn't quite enough. There's still a part of you that feels heavy inside𑁋what if you're not meant for exhibitions, if your art can't truly convey the emotions you want to express? What if you're just not meant for this? What if your art isn't enough to convey the emotions you want to share with the world?

The thought lingers as Wheein and Seungkwan dismiss themselves for the evening, and you're left alone roaming the quiet streets on your way back home. The city's lights begin to flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the dewy pavement, the streets a bit more barren than what you are used to. You try to shake off the doubt at the back of your mind, but it clings to you like the raindrops on the leaves.

As you stop at the pedestrian crossing, you shoot your eyes across the street.

A figure stands tall under the glow of a streetlamp, his features highlighted by the warm light. He's also looking across too in your direction, though it doesn't take long for his gaze to drift and land on you, and suddenly, he's waving at you.

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn on you, but when it does, time seems to stand still𑁋it's Joshua. He's standing there with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, waving at you. At first you look behind you to see if it was meant for someone else, but when you realise there's no one else around, you feel an odd pull tugging at your heart.

Because he looks... happy to see you. 

Hesitantly, you raise a hand and give him a small wave back. You notice some contemplation wash over his face, and then you observe as he brings his hands up.

“Nice to see you. How are you?” he signs, albeit clumsily and a bit slow, but the effort is cute, and you find yourself lowering your gaze for a moment to bite back a chuckle.

“Tired,” You sign in response, and mimic the gesture of rubbing your eyes, a small grin playing on your lips.

Joshua's eyes crinkle at the corners, and a soft chuckle escapes his mouth as he watches your playful sign. He follows suit, pretending to yawn and miming the act of stretching, exaggerating the movements comically. It's a simple exchange, but it breaks the ice, and you find yourself smiling more genuinely now.

He ushers a hand up to his cheek. “Home?”

When you give a nod, the signal light turns green, you make your way across the street, noticing Joshua waiting for you on the other side. As you approach him, you catch the nerves in his eyes. He shifts his guitar case on his shoulder, seemingly caught between wanting to say something and waiting for your lead.

With a small tilt of your head, you gesture down the road, asking if he's headed in the same direction as you. But he shakes his head apologetically, signaling that he's heading the opposite way. For a moment, you lift a brow in question, but then Joshua points to himself and then in the direction you're heading.

“Can I…” Your eyes focus on his hands and lips. “walk... you home?”

Your breath catches in your throat, but not from any fear or apprehension. A flutter of nerves dances in your stomach, but is quickly overshadowed by a warm feeling that spreads through you.

Hesitation lingers in the air for a moment, a tiny voice in the back of your mind reminding you of the uncertainties. You didn't want him to take a detour just to walk you home, especially since he was heading in the opposite direction. But then you see the nervous tremor in his hands that mirrors your own, and how his hopeful and vulnerable gaze holds yours as if afraid he had crossed a boundary, and the doubt seems to melt away.

And so, with a soft smile, you sign, “Okay.”

As the two of you set off, the silence that follows feels different than the heavy weight of earlier. It's comfortable, expectant, like a blank canvas waiting for the first splash of colour. You steal glances at him, admiring the way the dim streetlights play on his features, the gentle twinkle that shines in his eyes, how cutely comfortable he appears wearing an oversized jean jacket that almost seems to swallow him whole. And then your eyes set on his guitar case, and curiosity fills you.

You gesture a hand at his guitar, and Joshua raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I…” He lets out a nervous, airy laugh, fiddling with his hands as he attempts to sign and explain, “I had to get some guitar strings replaced. One of them snapped on me earlier, so I stopped by the repair shop.”

You flash him a worried look, motioning a finger at his skin.

Joshua just shakes his head, signing back comfortingly, “I'm okay.”

He watches as you tilt your head just slightly, as if in amusement, like you had caught him saying something suspicious.

You type out something on your phone before showing it to him.

The way you sign is funny

Joshua giggles quietly, and he playfully pouts, a small laugh escaping his lips. “That's mean.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest at his reaction, like a tiny seed of affection sprouting. It's almost like he's attempting to paint with his hands, and the shade isn't quite right, yet it blends in perfectly with just a few more strokes.

There are many people you’ve encountered in life who have communicated with you through sign language, and you noticed that they all have their own unique way of signing. Whether it was Seungkwan with his more expressive and sharp gestures, Wheein with her dainty and flowy style, or Joshua with his uncertain yet gentle movements, you liked they were all different. 

Not being able to hear doesn't bother you anymore, not like it used to when you were younger. It used to build walls around you and separate you from the world. Yet now, you've learned to read sounds with your eyes, hear the voices that emit from a simple smile, a frown, an arch of the brow, because there are a lot more people who can hear than those who can’t.

But out of all those people, someone was the one to wave first across the street.

Joshua finds himself staring up at the intimidating brick façade of your apartment building. When you turn back to him, you offer him a tentative smile, and there's something different about it that makes his chest tighten.

Finally, you muster the courage, your fingers slowly dancing in the air.

“Thank you,” You sign to him. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle, eyes softening. “How do I sign ‘goodnight?’”

You nearly hesitate for a second before bringing out both of your hands. You could feel Joshua watching you carefully at the way you bring your right hand up to your chin and then back down to meet the palm of your other hand, signing the word good. Then you flip your left hand so that it’s facing down, and your other hand brushes over it like the sun is setting over the horizon, signing the word night. 

Joshua watches at the way your hands move gracefully. He follows your movements carefully, a faint smile spreading across his face as he tries to mimic your gestures.

“Good... night,” he repeats slowly, the miniscule dust particles whirling around his fingers as he traces the air. His eyes meet yours, and he could possibly see the flicker of proudness in them. It's a simple exchange, but at this moment right now, it feels significant.

As you unlock the door to your apartment, you turn to look back at him, and he shoots you another wave. Joshua stands there for a moment, watching your door close, before taking in a deep breath to relax the racing of his heart.

Three years ago, Joshua Hong moved away from his family in the hopes of pursuing a music career. It most certainly wasn't an easy decision, leaving behind the familiarity of his hometown and the warmth of his loved ones.

Almost three years later, he might have realised how damn stupid of a choice that might have been.

It's a bit lonely, to put it lightly.

The gigs are sparse, the pay is minimal, and the dreams he once held so tightly in his grasp seem to be slowly slipping away as the days pass.

The journey has been anything but smooth, filled with constant rejections, financial struggles, and moments of self-doubt; and lately these lows seem to be overpowering the highs more than ever. Yet, despite all this, he still chooses to cling to this passion as if it's the air he breathes, because it's something that he loves to do.

Music is the voice he uses when his own isn't enough. He's constantly surrounded by noise, whether it's from the strumming of his own guitar, the sounds of the bustling city, or conversations from strangers that he accidentally overhears when crossing the street.

But then there's the silence𑁋the kind that settles in the spaces between chords, in the moments when he puts the instrument down and the world seems to hum a little quieter. It's in these moments that the loneliness can be deafening.

And then there was you.

The melody playing in his mind for the past week is... hesitant, unsure, much like his own feelings. He isn't sure what it is yet𑁋this feeling that tugs at his chest and paints his cheeks with a faint blush. He only knows that it's connected to you, to the way your eyes narrow in focus when your fingers dance so graciously in the air, and the warmth that spread through him when you thanked him for walking you home the other night.

It was just a simple offer to walk you home, why is it playing on repeat in his mind?

A sigh leaves him as he runs a loose hand through his hair. He tosses away the dirty rag in his hand and stores the cafe's cleaning supplies back and under the counter. The colours of the sun setting outside filters through the large windows, casting orange and red hues on the wooden tables and floor of the empty café.

“You look like you need a drink,” Jeonghan's voice rings out teasingly, and Joshua could only scoff. “You still got that gig later this weekend, right?”

Joshua nips at his bottom lip, releasing a sigh. “I've been feeling a little under the weather, honestly, and I don't really have anything prepared.” I feel like I'm losing my touch.

Jeonghan arches a knowing brow. “Since when do you back down from a gig? Just go up there and pour your heart out. It's what you do best.”

“I'm just not feeling it right now, I guess,” Joshua replies with a half-hearted smile, shoulders only taking on a shrug. He pushes himself away from the counter, and just as Jeonghan is about to crawl under his skin, the bell above the door chimes. “Welcome in…”

He should really learn how to control his stomach from flipping when seeing you𑁋the familiar sight of your paint-smudged canvas tote, the comfort you seem to radiate𑁋but it's not just you alone. There's a girl who he doesn't recognise there too, with her arm linked with yours, and another boy he swears he's seen a few times... Seungkyung? Seungwan? Seungkwan?

Joshua lets his gaze drift to you, and there's a gloom to your face that he can't quite decipher, a certain apprehension that he notices when your eyes make the smallest of contact. He attempts to get your attention by bringing one of his hands up, and you catch sight of it.

“Same?” he signs, as if asking if you want to order the usual drink that you get.

You meet his eyes, and despite the lingering doubts that have been plaguing you, there's a sense of comfort in the familiarity of him. You nod, and that's all it takes for him to brighten up, his smile breaking through the clouds that seem to hang in the air. He watches as you exchange a few words in sign language with Wheein and Seungkwan, then Seungkwan comes over to the counter to place the order.

Maybe he's just seeing things, or maybe it's his mind overthinking for him𑁋there's an undeniable shadow around your eyes that he notices when he brings a tray full of fruit smoothies and iced teas to your table. He sets the drinks down carefully, unable to ignore the way your gaze seems to linger on him for a fraction of a second before flitting away again.

You don't seem to be entirely present in conversation, often drifting off before Wheein or Seungkwan would have to nudge you back into reality. Then a ghost of a smile would draw over your lips, attempting to engage in the conversation with your hands, but all the words seem to disintegrate into ashes.

Another tap at your wrist makes you blink, and you turn to see both Seungkwan and Wheein peering at you with worried expressions on their faces.

“Are you okay?” Wheein mouths quietly, signing lightly with her hands.

Seungkwan turns his head slightly, eyeing something behind him, a scowl to his expression before it curves into a slight smirk; his back was facing where Joshua stood behind the counter, taking in orders for another group of people.

“Café boy?” he mouths to you.

You follow Seungkwan's line of sight, and sure enough, Joshua is there behind the counter𑁋mop of dark hair falling in his eyes, a polite smile playing on his lips𑁋taking and preparing orders with casual ease. You feel a gentle tug in your chest, and for a moment, your gaze locks with his. There's a flicker of concern in his eyes as he watches you, before the corners of his mouth tugs upwards, and you quickly avert your gaze, fingers playing with the straw in your drink.

“He's cuter than I thought,” Seungkwan signs jokingly to you, lifting a teasing brow. “I'd have a crush on him too𑁋ow!”

He's met with Wheein's sharp elbow to his side, making him let out a squeaky wince that might have gained the attention of the entire café, and she scolds him with a shake of her head and a finger to her lips, but it manages to crack a small smile to your face. Seungkwan only grins in victory, tapping his wrist against his heart and giving a thumbs-up as if satisfied with the response he got out of you. 

Ah, the benefits of sign language and being friends with two absolute idiots... No one really knows what the hell you're talking about. 

“You do think he's cute though, right?” Wheein scrunches up her face cheekily, and you could only let a finger drift across the icy surface of your cup, the cold offering little comfort against the sudden warmth blooming in your cheeks to her words.

You roll your eyes, though your face seems to betray you even more. 

“You're not denying it,” Seungkwan adds in, narrowing his eyes at you in a smirk. “Just say you have a crush on him.”

You form a mock-scissor gesture with your fingers, and the threat earns a burst of laughter to leave Seungkwan. The playful jab cuts through the tension, but the truth is, your heart aches a little at his words.

Crush? The word felt alien, yet somehow, it fits. The way your heart skips a beat whenever his gaze met yours, the way his smile warms you from the inside out, the way his clumsy attempts at sign language makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time𑁋these were all signs of something, weren't they?

The atmosphere at the table lightens a bit. It feels nice, spending time with your friends and momentarily pushing aside the doubts of your artistic soul and worries of everything else that have been flying in and out of your head. 

Eventually, the rest of the afternoon wears on, and you somehow manage to survive through Seungkwan and Wheein's (mainly Seungkwan though, unsurprisingly) overbearing and teasing attempts to get you to spill your thoughts on café boy. They give up by the end of it, saying their goodbyes with a tight squeeze of a hug and urging you to keep your chin up. Seriously, you wouldn't know where you would be right now if it weren't for them.

At the back, when Joshua steps out of the restroom, a sudden slap at the wall next to his head startles him back.

“So I see.” Jeonghan circles a finger in front of his face. “You're feeling under the weather, aren't you?”

Joshua groans. “Don't you say it𑁋”

“Under the weather of love𑁋”

“You're having more customers than before because of me. Don't ruin that.”

“Then stop looking like a lovesick puppy and ask them out already, idiot.” Jeonghan shoves the boy forward with a not-so-gentle push to the back. “or at least invite them to your gig. Maybe you won't feel under the weather then.”

Joshua opens his mouth to retort. “Dude, I can't just𑁋”

But before he can finish his sentence, Jeonghan has already disappeared in the back, leaving Joshua standing there in a puddle of embarrassment. He glances towards the table where you were sitting earlier, seeing that you and your friends have already left, and panic shoots through him.

He's never been good at taking risks, but maybe, just maybe, it's time to change that.

Racing out the door, the cool evening air greets Joshua as he steps outside, quickly scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of your familiar figure. He spots you not too far away, heading down the sidewalk, before quickening his strides. He doesn't know what's driving him, but there's a sudden urgency to catch up with you𑁋to not let you slip away just this once. 

And when he finally manages to catch up to you approaching the pedestrian light, he finds himself breathless in front of you, heart pounding in his chest and cheeks flushed, still wearing the café apron around his body. When he looks up to you, clearly startled by his sudden appearance, he feels the heat crawl up his neck. 

“I, um…” he starts, voice coming out way more flat to his ears. Then you watch as he brings his hands up to sign. “Question?”

You feel your heart pick up its pace. He ran all the way out here to ask you a question?

“I have a performance…" His face lights up when he signs the right word. Cute. "...this weekend. I was wondering if you’d like to watch it?” 

You swear you can see the city lights blinking in anticipation around you, your own eyes fluttering in surprise to his question. He's... inviting you to watch him perform? He knows you won't be able to fully understand him, to hear him, yet he's offering you anyway?

Part of you wants to immediately say yes. The thought of watching him sends a wave of thrills through you, a glimmer of excitement warming the chill wrapped around your heart since leaving the café. But the other part𑁋the cautious and guarded part that has learned to retreat behind walls of silence𑁋is reluctant.

Hesitation flickers across your features, and Joshua's hands fly in apology.

“You don't𑁋if you're uncomfortable or if you have plans, it's okay," Joshua reassures quickly, speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything tumbling off his lips. “I could give you my number and text the details if you decide to come. Just... think about it, okay?”

The streetlight casts a soft glow on Joshua's features as he waits for your response. You glance up to the pedestrian signal, noticing that time is ticking down before you would have to leave, before bringing your gaze back to him.

You swallow a lump down your throat, and give a nod. A faint grin breaks across his face. Joshua fumbles with his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and offering it to you. You swiftly type in your phone number, then hand the phone back to him, and then the pedestrian signal switches to green. It's your time to go. Each footstep you take feels heavier and heavier. 

Joshua watches you go, but not before you both exchange your habitual waves to each other.

He can get used to that, he thinks.

The colours on your palette just look absolutely wrong. 

It may just be the lighting playing tricks on your eyes and the exhaustion hanging on your eyelids, but it all looks slightly off-shade, the teeniest tiniest bit cooler or warmer. You frown, dipping your brush into the paint, attempting to mix them until they match the image you have in your mind. But it's like trying to catch sunlight with your bare hands𑁋the more you try, the more it slips away.

You let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in your chair, and your gaze wanders to the canvas. The painting stares back at you tauntingly. It's like a stranger's work, not your own. A sense of defeat washes over you.

Groaning, you hop to your feet, untangling the apron around your waist and letting it fall to the ground before taking your paint brushes to the sink in your bathroom. You wash off the paint with a bit too much force, the bristles scraping against the porcelain, almost as if you were trying to scrub away your own frustration. The paint swirls down the drain, the colours blending together into an ugly, murky green before ultimately disappearing. 

You chug down an entire glass of water from your kitchen, then shut off the light hanging above your canvas. Sprawling on top of your bed, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that the walls could cave in and swallow you whole, if only for a moment.

When you reach behind to fish for your phone annoyedly, your eyes nearly bulge out of its skull. 

You don’t even have to read out the entire message for you to jump up from your bed. Your eyes dart from the time displayed at the top of your phone, and to the words jumping at you from the screen.

[06:26PM | joshua hong] Hey it's Joshua! Sorry I know it's a bit last minute, but my performance is supposed to start in about 15 [06:29PM | joshua hong] But I totally understand if you aren't able to attend. It's no problem at all :) 

And perhaps it's the adrenaline from reading the message knowing it’s from Joshua, because you’re suddenly standing up and racing to the bathroom. You don’t understand how you look more disheveled than before, and you can hardly do much to touch yourself up before you’re shrugging, grabbing a jacket, and leaving. 

You nearly trip on the way out the door, and you could already feel the multitude of curses echoing through your head. 

Gosh, you can hardly believe how much time has slipped away from you. The stress coming from painting and deadlines has been gnawing at you day by day. It’s been the only thing pulling you back from doing anything else. Yet with every stroke you bring to the canvas, it feels empty. You feel empty. 

The streets of the city feel busier than usual, the air thick of your already deteriorating patience, and an unnerving anxiety gnaws at your insides. 

You don't have to attend𑁋you know it's a choice you could make, but why does the thought of not seeing him perform make your heart clench? Why does the thought of simply not seeing him make your steps quicken even more?

The doors to the bus ahead slam shut the second you stride up to it, and your hand comes up to pound at the heavy metal surface in anger. With a huff, you step back from the edge of the street, ignoring the stares being shot towards you by passersby while watching as the bus pulls away, leaving you standing uselessly on the sidewalk.

A person almost bumps into you once you turn around. Every taxi that you attempt to grab is immediately taken. You blink back some heat in your eyes, arms wrapping around your body as if trying to mask away the sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. You brush past a sea of shoulders and weave through the bustling streets of the city. Seriously, why the hell is it so busy right now? 

But even as you continue to float your way through the crowded streets, you could feel all the hope at getting to Joshua’s performance deflate. The day really wasn’t all on your side right now, and it all seems to rain down weights at your feet, slowing you down with every step you take. 

Why does it matter? You ask yourself inwardly, skepticism knitting at your brows. Why does his performance matter so much? 

A sharp nudge at your shoulder blade makes you wince. And when you bring your eyes back up, you suddenly realise you’re the only one left standing at the pedestrian light, watching as the sea of people ahead of you cross without any worry. The other side seems so close yet so far. 

Your gaze flickers up at the seconds counting down, your thoughts thinking back to Joshua, and you suddenly find yourself darting across the street.

Joshua's brow twitches faintly when his calloused fingers strum at his guitar strings. 

It’s a bit warmer this evening, the air feeling strangely muggier than usual. The note that leaves his guitar sounds slightly off-tune, but he doesn’t get himself to fix it. Instead, he hunches over to aimlessly grab at his guitar case right at his feet, snatching the coins he may have missed picking up before beginning to pack everything up. 

Joshua glances around the beautifully lit-up busking area, eyes scanning over the dwindling crowd. It’s a relatively small, circular area making up the heart of a tiny social sphere surrounded by local markets and restaurants. Despite that, there’s an emptiness lingering around him, one that feels awfully familiar yet more noticeable than ever before. He gazes back down and pockets the coins with a practiced shrug, a movement that barely hides the disappointment nagging at him.

When a coin slips out of his grasp, he bends down to retrieve it. But as he’s about to come back up, a shadow seems to loom above him, and the outsole of a shoe nearly steps on his fingers. 

Joshua picks his head back up, half-expecting for it to be a complete stranger and totally not half-hoping that it would be… you, hunched over and out of breath.

“Y/N?” he asks, swiftly putting the coin away. “You came.” 

You only give an imperceptible, apologetic nod at his words. Joshua glances around for a moment, before looking down at his guitar, and back to you.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “You just missed it.”

A thin line forms at your lips as you sign, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Joshua waves dismissively with his hands in a slight panic. “You must have been busy, right?”

You smile faintly at that, nodding once more, before taking out your phone to type:

I wanted to come

Once Joshua reads it, you see the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. “You did?”

The curve at your lips lifts even more, but just barely. Joshua’s head falls down for a minute as he peers down at his feet, attempting to hide away a grin threatening at his own face, before looking back up at you and clearing basically nothing in his throat. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“I’m glad you came,” he says, a sweet, appreciative tone to his words. You can’t hear it but you can see it in the way his eyes seem to smile as wide as his lips. “I was… kind of hoping you would show up. Not… not in a weird way or anything! I just𑁋I think I would have felt a little more confident if you were here. A face that I know.” 

Your face scrunches together in a bit of worry and a pinch of surprise, but Joshua just shakes his head and chuckles it off. 

The two of you stand there for a few moments. It’s really your first time being right in the centre of the busking square. Fairy lights hang on the few trees that dot around the area. You could see some small and large groups of people huddling nearby, presumably watching other performers performing, but you and Joshua just stood adrift in your own little bubble, like two stars separate from their own galaxies. 

The fairy lights cast a warm glow on Joshua's face, highlighting his hair that was floofed out in soft wisps around his forehead. You watch the way he runs his hand through it before taking a deep breath and returning to packing up his guitar. You casually wander close, looming over as you observe him in curiosity. 

Once Joshua slings his guitar back over his shoulder, he turns back to you. 

“Are you…” he starts to ask while signing. “...going back home now?”

You glance down at the time on your phone, pursing your lips together lousily. You should probably head home to start back on your painting, but that’s not what your thoughts are telling you to do, nor your heart. Or maybe your entire body, in fact. 

“If you are,” Joshua’s hands catch your attention again, then you focus in on his lips. “can I walk you home again? Like last time? It’s the least I could do since you ran all the way here. I have to give some worth to your effort, right?” 

You almost swear you could read the playfulness on his features, like the way his eyes crinkle subtly at the corners, or even in the way his head is tilted unnoticeably.

You can get used to that side of him, possibly.

You only abruptly turn around, leaving Joshua puzzled for a second, before he’s snatching the rest of his belongings and jogging to catch up to you. Then the two of you are walking side by side just as all the times before, the distance between you closing naturally. 

The world you’re used to is already quiet, silent even, but it’s different now. Joshua’s presence is loud, not in sound, but in the way it seems to comfortably fill the space around you. You don’t really know how to describe it without sounding awfully obvious that… you like when he’s around you; or, you like when you’re around him. 

His guitar case occasionally bumps your hip at his side, and his every attempt to create more space only seems to bring him back to the tiny amount of distance between you two anyway. Then Joshua switches carrying the case from one shoulder to the other, and as he does, his free hand briefly brushes against yours. The touch is fleeting, but enough to send a jump to your stomach. He quickly looks at you with a sheepish grin, muttering an apology that you can't hear but can easily read in his expression. 

The night air is cooler now, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead and causing them to fall to the ground like feathers at your feet. 

Joshua feels a light tap at his arm, and he turns to see you showing him a message on your phone.

Did your performance go well? 

He smiles nimbly at that, but you can tell in the way his eyes seem to cast a shadow over his face that he's not entirely satisfied. He only nods slightly, a noncommittal gesture. 

“It was alright,” he says while signing, fingers moving reluctantly. “The crowd was small, and I wasn’t at my best. But it’s okay.” 

You frown a little, and the way he casts his head down to the ground makes your chest squeeze. 

“Maybe it was good that you didn’t come,” Joshua mumbles under his breath, and you hardly catch what he was saying, but you could sense the diffidence emitting from him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you either.” 

Both of your footsteps slow down ever so slightly as you approach a familiar street corner, the dim glow of a lamppost shining down on the two of you. Joshua notices the pensive expression to your features as your fingers dance across your phone screen. 

You hesitate for a moment before showing him. 

You tried your best. That’s all that matters

Then you’re abrupt to take your phone away before Joshua could process your words, typing something else again before flipping your phone around for him to read.

You wouldn’t have disappointed me

Joshua stares at the simple message. A hearty sound seems to bubble out of his chest, then another, and another, before it turns into a brief fit of coughs and a mix of laughter altogether. You can’t help but giggle at his reaction. It's light and airy, like wind chimes dancing in the breeze, and it feels like breaking a sound barrier you didn't even know existed between the two of you.

When he returns his gaze to you, he grins again, beaming even, a sliver of teeth expressing relief and a newfound confidence. 

“Thank you,” he tells you. “That means a lot to me.” 

You nod your head coyly, and before Joshua can say anything else, you’re already turning around and beginning to walk. Yet just after the first few steps, a boom of thunder echoes in the distance, and a raindrop lands at the top of your head. 

You stop and turn to see Joshua racing after you, and he stops right next to you. 

“Rain,” he simply signs. “It’s raining.”

And then, the two of you don’t even have to say anything before you’re running through the incoming rain together. You try to run as fast as you can without looking back because you know that Joshua is behind you, the rain beginning to fall down heavier and heavier as you dart through the streets and into the area where your apartment is located. 

Joshua stops right at the entrance, the same place where he had stopped last time. He watches as you continue to dash away from him, before coming to a halt, and turning around to notice him standing there under the pouring rain. 

Raindrops plaster in your hair and clothes as you face Joshua standing at the entrance of your apartment building. His hair is damp and matted to his forehead, damp clothes clinging to his frame as the rain running in rivulets down his face. Despite the downpour, his eyes meet yours with an unwavering gaze.

“Are you alright?” he signs nearly frantically, and you squint your eyes to be able to see him more clearly. 

While catching your breath, you motion for Joshua to come closer, shielding yourself under the small awning of your apartment building. He hesitates for a moment, glancing around as if assessing the situation, but then he’s jogging up to you, joining you under the small shelter of your building that could probably only fit two people. 

Both of you stand there as you watch the rain pour down to the earth in front of you. Then you glance at Joshua, and then at your apartment, then back outside again. He can’t go home in this rain right now without a singular bit of protection.

A tug at Joshua’s sleeves makes him turn to face you, softening at the way you look so concerned yet… cute in your own little way.  

Without any thinking, you gesture towards your apartment, as if silently offering him an invitation.

The surprise on Joshua's face is clear. His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. He glances back at the downpouring rain, then back at you with uncertainty. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

You nod again, even opening the door for him and waiting for him to step inside. He hesitates again, but the apparent adamancy on your features brings some warmth to blossom through his chest. He fixes his guitar case on his shoulder and steps past you into the dry hallway, water from his hair and clothes dripping down to the ground. 

Joshua follows you down the narrow hallway toward your apartment door, his shoes squeaking slightly on the tiled floor below, a slip of nervousness with every step he takes. The hallway is dimly lit, with a faint aroma of incense lingering in the air. You unlock the door and hold it open for him, gesturing for him to enter first. And as he steps past you, he’s immediately greeted with the warmth of your place.

You take off your own shoes right after him as he stands somewhat awkwardly in the middle of your apartment. It’s smaller than he imagined, but it’s enough for him to recognise glimpses of your personality scattered around. It’s cozy, minimalist, yet it’s home to you, and that’s all that matters to him. 

You appear back in front of him with a towel in your hands, and you hold it out to Joshua, who takes it from your grasp gratefully. He starts to dry his hair and face, the towel absorbing the rainwater and providing some warmth against his skin. As he does so, he steals glances around your apartment, catching sight of an easel holding up a large canvas. 

There are other paintings on your walls too. He smiles to himself as he steps closer towards the canvas, the painting appearing unfinished and a bit weathered with all of its strokes, but nevertheless eye-catching, filling him with wonder about what the finished product may look like. 

You emerge from your bedroom and scan around the room, and when your eyes land on Joshua, you find him peering down at your unfinished painting, a thoughtful expression on his face as he cards through his hair with the towel. He turns to you, eyes widening at the sight of you in a set of new, dry clothes, then shifts his gaze to what you're holding.

It’s an oversized, grey hoodie, and it proudly displays the name of the museum that you frequent. You hold it out to Joshua with a shy look. He sets the towel aside and takes the hoodie from your hands. Immediately, you take a deep breath and face yourself away to let him change, and Joshua watches as you disappear into the small kitchen area, giving him a moment of privacy.

After propping his guitar case next to your easel, he strips off his wet shirt, replacing it with the dry, oversized hoodie. It’s warm and extremely comfortable, smelling like it’s been freshly washed with a scent hinting at lavender, and instantly offers the relief he needed after running through the rain earlier.

Then Joshua gazes around your apartment again. There’s a bookshelf lined with art books and tiny succulents, a small couch with a knitted blanket draped over its arm, and a table with a collection of paintbrushes, unused palettes, and an endless collection of bottles of paint. It’s a different sight than what he’s used to, that’s for certain𑁋he’s used to microphone chords being tangled together, the worn leather of his guitar case at his fingertips, and the hum of music drifting through his life. 

The sound of your footsteps echoes softly from the kitchen, drawing Joshua's attention away from his thoughts. You're holding two mugs in your hands, steam curling up from the brims, and the scent of herbal tea wafts through the air. You carefully hand one to him, before settling on the couch, snugly tucking your legs underneath yourself. Joshua follows suit right after, sitting down right next to you while taking a steady sip from the warm tea. He feels the warmth seep into his fingers as he cradles the mug in his hands. 

He glances at you, noticing how relaxed you seem all curled up on the couch, the soft light casting a gentle glow on your face.

Joshua leans down to set the mug back on the table, catching your attention. 

“Thank you,” he mouths quietly, signing to you. 

You offer a small nod in response, then take out your phone to type:

Is it still raining hard outside? 

Joshua leans back on the couch to listen, narrowing his eyes intently. He still hears the rain outside, but it seems to have calmed down quite a bit. Yet the thought of him staying longer in your place makes his ears burn hotter than the steaming cup of tea in his hands.

He turns back at you and nods his head, knowing it’s a bit of a white lie but deciding that it’s worth staying just a little longer with you. He watches the way your face shifts into a contemplative look. 

Your fingers dance along with your screen once more. 

You can stay until it stops

“Are you sure?” Joshua questions incredulously. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.” 

You shake your head firmly, the smile playing on your lips widening just a touch. It's clear in your eyes that you’re genuinely telling him it’s okay, and that assurance softens something in Joshua's chest. He glances down at his mug on the table, staring at the way the steam curls up into the air like delicate wisps.

It feels almost natural to do this𑁋to sit here under the excuse of sheltering away from the rain, but really, it's a bit more than that, more obvious than what you both assume. For some reason, it’s easier to be around each other than sitting alone in your separate worlds of sound and art. 

When Joshua drinks the rest of his tea, he catches a glimpse of his guitar case standing right next to your easel, and a light flickers on his head. 

“Since you missed my performance,” he starts to say, signing a bit flimsily and unconfidently. “I was wondering if I could… maybe sing for you?” 

You cock your head to the side, curiosity piqued. “Sing?”

“Sing.” Joshua copies right after you. He remembers when you mentioned that even though you can’t hear, you can still feel the vibrations, read the chords and lyrics, and enjoy the music like others.

And while he feels nervous, the way his heart flutters at the thought of you listening to him sing makes him feel a bit… hopeful, confident, like he told you before. He likes to think that your presence alone is much more comforting and reassuring than a group of strangers gathered around him in the busking area. 

Joshua takes a deep breath, before standing up and fetching his guitar gently from its case, resting the instrument on his knee. The rich scent of wood fills the air as he tunes it, deftly plucking each string with practiced fingers until it comes to the correct note. You could only watch in awe, glancing between the guitar and his focused expression. His brows knit together tightly and his eyes come to a close for a few moments𑁋you can’t seem to tear your own gaze off him. 

When he finishes tuning, he opens his eyes, seemingly noticing how attentive you’re to his every move. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he casts his eyes down for a moment before meeting yours again. He clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder.

“Can I…” he begins to ask, holding out his hand towards you. You peer down at it, noticing how it hovers expectantly between you. 

As your hand is about to brush against his, Joshua gently takes your hand with his own, his calloused fingertips meeting your soft ones briefly. He guides your hand on the body of his guitar. Your fingers rest lightly against the smooth wood, feeling the vibrations as he strums a few chords softly. 

Your eyes widen as you look back up at him, surprised at how vivid the sensation is right at the ends of your fingers. 

“You can read my lips too.” Then he pauses, before continuing, “if you want to, at least.” 

With that, he plays a few chords, the vibrations running through the guitar and to your hand, even down your body. And when his lips start to move, you try to focus on his every word, watching the shape of his mouth as he sings. 

For years, you’re used to reading sound with your eyes. Sure, you’ve touched instruments, like the piano in the music room during elementary school or the drumset you would see backstage before a school concert. But no one ever played them𑁋nobody ever played for you. 

So when you read from your eyes, there’s always that second of disconnect when you blink, and the inner anxiety that you could miss even the tiniest detail of the music. However, everytime you blink now, you could feel Joshua singing and playing right at the ends of your fingertips, as if he was telling you that it’s okay to keep your eyes closed without worrying, simply because he was right there. 

This is what passion looks like on someone else, and for some reason seeing all that unfold before you makes it all more beautiful. 

You notice Joshua closes his eyes or peers down sometimes when he gets more focused, yet it doesn’t take anything away from his singing. The way his fingers effortlessly glide over the strings of his guitar, or the subtle lift to his lips when he’s singing𑁋you know that his heart is completely in it. 

It’s beautiful. He’s… beautiful.

The song ends before you hardly notice. You keep your hand resting on the guitar, the vibrations still buzzing ever so slightly on your fingertips after Joshua strums the final set of chords. 

Joshua shifts uncomfortably for a moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the guitar in his lap. He scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. 

“Did you... like it?” he asks tentatively while searching your face, signing the words as he speaks.

You merely blink up at him too, as if you’re still stuck processing everything and nothing all at once, before nodding reassuringly. 

Joshua's expression softens with relief, his shoulders relaxing visibly as he lets out a quiet sigh. He glances down at your hand still resting on his guitar, a certain warmth spreading through his chest at the way you're looking at him.

“You felt it, didn't you?” he asks quietly. “The vibrations?”

You consider nodding again, but instead, you reach back for your phone to type.

It was beautiful. I haven’t felt music like that in a long time

Joshua can’t help but smile to himself, and there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore when he does. He likes knowing that he’s happy around you, likes feeling himself be happy around you. It’s a feeling that feels easy, natural, like he doesn't have to try too hard. 

He gently places his guitar back in its case, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. You notice his fingers linger on the case for a moment, before he turns back to you.

“I think that I was right about what I said earlier,” he affirms, and there seems to be content hinting on his features. “about feeling more confident… when you’re around. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

Of course, he was nervous, anxious if anything𑁋but in between all that nerves was the comfort of someone who listened to him more intently than any audience ever could. 

Joshua clears his throat and peers around after setting his case back down, trying to brush off the fact that you’re sitting way more closer to him than before. You’re typing something on your phone again, the bright screen emitting on your face and making you bat your eyelashes together. 

You lightly tap on his shoulder to get his attention, showing your message:

You can always practice here, if you want

“Practice? Here? You want𑁋I can practice here?” The disbelief in his face makes you purse your lips together endearingly. “I hardly ever have the chance to practice because Jeonghan𑁋my roommate𑁋is sick of me being loud, at this point. I’ve been saving up to move out, but it’s been hard.”

When he realises how fast he spoke and the way you’re watching him closely, all he does is smile faintly.

“I’ll be sure to use the opportunity wisely,” he assures you, and there’s that lightheartedness back on his face again.

Your knee rubs against his when you stand up to put away the empty mugs back in the kitchen. It gives Joshua the chance to look around your place again, and his eyes settle on your unfinished painting on the other side of the room. 

“Could you…” he starts to ask once you’re walking back to the couch, his fingers moving unsurely in the air. “Could you tell me about your paintings?” 

At first, there’s a bit of hesitancy in your movements. But the genuinity you see in his gaze seems to tug at your heartstrings more than ever. You show him a message on your phone:

As long as you tell me about your songs

Joshua’s eyes light up at your message, a grin spreading across his face. 

“It’s a deal,” he says.

You could probably count the individual dust specks floating in the sunbeams pouring inside the classroom. 

Warm water trickles down your hands and into the sink below as you rinse off some paint brushes, before placing them in a discoloured, paint-covered bucket right beside you.

The museum has a variety of art classes, mostly for people who aspire to get their artwork shown in exhibitions. You aren’t any different from them𑁋you all seek the same goal, which is to be heard and recognised for your work; this small inkling to be known or even vaguely known by someone.

Once you finish cleaning up, you dry your hands on a rag and take a moment to look around the desolate classroom. The smell of paint and the sight of easels and canvases everywhere feels like home, but lately you’ve been questioning if it’s actually home, or just a temporary refuge. The question nags at you as you gather your belongings to put in your worn-out tote bag.

Stepping out of the classroom, you start to walk through the nearly empty museum, passing by hallways with art ranging from contemporary, to modern, to as far back as the classics. You’ve probably been through these halls a countless number of times𑁋retaining everything from the title of the piece to the artist’s name and technique𑁋and you would still be in utter awe. 

However, just as you reach the main area of the museum, a figure peering up at a painting catches your eyes. The guitar case that hung on his shoulder stuck out like a sore thumb among every other person in the room, and the sight makes you chuckle to yourself because you recognise Joshua instantly. 

You stand there for a moment, observing him from a distance as he studies the painting with a thoughtful expression. His fingers tap lightly against the strap of his guitar case, and you feel like if you focus even more, you could possibly see the thoughts wrapping around his head. 

Joshua glances at his phone for a millisecond before turning around, abruptly stopping when he sees the sight of you standing not that far away from him. The corners of his lips lift into a gentle smile upon seeing you, or his face seems to almost brighten up entirely, you can hardly tell. He brushes a hand through his hair before offering you a small wave, which you reciprocate back with one of your own without any hesitation. 

There’s a rush of warmth that flows through you as he approaches up to you.

You stare at him quizzically as you lift your hands up to sign, “What are you doing here?” 

Joshua shoots a bashful look down at his own feet before picking himself back up. 

“I wanted to see you,” he says quietly while signing, and his hand movements are as shy as his words. 

His words hardly process for a few moments, and Joshua thinks he might have overstepped. The hopeful glint in his eyes dims subtly, replaced by a shy apology already forming in his hands at the shock to your features. Maybe wanting to see you was a bit too forward of him. 

But it’s the way your hands nearly come in contact with his own to dismiss his worries that stops him mid-apology. You shake your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

“I…” You start, then pause, because Joshua’s focused, unwavering, yet patient gaze tugs at something inside of you. Gathering your thoughts, you continue signing slowly, “I thought about seeing you too.” 

A surprised, somewhat choked laugh escapes Joshua's lips, a sound as light and unexpected as what you just said. Relief washes over him, clear as the day outside and the sunlight streaming through the museum windows. He seems to hold his breath for a moment before a grin splits his face apart. 

“Really?” he signs back, and it’s cute seeing how expressive he is when he’s surprised. 

“Yes,” You reply back firmly, hopefully being able to emphasize it enough with your fisted hand.

Joshua rubs at his nose nervously, and even the gesture being so small feels charming somehow. The weight of your art supplies feels lighter in your bag than they have in a while. 

“I have some time before practice though,” he shares, pondering lightly. “Would you like to grab a bite to eat first?”

Your lips lift at the offer, and you scramble a hand in your bag to retrieve your phone. But your fingers fumble, encountering only paint brushes and sketchbooks. Panic starts to rise in your chest as you frantically dig deeper within your bag. Your phone. It's not there. It’s probably back in the classroom.

You shoot an innocent look at Joshua, catching sight of his worried, furrowed brows. You try to explain to him with your hands, but your movements are hurried and you could tell he didn’t entirely understand. So you settle with a helpless shrug and a motion towards a deeper part of the museum, and he seems to catch on. 

Joshua feels the hesitation in his step when he sees you turn around and begin walking away. Considering for a second, he catches up to you quickly, the sounds of his shoes bouncing off the museum floors. 

He follows right next to you quietly, taking in the museum’s atmosphere as you navigate through the familiar halls. When the two of you reach a room, you hold the door open for him, and Joshua swears he hasn’t really seen anything like this before. 

The room is large and very open, the natural lighting from the outside flowing in from the windows. Unused easels and canvases stood at the corners of the room. There’s a long, wooden table perched in the middle of the room, and a whiteboard that takes up a small portion of the wall. Joshua takes the time to look around as you dash to the cleaning station where you were putting up the supplies, and there was your phone𑁋sitting idly with a few drops of water on its screen that you wipe away.

Joshua is standing with his arms crossed at the whiteboard, eyes squinting as if he was trying to discern the faded markings. You stand right next to him once you come up, bringing your gaze also to the whiteboard. 

He turns to you, seemingly inquisitive. “Is this an art class?”

You manage a nod. But you feel like it isn’t enough of an answer and decide to pull out your phone instead. 

It’s an art class for the deaf, and for those who want to show their work in the exhibitions here

Joshua’s mouth opens in awe as he reads the words on your screen. A flicker of understanding lights up his eyes as he processes the information.

“That's amazing,” he tells you while signing back, expression visibly softening. “I had no idea they had classes like this here. How long have you been coming?”

He watches as you look back down to type on your phone, taking the few seconds as a chance for his eyes to drift over your features, silently taking in the concentration etched on your face. When you finish typing, you show him the screen. 

Just for the past year. There’s only a few of us in the class. Sometimes I’m the only person who shows up though

“Ah,” Joshua only hums contemplatively. He glances around once more, as if trying to see the room through your perspective. “That must feel lonely sometimes.”

You nod, letting out a low sigh as you type out your next message:

It can be. But it's also peaceful. Gives me time to think and create without any distractions

“I get it.” Joshua nods with a small smile. “You’re dedicated. I admire that.” 

Your heart swells a little at his words. It's always a vulnerable thing𑁋sharing a piece of your world with someone else, but Joshua’s presence seems to make it all a little less daunting, a little more comfortable. 

Joshua’s eyes settle on a corner where a few canvases lean against the wall, seemingly forgotten or awaiting their turn under someone’s hand. He steps closer to it, running his fingers lightly over the rough edges of one of the frames, then turns back to you.

“Do you have any of your work shown here in the museum?” he asks curiously. 

A rush of emotions floods through you, a frown caressing your face—pride sprinkled with uncertainty, hope clouded by doubt. You've always dreamed of showcasing your work, to be recognised and understood through your art. However, you feel a twinge of self-consciousness creeping in, because the dream of one day having your work displayed alongside the masterpieces lining the museum walls feels both distant and impossibly close at the same time.

Sensing your shift in mood, Joshua raises his eyebrows in question. You fumble with your phone again, typing out a response and showing it to him. 

I’m not sure if my work is good enough for that

Joshua's expression softens even further. “But you wouldn't keep creating it if you didn't believe in it, would you?”

Oh, he’s got you there, you think. A certain warmth starts to spread through you at his perceptiveness, a twitch at your lips from a suppressed smile trying to break free.

“And even if you don’t believe in it right now,” Joshua starts, placing himself right next to you gazing down at the empty canvases waiting to be touched. “I believe in you. I mean it.”

You exhale softly, a weight lifting off your shoulders as you absorb his words. For the first time in a while, you begin to see your art through a different lens—not just as smears on a canvas, but as a reminder that this is something you love.

It’s been a while since someone’s said that they believe in you, and it hits you right in the heart. 

“Is the painting in your place the one you want to finish for the museum?”

You nod in response to that, though the sullen look to your face doesn’t seem to exactly agree. 

There’s an exhibition being held just a few weeks from now, which is also the deadline for submitting your painting, which was being judged. The pressure has been getting to you, admittedly, and it feels like time is slipping away faster than you can paint. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll get back home later today and pick up your paint brush without it feeling like a burden to hold. 

Joshua says something you don’t catch quick enough when you face back to him, and you tilt your head in question.

“I’m not sure if I did the sign right.” And then he brings his hands up, signing to you, “Good luck.” 

Heat crawls up your neck to his words, and a smile fights its way through the lingering uncertainties and stretches shamelessly across your face. 

His hand comes awfully close to yours when he brings them down to the side. 

You draw yourself away when you feel your phone vibrate in your hand, only seeing that it was some useless notification. Joshua fixes himself up as well, turning to you fully, and you both exchange shy grins.

“Food?” He brings his hand up to his mouth, almost mimicking like he was putting a piece of food there. 

You adjust the strap of your bag and double-check to make sure you have your phone with you, before nodding. The two of you head out of the classroom together.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re both basically dating.” 

The way your face scrunches up in visible disgust to Seungkwan’s words has Wheein shoving the younger boy with a daggered stare, nearly making the stick of tanghulu fall from his grasp. 

“You can’t just claim that,” Wheein retorts back.

“He walks Y/N home! He’s been inside their place! He wants to see them! Y/N doesn’t even let us come inside their place these days and yet here’s this guy waltzing his way into their heart!” 

“I can’t tell if you’re insulting him or thanking him,” Wheein points out playfully, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. 

“I'm not doing either,” Seungkwan protests, feigning a snarky look. “I'm just stating the facts. If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck.”

At this point, your friends are speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything being said, but all you could do is bring your head down and gaze to your footsteps, a subtle, amused grin playing to your lips. They’re arguing about your life, and yet it makes you feel… acknowledged, seen, heard, because your world before seemed to revolve solely around you and your art only for the longest you can recall. 

An adamant tap lands on your shoulder, and you bring your head back up to face Wheein. 

“Isn’t the exhibition next week?” she asks, signing with a sense of urgency in her expression.

Your face falls a little, and the thought of the deadline and exhibition seems to loom over you like a dark storm cloud. It feels like yesterday you were just staring at a blank canvas, and now every inch of it is covered in a mess of colours that is undeniably far from what you can consider a masterpiece.

Wheein and Seungkwan could already tell by the weak nod that you give that you’re feeling the pressure of it all. The two of them exchange a knowing look with each other, and it isn’t long before you feel another tap at your shoulder. Wheein motions to something up ahead, and as you face forward in order to see what it was, a hand grabs at your sleeve and you find yourself being dragged forward by your two best friends.

You can hardly control where your feet are landing in front of you, and the only thing you could catch ahead is a crowd and the familiar sight of what appears to be the busking centre. There must be some kind of performance going on, and it peaks your interest. 

The faces surrounding you are all bleeding out enjoyment, with their wide eyes and mouths blossomed into large grins. Their hands are all clapping in unison, some even mouthing the words to lyrics you can hardly make out.

You don’t recognise the small band that’s performing. But then you imagine Joshua being the one at the centre of the crowd, playing his heart out, captivating the audience just like how he captivated you, and the disappointment melts away. 

You find yourself standing at almost the core of the crowd, with Wheein and Seungkwan clapping and cheering animatedly on either side of you. In an odd way, this position feels familiar, as if you’ve stood from this exact same angle before.

You're close enough to see the raw energy pouring off the musicians, the way their instruments become extensions of themselves𑁋the same as Joshua sitting across from you on the couch with his guitar in lap, eyes closed in concentration, and fingers dancing effortlessly along the strings. The memory of that night floods your mind, and you can almost feel the vibrations of his music under your fingertips once again.

It all brings a smile to your face. 

As the music surrounds you, you can see the passion radiating from each band member’s face, carrying away the weight of the upcoming exhibition and the pressures you've been feeling. In this moment of respite, it's just you, your friends, and the music.

When you get back home to your apartment that night, you find yourself focusing on clicking through the photos on your camera roll, almost like you were searching for a particular one. 

And then you find it𑁋the photo you took at the busking square all those weeks ago, the photo you took of that man singing and strumming along his guitar…

…the photo that you took of Joshua Hong, where you didn’t know his name at the time. And now, he’s standing in the middle of your thoughts, and singing directly to your heart. 

It’s almost suffocating to be sitting in this chair right now. Your posture is stiff as a rock, legs shaking underneath your hands that were folded on your lap, other people𑁋other artists just like you𑁋surrounding you like flies. 

You feel excruciatingly hot in your outfit, a formal one that you picked from the depths of your wardrobe that still somehow fits your body still. It’s been a while since you put this much effort into your appearance𑁋you can hardly remember the last time you dressed up like this, honestly𑁋and the unfamiliarity of it all prickles at your skin. 

The day of the exhibition is more chaotic than you expected for it to be. It’s practically held to the public, where almost anyone can walk in and watch the event for themselves. 

Across the vast room, you catch glimpses of other artists, seeing their diverse styles of clothing. There’s a woman with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking down her arm; at the far end, a man in a crisp suit, frown etched at his face, large glasses, with a neatly trimmed beard.

The walls are covered with various works of art, each piece representing the countless hours of dedication and passion of the artists. It’s a grand showcase, bigger than any small ones you’ve seen. The large hall that you’re standing in has been temporarily transformed into a visual showcase where curators and critics would walk around and judge the pieces. By the end of the night, only about half of the submissions would be considered to be permanently displayed in the museum. The thought makes your stomach churn with anxiety.

Joshua had sent you a simple Good luck! You’ll do amazing :) text before you arrived at the museum. It comforts you a little bit, but not entirely𑁋you feel like you’d feel better if he could be here with you in person. He couldn’t come because he had to look after the café. Wheein was also here somewhere too participating in the exhibition, clearly not anywhere near where you were placed in the vast hall. 

The exhibition begins with a formal speech from the museum's director, who talks about the importance of art in society and how this exhibition aims to bring fresh perspectives to the world. As the speech concludes, curators and critics start moving around the large room, closely examining each piece and approaching all the other artists. 

Your eyes follow a few as they approach your painting. They stand before it, whispering among themselves, their expressions indecipherable. You wish you could hear their thoughts, but instead, you focus on their body language𑁋the subtle nods, the thoughtful gazes. Some of them barely have their lips moving for you to be able to read them, while others are simply not speaking at all. At the corner of your eyes, you’re able to make out a few artists speaking with confidence to the curators, explaining their creative process and the message behind their pieces. Disappointment claws anxiously at your chest. 

The sign language interpreter that is supposed to accompany you doesn’t show up until after a few crucial moments with curators have passed. By the time she arrives, introducing herself and quickly apologising for the long delay, you’re already feeling a sense of defeat settling in, struggling to muster the enthusiasm in your hands as you greet her back.

You have a hard time connecting with some of the visitors who stop by, heart sinking even more when they pass by your painting without pausing. Their attention is clearly drawn elsewhere𑁋that’s all you can think about as you watch them move on; their indifference is practically slicing through the air like a knife. 

It’s like you’re invisible. 

In the back of your mind, you figured this would happen. It wasn’t entirely your best work, or the best you’ve put your efforts in. For some reason painting didn’t come as naturally to you as it did before. If anything, it felt forced. The pressure to create something worthy had left you with a piece that felt uninspiring, meaningless. 

You aren’t meant for this. This grand exhibition hall, the feeling of being judged𑁋it all felt like a journey’s away from the joy you used to find in simply creating. The other artists around you seem to belong in this environment more than you do. They stood proudly beside their work, and all you could do right now was let the lump in your throat tighten even more. 

You aren’t meant for this. 

By the time the big announcement comes, you catch a glimpse of the evening sky outside the large windows of the museum. A hush falls over the room as the museum director steps back forward. Even as you let your eyes drift between the director and your interpreter right next to you, you already knew deep within you that the night wasn’t ending in your favour. 

“We congratulate all the artists whose works have been chosen,” the director says warmly, listing off names that resonate through the hall. Each name being called is met with applause and cheers.

Your name isn't called. You would know if it was if the expression on your interpreter’s face wasn’t so solemn, the meek curve at her lips that she wears doing hardly anything to ease you. Despite the sinking feeling, you send her a small, acknowledging nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. 

Wheein finds you when the evening starts winding down and the museum begins to clear away. She taps lightly at your shoulder as you’re packing your belongings, yet the eager look on her face is quick to fade once she sees the dejection painted all over yours. 

“You’re not going to stay for a while?” Wheein asks, signing with concern, her brows furrowing as she watches you continue to pack your things. “I heard there’s an after dinner event later on, and they’re letting anyone join. Maybe you could meet some of the other artists!”

Letting out a quiet exhale, you shake your head, the movement small and defeated as you sign back, “Going to head home. Tired.”

“Are you sure?” Wheein insists. “I was planning to introduce you to some people𑁋”

“It’s okay,” You sign quickly, interjecting her words. But the pout and puppy-eyes that she gives makes you roll your eyes. “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.” 

A grin is swift to cross her face, and a few seconds later she’s wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. You return the hug back, feeling a bit of your disappointment melt away in the face of your genuine happiness. 

“I'll text you later,” Wheein signs after pulling back. “Please get home safe, okay? I love you!”

The dramatic kisses she blows in your direction make you laugh despite yourself, and you nod, giving her a small wave as you head out of the museum.

The cool night air nips at your cheek when you step outside, and you feel way less constricted in your clothes than being inside the museum. As you walk briskly down the street, you let the night clear away your muddled thoughts. Your feet seem to guide you, almost on autopilot, not quite ready to head home and face the solitude that’s waiting for you.

You pass by a few late-night cafés, convenience stores, and small shops, their warm lights spilling out onto the pavement. 

The sight reminds you of Joshua. 

And for some reason, that’s all it takes for your feet to pick up its pace. There’s almost determination you can feel in each step that you take, the thoughts of the exhibition pressing farther and farther into the back of your mind. If there’s anything that could make you forget everything that has happened today, it’s just seeing him for a moment. A singular moment. 

The lights of the café switch off when you’re coming up to it. You come to a halt in your tracks, and your gaze lands on a lone figure stepping outside with its back turned towards you.

After a minute or two, the figure turns slowly, and you recognise Joshua's face illuminated by the fading light of the café's sign. There's a moment of hesitation before he notices you standing there just a couple of steps away, and when he does, his features seem to light up even brighter than the flickering stars above. But it’s quick to melt away when he watches the way you’re trudging up to him.

His eyes flicker over your face for a moment. “What happened?” 

You could see the worry in the way he signs to you, his eyes searching your tired ones. He peers at you so softly that it nearly makes your heart ache. But there’s a comfort there that you desperately find yourself wanting to cling to.

Without a word, you simply lean your body forward, letting your head fall onto Joshua’s shoulder. His presence emits a warmth that brings you back from the high of cloudy thoughts and back down to the surface of safety.

Joshua’s eyes widen imperceptibly for a second, before a quiet understanding washes over his face. His arms twitch at the weight of you leaning on him, and then almost hesitantly, he slowly wraps them around you, fingers brushing against the small of your back tentatively, delicately, as if unsure its welcome. 

His warmth seeps through your clothes and settles comfortably within the hollow spaces of your chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, against your ribs, and smell the lingering scent of coffee on his shirt. A sigh escapes your lips, a soft exhale that contains the tension and worries accumulated throughout the day.

Joshua doesn’t press you. He can feel everything you feel in his embrace, everything you wish to let out. He can feel your dejection, your disappointment, knowing that your efforts, all the blood, sweat, and tears you put into your art had fallen short of your dreams. But he doesn’t pry or question. He simply holds you, and perhaps that’s all that matters right now𑁋he can’t let you fall apart. Not in his arms, anyway. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, right under the dim café light that casts down on your figures. When Joshua feels you shift in his hold, he loosens his grip ever so slightly, gaze caressing over your face for a few moments. His eyes hold a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

There’s a reluctance in your movements as you start to peel yourself away from him. Joshua slowly lets his arms unfold from around you, but his hands linger for a moment, as if hesitant to fully let you go just yet. His expression remains gentle, silently asking if you’re okay; if there’s anything more he can do. 

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Joshua asks warily. “The exhibition?”

All you do is shake your head, and a small resigned sigh tumbles out of you. 

Joshua purses his lips together, brows knitting together in worry. He knows the sting of rejection all too well and how deep it could cut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly, fingers moving with a grace through the air that matches the empathy in his eyes. He’s been getting more confident recently in his signing. “But it doesn’t mean your art isn’t worth anything. You tried your best, and maybe that’s what matters. Remember what I told you before?”

You tilt your head in question, waiting for him to continue. 

Then, all Joshua does is smile faintly, before picking his hands up to sign. He starts by putting his hand in a fist and sticking his pinky finger upward. Then he points his index finger to his forehead, before bringing it down into his open hand. Next he fixes his right hand downward, forming the other one into a cup shape, and dips the fingers of his right hand into it. 

And finally, he points to you. 

“I believe in you.” 

The words fly off his fingers and wrap around you like a blanket. The proud look that he captures on his face is washed away in a fit of timidity, and you can’t help but chuckle, a genuine, warm sound that fills the night air, even if you didn’t notice how loud it is. It's the first real laugh you've had all night. And when Joshua hears it, a blush creeps up his neck, reaching to his cheeks. A relieved smile spreads across his lips. 

When you gaze back up at him, the weight of the day feels a little lighter. Slowly, you lift your hands up to sign, ensuring each movement is clear and deliberate. 

“I missed you.”

Joshua’s expression softens even further. He watches your hands, then meets your eyes, understanding completely. He lifts his hands to respond, fingers moving tenderly through the air, and responding with his voice,

“I missed you too.”

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@lullips

[osamucide]

⊹ THE FIRST TASTE

LET IT BEGIN, HEAVEN CANNOT WAIT FOREVER . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~3.6k

cw: NSFW CONTENT—MDNI (I BLOCK AGELESS+BLANK BLOGS), ada+masc!reader, reader has a tongue piercing, pet names (pretty boy and cutie for u), romantic and sexual tension, established flirtationship->new relationship?, a lil alcohol, making out, oral fixation/finger sucking, oral sex (Dazai receiving), cum eating (Dazai lol), patheticzai makes a spectacle of your shyness even though he can't just ask for what he wants good thing u have telepathy with him /j

reid: trade w my sweet friend @rossithepixie / @selfindulgentpixies who masterminded some beautiful osareid art for me <3 (if u havent seen it yet dw i will be reblogging it a million more times but also check out rossi's work neow cause he's super talented). thank you for trusting me with this rossi—it was such a blast to do a little lovesick dazai desperately chasing ur cute lil self into a corner (i listened to fiona apple's song with the same title a lot while i wrote this—is it obvious? lol). i hope u enjoy so much <3

It’s a cute little habit of yours. Unconscious, he knows, but that makes it no less cute. No less dangerous. 

Everyone notices you do it—Atsushi pointed out the jewelry poking from your mouth with awe when he first caught you fidgeting with it (“People can have piercings there? That’s so cool”)—but Osamu highly doubts anyone finds it nearly as charming, as endearing as he himself does. After all, he’s the one consistently wheeling over next to you on his chair to fold his arms under his chin on your desk and admire you unashamedly while you tie a loose end around a sentence in whatever report you’re writing before even thinking about turning your attention to him. 

So diligent. 

That’s another cute thing about you. You've been a star worker, really, since you started. In the months since you got hired, your reports have been nothing but thorough and on time; even your first steps into fieldwork as a detective have been spotless, practiced, as if you already know this work like the back of your hand. You’re personable yet serious, easygoing and dedicated all at the same time, continually proving your worth as a voice of reason and contribution around the meeting table as well as a supportive, kind, all-around more than pleasant coworker on and off of crime scenes. Not to mention, your ability’s nothing to scoff at.

You’re a true asset to the Armed Detective Agency. 

Which is why Kunikida’s glaring Osamu down again, threatening him silently with an HR department that unfortunately doesn’t exist—because, yes, you are for all intents and purposes perfect for this workplace and the blond man will simply not have you driven off by his partner’s insufferable tendencies. 

Even Kunikida’s wrath, however, is scarcely known to deter Osamu Dazai, and that is why, when he notices you doing it again—toying with the metal bar through your tongue in an absentminded display of your oh-so-coveted concentration on and application to your task, he scoots himself right over, rowing on his heels, brushing admonishing stares like he might dust off his shoulder and settling next to you, chin in his palm, feet knocking into yours beneath your desk. 

As expected, you don’t turn to him immediately. All the better. Gives him a few seconds more to admire you, your parted lips, the glint of the metal and your pretty teeth against the natural light streaming into the office on this lovely day, made all the lovelier by the vision of your adorable expression.

But when you do, it’s melt-worthy. 

“Hi, Osamu,” you mumble, turning your eyes to him and tucking your tongue back in to offer him that sweet but aware, workplace-appropriate smile that makes him grin even further. You’d have to be naive not to know he wants to strip you of that professionalism, but you make sure to give him time of day in only the most graceful way when you’re both at the office; for as charming as he is, and for as much as you must shyly admit you find him endearing just the same, you don’t turn a blind eye to his cunning nature. 

And like so many things, it’s a bit of a game that he enjoys—seeing what he can do to crack that competence of yours. 

But today he’s restless, so he punches low from the jump. 

“Hi, pretty boy,” he purrs, gaze searing into you. Signature. 

And just like he hopes, your brow raises and you look away, pursing your lips to mask your reaction to his antics. He usually toys with you a little longer before he brandishes the pet name he knows all too well gets your cheeks glowing pink in an instant—and that’s exactly what they do. Your coyness can’t hide that. 

“Eager today, are we?” you fill the silence with the lighthearted accusation, busying yourself on your keyboard so as to fight off the squirming you’re sensing will be futile to escape this afternoon.

“Yup.” When he pops the p, he nudges your ankle with his own. 

But in your busying, the tip of your tongue flicks out again, and Osamu’s seemingly-aimless display of fluster-inducing attention surges toward its goal, which he’s been contemplating for a few days now, actually: getting you out of this stuffy office (or the all-too public nearby bar you’ve started frequenting with him after hours, strictly as friends it seems—if friends tangle their fingers together after a few cocktails and then don’t make mention of it the next day, anyway) and into his dorm, which he actually tidied up because he calculated with most near-certainty there couldn’t possibly exist a world in which you’d turn down such an invitation. So he hopes, anyway. For as player as he acts, the way you make him feel sows seeds of doubt in him and his usual methods of seduction. You know full well how sincerely captivated he is by you… right? You must. You have to. 

“You know,” he continues, “I was wondering…” 

Mincing his words is never part of his plans. Unless, of course, it’ll draw a desired outcome closer than being direct will. But now, Osamu finds himself almost hesitating, with no prior inclination to do so; he’s wondering, not thinking, like he seems to do so much when you’re near him, and he doesn't know if you fully realize it, but you might have more control over… whatever this is between you than he does.

You tilt your head, still turned to your screen, as if it begins to occur to you. 

“...Drinks at my place?” he spits out—pointedly dropping the “double suicide?” intonation so it’s clear he’s serious—before he can give any more indication that he’s slipping.

When you look to him again, Osamu’s filled the space of his doubt with that low-lidded grin once more.

“Tonight?” 

“Tonight? Oh—” You clear your throat in a way that sounds oddly affirmative, as if you’re trying to keep it from bubbling out too soon. You’re so assured in everything else you do around here, so Osamu, ever the contrarian, regains his balance on the premise of your shyness. When you go to confirm, you’ve all but lost your teasing lilt. The flush on your face doesn’t miss him. “Yeah, that’d be nice, Osamu.” 

Nice. If he didn’t have an image to upkeep, he’d leap up and fistpump the air like a cartoon character. Perhaps, if he were more in tune with his hand-to-god emotions, he’d crumble to the floor in a ball wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into.

He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t clean his dorm, much less invite romantic prospects over to it. You’re new territory in the way he feels freshly determined not to mess up, so he keeps himself composed behind that smile. “When are you out of here?” 

“I can be out of here whenever you’re out of here,” you mumble, your lips pressed into a smirk you won’t let unfurl fully. He wishes you would. He’ll get you to. If he had it his way, he’d whisk you out of here now, clock be damned, and pop open that red dessert wine he picked up specifically for the event in which you would land on his uncomfortable little couch with your tongue lingering in, hopefully, closer proximity to his own. He’s seen you tipsy; you don’t suppress that air of sheepish enthrallment so much when you are, and he’s impatient for it. He needs more of you.

But it’s three in the afternoon, and Kunikida’s abruptly dragging Osamu by the collar of his shirt like a puppy on a leash to roll him back over to his own damn desk, muttering something about how if he had any decency he’d leave you the hell alone and if he wasn’t going to contribute anything of worth to the Agency’s productivity yield, the least he could do was not disturb those who are. 

This makes you chuckle fully as you shake your head. Osamu eats it up—and he doesn’t hide it, eyeing you with something most akin to yearning in his gaze. You have such an effortless knack for putting hearts in his eyes in a way he’s not used to. 

The rest of his shift dawdles by; as a way to pass the time, Osamu volunteers himself to run out and pick up the Thai takeout for those who will be clocking out later than he hopes he will. Kunikida so graciously (read: reluctantly and irritatedly) let him order on his card, so he claimed it as repayment; really, he needed to get out of his desk chair. 

He feels insane watching you play with that piercing of yours, his stack of unfinished reports (or, pre-construction paper planes) serving as no distraction. 

He delivers your spring rolls to you with a wink. He eats his pad thai and fools around on his desktop. He watches the sun streak down the window.

He actually considers getting some work done. It’s nearly torture.

He gets up to leave the second the clock strikes eight. If he was bad at focusing on work before, you’ve ruined him. 

The implication’s all too clear when you’re stepping into the evening air behind him. You don’t mind—it’s evident in your reserved but knowing smile, the one he so terribly wants to unravel. 

His place is threadbare, but cozy. You curl yourself up on one of the two couch cushions while Osamu sets two empty glasses and a bottle on the low table before you—he’s eager, too, for the wine; he’s aching to dispel both your timidity and his anxiety that it feeds. Maybe it’s just that he can’t seem to handle himself positively spiraling over you while you remain enchantingly reticent, quiet in the desire he knows flows between you both. Usually, he’s the one with all the self-control. Tonight he’s counting on you missing the tremble in his fingers as he pours. 

“Kunikida’s such a hardass, isn’t he?” he muses while he tucks a glass into your hand and draws himself up onto the couch, facing you, leaving a respectful but still considerably involved distance between you. Your knee almost touches his. “Berating me for something as little as asking such a cutie to come over for drinks. It’d be more criminal not to, I think.” 

You chuckle at his dramatics, taking a sip. It’s sweet, red. You remind him, “We are coworkers, Osamu.” 

He cocks his head, drinking deeper than you do, with a thoughtful look on his gorgeous face. He hums and reminds you, “We’re not just coworkers.” 

Your chuckle becomes a giggle—one less dubious than the short, amused headshakes you save for the office—and with your next question, he knows he’s pulling you in. You’ve been dancing around each other long enough; he’s warm, trying not to overflow when you speak—you finally sound ready to acknowledge what’s been turning him into a mess for you when you hum and press skittishly. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. 

“What else are we then, hm?” 

Your bashfulness reads so seamlessly as effortless wooing—he wonders if you’re so purely humble, or actually a mastermind of coquetry. The way you keep yourself veiled, thinly enough to keep him pining for more of you but staunchly too so that he constantly doubts whether the cat or the mouse has the upper hand, turns him to mush—absolute pathetic mush—and he answers a question with a question. You’ve got him going against all sorts of personal philosophy. 

“What else do you wanna be?” 

The answer gets lost between shifting hands, closing space, conversation and jokes that relax further and further as you both stabilize into one another over the following hour or so. A couple more glasses of wine are poured, drank, tasted—at some point in the blackening night you end up astride his lap in the dim lamplight with your glass in triumphant hand, tucking his hair behind his ear while he cups your face, simpers out another remark that makes you blush and wave him away; Osamu looks at you with something you can only construe through your buzz as pure want. Coming down from laughter that screws your eyes shut—he’s never short on humor, which is one of the things you think you love—love? about him, you say it aloud, tell him you do in fact love that about him and if he was all pure want a moment before, now he’s pure shock. 

But he plays it off in his way; you watch the intricate way he takes no more than a half-second to collect himself, just tipsy enough to get snagged on the words love that about you that the half-second seems a feature-length film to you—one you would watch over, over, over again. 

Osamu slides four fingers on one side of your jaw, thumb on the other—holding your chin gently but firmly in place so he can bore like fire into you.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, half sincere, half flirtatious. Your gaze scatters momentarily beneath his; you take a second, copy his recovery.  

You hesitate before you say, “I think I have some idea,” fully sincere, fully flirtatious. When you pinch your bottom lip between your teeth—not an unconscious habit but an intentional move in this game—he thinks this is what middle school boys must feel like the first time they get close to their crush. It sickens him so sweetly, like he’s swallowed a lump of sugar. He wants more. 

Your breath coils around his between your noses, between your mouths. The wine in your glass sloshes and settles.  

“Can I tell you what drives me crazy?” he breathes. 

You nod like you’ve been waiting lifetimes to know. 

He answers not with words but a touch to your lip—a stroke back and forth that leaves you parting for him. He leaves feather-light fingerprints on the sharp of your front teeth, pushing, slowly, forward until the hot muscle in your mouth cradles his thumb and he’s touching that devil-sent piercing of yours, the ball all at once cool and warm as it twirls to evade him.

“This,” he whispers, chasing the metal back and forth. “This drives me crazy.” 

You don’t respond with anything but suction, a soft bob of your head like you understand, and a hmm.

Osamu thinks he might implode beneath you. 

His attention has hardly ever felt so streamlined as when you search his face, circle his thumb, wet it for him to retract and drag down your chin while you draw your brow together like you miss it—his eyes are all yours, wide and waiting and holding the answers to all the questions drifting around, surrounding both of you. 

The kiss is searing as he pulls you into him—or, hardly has to, rather, as your eyes flutter shut and you lean to meet him, five of your fingers matching his grip but on his shoulder while you suffocate that mingled breath so it becomes mingled spit, mingled tongues. He worms himself past your lips, into you—he almost moans when the tip of his own tongue brushes across the jewelry sitting on the pad of your tongue like a pearl in an oyster. He’s finally cracking you open. It makes him smile wickedly into you. 

Your arms locking around his neck leave him rolling into you hotly, asking for you with anything but words which escape him again now—so uncharacteristic, but he’s lucky you’re both too entangled to notice, for words aren’t necessary right now; he’s ushering your wine glass out of your hand, setting his, too, onto the table so you can wind your fingers in his hair and tug, prompting the sweetest gasps that you echo back into him while he guides your hips across him. The fervor either of you holds is indistinguishable from the other; you grind, he grips you, the harder he grips you the harder you grind and vice versa until he’s biting down the column of your neck toward absolution. 

He mutters your name through an umph; you pick his lips back up the second he goes for air, and he goes for your tongue. When you pull back to observe him, mirroring you in kiss-puffiness and staccato breath, he’s wild between your eyes and your lips. 

“That’s all for you,” he tells you when he grabs your wrist and guides you to palm his cock before you hit him with another question for the ages—one that will not receive a verbal answer but a noise from his throat he swears he’s never heard himself make before.

“Wanna feel it?” 

God, has he ever wanted anything more in his life? The erection he’s built up just from kissing you, moving you against him, is all the evidence either of you need. 

Regardless, Osamu’s nodding fervently, chocolate locks swaying. 

So, you take your turn kissing down him until you’re pooled at his feet, between his knees, with devoted fingers undoing the button on his pants; the task at hand, so sweetly and circularly, has your tongue poking out in concentration as you work his waistband down. Osamu twitches at the sight—he doesn’t mean to mutter you’re so fucking adorable but he does, he does. It’s your turn to grin wickedly as you take his cock out, your turn to tease with your thumb on his drooling tip, your turn to explore with your mouth. 

You’ve had the reins all this time, really—from the first day you sat at your desk, making that attentive face. He must be the luckiest sucker in the world to have ended up here, with your shining eyes watching him fall apart as your honeyed lips guide him toward sweet devastation. 

The first stripe you lick up his underside sends Osamu’s head flying back, jaw falling slack on the end of a breathy “fuck!”

And he feels every stride of your tongue piercing when you wrap your lips around his tip and swirl. 

The sounds you draw from Osamu’s open mouth are like song; diligent in this task as you are every other one, it’s hardly a minute before he’s tangling his fingers in your hair, crooning your name between broken praises that come naturally as you hold him, lick him, look up at him with eyes that he thinks could turn him to stone—if only you had been evil, that is, but realistically, you can’t be anything other than an angel. 

“Pretty boy, you—” 

At that name, you groan. Take him further. 

And through how good it feels, he laughs. 

“Oh, you like that? Huh?” He could pull you off him if he wanted a response, but you’re too heavenly to interrupt—anyway, he already knows how you feel about pretty boy. 

You hum around him—another sensation that sends him reeling with oh, god on his lips. 

“That’s it… Feels s’good on me. Unh—yeah, like that…” 

Indirectivity and grandeur has always been something Osamu considers himself a professional in—everything you do throws him for a loop and the way you bob up and down does him no favors. He whines in the way he does when he’s already going to finish all too quickly, but the fact that it’s you bringing him to his end—his cute coworker he’s been pining after since your first day on the job, the one that’s inspired such foreign feelings of wonder in his long-gone-cold heart—has him unreservedly bucking his hips into your mouth as you rake your nails down his thighs, ardent in this undertaking, bobbing frantically like all you’ve ever wanted was to have him noisy and messy underneath you like this. 

“‘m gonna—oh, fuck!” 

But he doesn’t have to tell you; you feel him, spasming on your tongue against the otherworldly friction your jewelry provides—his true downfall, that thing, and the image of you formed around it—you pursue his climax like a predator pursuing prey, pulling away to give him that false sense of security as you rise to your feet, pounce back over him and kiss him so intensely while you handle him, jerk him to orgasm between your bodies; Osamu’s hoarse, aching as he humps the hole you make with your fist and chants yes, yes, yes, please! into your mouth, tasting metal, never wanting it to leave.

He settles into soft panting as you draw your fingers up; he’s beginning to speak— “You’re so—” but you’re cutting him off so he can suck your fingers, taste himself and the way you’ve shattered him so beautifully. And he does, he laps like a man possessed, obsessed with the flavor of himself if only it’s leaving your skin, before you let him continue. “You’re incredible. You and that piercing.” 

You huff out a laugh, but it’s true. He’s convinced you’re a dream in every sense of the word—how did he get so lucky, no—how did the earth get so lucky to have you dropped upon it, right here in Yokohama, doing such scandalous things with that godly mouth of yours? 

“I try,” you quip with a half-shrug, smiling softly, kissing him just so. 

“Do you, now?” Osamu Dazai, who so often loses those good things before he can really grasp them, takes note of another new sensation—unwavering resolve, in the amorous sense—and concludes that if he can help it, this dream will not slip away so quickly. He can’t possibly send you back up to heaven.

He grabs your hips, pulls you onto him. 

Everything you are—all hard working, handsome face, sweet disposition, and tongue ring—he’s wanted it for so long; it would be nonsensical, a tragedy, to let the same evening air you stumbled in on steal you away again.

This is a dilemma he doesn’t have a solution to; not immediately. 

But he speaks anyway, smirking and toying with the button on your pants, overwhelming your frame to put your back to the cushions—turn you into a mess for him.

“Your turn, pretty boy.” 

[syd-djarin]

private eyes - jack daniels x private investigator!f!reader (18+ MDNI)

You’re a PI hired to spy on Jack Daniels, by his ex-fiancé, who is believed to be a cheater. As time goes on, you don’t find any evidence of the sort, but what you do find is unexpectedly…erotic.

this is for @iamasaddie little lady kinky may challenge! congrats on 2.5k! <333 I was paired with Jack / Voyeurism.

banner by: @cafekitsune

tags: voyeurism (reader watches jack), masturbation (m & f), reader is a private investigator, gratuitous descriptions of my fav cowboy stroking his big cock, dub-con a little? reader masturbates in her car but there isn't anyone around so public but private

a/n: this is the first fic I've completed in months. it's short and to the point, idk how i feel about it but it pushed me out of my writing slump! kinda want to do a part 2 for this, what do y'all think 👀

wc: ~1.6k

smut below the cut

 “I want you to catch that son of a bitch in the act.”

The visibly scorned woman, Camilla, sitting across from you asks through tears, ones that she hasn’t allowed to escape down her cheeks; catching them right at the waterline with an overused tissue.

This isn’t the first time a disgruntled, mistreated, or betrayed lover has sought out your services — no shortage of shitty men leaving trails of destruction while they pillage and greedily chase their own interests. She’s no different, seeking closure from the broken-off engagement from her now ex-fiancée, Jack Daniels. The pair had been together for a year, engaged for three months and one day, out of the blue, Jack broke it off. According to her, he didn’t give a concrete reason, something vague about being consumed with his job and that “she deserved a better life than that”. 

Of course you get paid a pretty penny for your work, but you take great pleasure in catching a man in the act. Whether the woman needs proof for divorce settlements, custody battles, or to just have leverage. Whatever the case may be, you find a gratification you don’t get anywhere else; the upheaval of a man trying to have his cake and eat it too. 

The conventionally attractive woman you couldn’t pick out of a line-up slides her homemade dossier across the coffee shop table, tacky & sticky from previous patrons. You flip through the information presented to you, taking mental notes as you go. You can’t deny the heat that rises up your face as you study the picture of your next target. The deep sable eyes resembling a baby calf’s are staring at you through the glossy photo paper. He’s sporting a mustache reminiscent of Burt Reynolds that is calling your name. His smirk is laced with a charming cockiness. 

“He’s quite the looker, I know. Hell of a lay, too,” her words snap you out of your daydream. Her words feel hollow, his looks are the only attributes she’s mentioned during the duration of the consultation. You're not getting paid for moral judgements and you remind yourself you don’t know the whole story. 

“Which is why I want to know who he’s fucking. I know there’s another woman, or maybe even a guy… he’d answer calls in the middle of the night and step into another room and I swear I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end, he’d tell me he’s going on work trips… he works at a whiskey distillery, why the hell does he need to go on all these trips?” She explains, putting air quotes around ‘trips’ with her dainty, well-manicured hands, “he’d stay late at work a few nights a week, and then it turned into a nightly thing… Anyways, you come highly recommended, so I’m trusting you won’t let me down,” she adds. You’re not a fan of the passive aggressive, back-handed compliment she gives you, but ultimately you give her an understanding smile as you both rise from the table. 

“I’ll be in touch,” you tell her, as you exit. As cliche as that line is, you love saying it every time. 

Days of following Jack around have proven to be fruitless. The man has a simple routine: wakes up at six, traipses to the bathroom to begin his morning regimen of a showering, shaving and grooming his beloved mustache, and to conclude,  adorns his body in his tight denim jeans, a crisp button-down, a cowboy hat, and boots to match. You hate to admit it, and someone would have to waterboard this information out of you, but the hat is doing something for him. 

Or you. 

Whatever. 

He shops weekly on Wednesdays (he always puts the cart back inside the store, not the cart returns in the parking lot), takes the same route home everyday, watches Jeopardy while he eats dinner – you caught on quickly that he cooks during Wheel of Fortune, it appears he isn’t a big fan of Pat and Vanna, dishes promptly following Final Jeopardy and bed by nine. In three weeks Jack hasn’t had a single visitor, of any gender, leaves work at five like everyone else, the man isn’t adding up to be a cheating womanizer like Camilla had set him out to be. Not to say that he isn’t, but you’re not finding any evidence to support that claim. You’ve actually found yourself developing a crush on the man. He’s undoubtedly handsome, seemingly laid back despite his strict routine, and there’s something mysterious that lies beneath that you’re itching to unearth.

You’re parked discreetly across the street from his house. It’s a nice quiet street, with only two lamps to illuminate the surrounding neighborhoods, allowing you to stay shrouded in the night. 

You’re about to call it a night, exhaustion settling deep into your bones, when you notice a lamp turned on in the living room. Fortunately, the window faces the street, making your job that much easier for you. You pick up your binoculars to peer in, adjusting the focus for your prying eyes. Thank the universe he left his blinds open. 

He sits on the couch with his back facing you. It looks like he’s reaching for the remote, like maybe he’s having trouble sleeping, but when he settles back into the couch, you notice he’s butt ass naked, in all his glory. Even through the binoculars, you can see how big his cock is. Your mouth salivates at the sight, wanting to feel the stretch of him in all your holes. 

You’re not supposed to see this. Not at all. Usually in your assignments, you don’t get the full X-rated view, just the PG-13 suggestive one, and you are more than grateful for that. 

But not now.

You’re getting your own private peep show from the man you’re getting paid to spy on. You’re feeling like a grade-A pervert right about now but the sight is too glorious to look away. He spits on his hand, and languidly begins stroking his cock. He runs his other hand through his hair, his toned arms flexing with his movements, his chest heaving. 

It shouldn’t turn you on like it does. For one, it’s highly unprofessional. Secondly, he’s unaware he’s got an audience. Morally speaking, it’s definitely not your shining moment. But it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, watching him tease and work himself up. You couldn’t pry your eyes away if you wanted to. 

Jack’s not the only one getting worked up; your clit throbs so hard you feel like it’ll go numb. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears thump-thump thump-thump. You let out a whine when Jack massages his tip, precum dribbling out like a sweet nectar you’d like to feast on. He continues his slow movements, dragging out his pleasure at a delicious and excruciating pace. Somehow, this makes the whole scene that much hotter; the display of restraint and discipline. You wonder if he does that with his lovers. Teasing, teasing, teasing, giving just enough to drive you insane before slowing almost to a stop. 

Possessed by desire, you haphazardly look for any lingering people outside before unbuttoning your pants to shove your hand to where it's needed most. You gasp at the cool air hitting your thinly clothed pussy, you can smell your own arousal seeped into your panties and it spurs you on further. You mirror Jack’s pace - teasing your lips with a featherlight touch, inching closer and closer to your needy clit, stopping just shy of it, to tease yourself more. It’s agonizing in the best way, taking your time like this. Normally, you like efficiency when making yourself come, rarely going the extra mile to turn the pleasure dial up, but this makes you question why you’re ever in a hurry. 

You reach your clit, going in gentle circles to match Jack’s unhurried pace. You wish you could hear the sounds he’s making, all the grunts and whimpers escaping his plush lips. 

He speeds up his strokes, now ravenous for his delayed release and so are you. Overtaken by the need to come, you drop the binoculars, letting them fall to the floorboard. You’re not even watching him anymore, having seen more than enough to commit to your spank bank. With your eyes closed and head pushing into the headrest, your mind is flooded with images of Jack fucking you slow, hard and deep, absolutely destroying your pussy – legs over his shoulders, hitting the spot that makes you scream and cry in euphoria. The image of him spilling into you, filling you up with his come is what tips you over the edge, your body shivers in bliss and you rock against your hand to ride out the high, feeling faint from the intensity. 

After you’ve recovered and fumbled your chance of ever seeing The Pearly Gates, you dare to look back to his house, to find all the lights back off. It’s a bit of a relief, feeling less shameful of what you’ve done now that you can’t see him at the moment. 

You button your pants backup and lean over to retrieve the forgotten binoculars from the floorboard, as your fingers grab them you hear a knock on the window. The sudden rap on the glass makes you flinch, feeling your skeleton attempt to flee from your corporeal body. Your heart drops to your stomach when you see Jack standing outside your car, leaning one forearm against the body so his face is level with yours. Fuck fuck fuck. You’ve been caught. Dizziness and nausea war within you as you roll down the window. You open your mouth to explain the situation, but words never escape your mouth. 

“You like watchin’ people don’t ya?” he asks, his tone is dark, but not angry. No, it’s something else entirely. 

“I–”

“‘S’alright. Caught onto ya pretty quick. A pretty face like yours ain’t hard to miss.”

“I– i’m sorry, um,” you scramble to find words, any words but Jack interjects again. 

“You like watchin’, but darlin’ I want to know, do ya like bein’ watched?”

[justmeinadaze]

I Want You (Steddie X Y/N)

A/N: "I present to you...this fucking thing..."

Because I'm a hoe. :P

This is from the universe they visit in this fic. You don't have to have read it to understand. Everything that happens here is years before what happens there.

Warnings: Serial Killer Steddie & Fem Sub Y/N, SMUT, sub/dom dynamics, light knife play (no cutting or anything), dirty talk, light chasing, light choking and spanking, a safe word isn't established (yet) but they do make it clear that they don't want to hurt her.

ANGST, starts off with the reader in jail (Steve is her lawyer), mentions of reader "embarrassing" her family, mentions of her getting into a fight while in prison, Steddie do kill someone but the death itself is not described, the person they take insults the reader (calls her a whore), Eddie likes to play with knifes 🫠, mentions of them tailing victims and disposing of them. They do talk about how they only kill people who deserve it (kinda like Dexter).

I think that's it.

Word Count: 6508

Donate to Me

As you slowly shuffled into the visiting area of the prison, Eddie hastily rose to his feet and took ahold of your hand to help you down to your seat.

Your eye was swollen where the other prisoner had punched you when they jumped you in the lunchroom. She got in a few good hits including busting your lip before any guards intervened.

Exchanging a glance with Steve, the long-haired boy sat back down beside you as you sat across from his friend and colleague.

“Did the hospital wing take care of you?”, your lawyer asked barely above a low rumble. 

They didn’t need to ask what happened. 

They warned your father that given your last name you could be hurt or worse if he insisted you should go to prison but he said that you needed to learn a lesson. Kallie tried to defend you; told your dad that you did nothing wrong and explained again how you defended her. 

Like the stubborn man he was, he wouldn’t listen. 

You embarrassed the family and that’s all he cared about. 

“She was drunk and took a swing at a prominent member of society. Thank God he’s not suing us.”

“So you’re worried more about the asshole that pushed me than the daughter that defended me.”, your sister growled. 

“I’m worried about our future, Kallie! I’m doing this for her own good!”

“And if she dies behind bars? What good will that do?”, Steve replied flatly, trying to control the immense anger that was welling up in his chest. Eddie was usually the one to respond with emotion but not him. He always needed to be in control.

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir.”, you whimper, wincing as the tears begin to fall. 

Blinking, he hesitated slightly as he reached for your hand, encapsulating yours with his own. 

“You don’t have to be so formal with us, honey.” Glancing his way, he delivered you a small smile before letting you go. “Like I told you in my letters I’m not…good at showing my feelings but… we’re here for you, Y/N.”

Since you met them, you picked up on their different personalities pretty quickly but understood why they were friends and worked so well together. Where Steve could come off as closed off, Eddie always radiated an energy that screamed he’d do anything that needed to be done. The first time your lawyer smiled, it warmed your heart because you had a feeling not everyone got that genuine side of him.

In court and on tv doing interviews, he played the part of a charming man well. He was suave and intelligent while always engaging but that wit could turn quick when challenged. Eddie wore his heart on his sleeve and could go to a ten with little to no prompting which is why you assumed he drifted more towards computers. 

It allowed him to focus that energy and use it where necessary which (besides being his best friend) is why Steve hired him to help at his firm. With their resources they had won numerous cases which is why your sister insisted on hiring them but your father was the one with the money so there was only so much they could do. 

Over the past four months being incarcerated, they sent you letters and items to make sure you were safe while letting you know you weren’t alone. You found it easy to be open with them and to trust them not just as your representation but as your friends. 

“I can’t stay here another six months. I’m scared.”, you whisper.

Eddie’s eyes met his friend’s stern ones before defying him and pulling you to his chest as his palm held you close.

“Everything’s going to be ok, sweetheart. Steve’s been trying to file appeals but it’s hard.”

“Your dad’s been bribing the judge.”, the other man answers when you look at him with confusion. “He’s blocking my motions.”

Leaning back, you wipe your eyes as you carefully take both men in. Their faces may appear calm but you could feel the worried energy rating from them. 

“I’ll…I’ll be ok. Just six more months right?”, you try to sooth as you force a smile. “T-Tell me about you two. You’re both being safe right? I heard on the news that serial killer has amped up his count.”

“Yeah, princess, we’re being safe. No dark alleys or talking to strangers.”, Eddie teases, smiling when you laugh.

They loved the sound of your laugh.

“Good. Besides my sister, you two are the only people I trust. If anything ever happened to you…I don’t know what I would do.”

***

“What are you thinkin’?”, Eddie asks as they both linger on the opposite side of the empty building they were currently in. 

“We’ve never done something this close to the vest before.”, Steve replies, continuing to stare into the void as he blows smoke from his cigarette towards the sky. 

“Yeah…but what else can we do? We tried the right, legal way and were shut down. I offered to hack into his bank records and expose him but that would put her dad at risk. You didn’t think Kallie or Y/N would want that even after all the evil shit he does.”, the metalhead growls. 

The lawyer’s eyes scanned his friend as he absently flipped the knife in his hand. The man’s own irises had begun to slowly darken as he dipped into the headspace that offered him control. Steve always found it amusing because while Eddie was calculated with the computer and finding their victims, once the person was in front of them he changed into the equivalent of a hamster running on a wheel. 

The man tied to the chair began whining as they listened to him slowly wake up and pull on his restraints. 

“Last chance, Steven. As soon as he sees our faces, there’s no going back.”

When his friend nodded and tossed the cigarette out into the night, Eddie knew he was sure, his grin growing now that they were going to get to satiate that need both boys struggled with, with the added bonus of being able to save and protect you. 

After throwing his suit jacket to the side with their other things, Steve casually sauntered to the judge that had sentenced you, now restrained with wide eyes looking up at this man he had extremely underestimated. 

“Judge White, we apologize for this inconvenience. Usually, my friend and I like to leave our personal lives out of this thing that we do but you didn’t want to hear reason. Because of your selfishness a young girl is currently suffering behind bars for defending her sister. You promised to uphold the law but only when it matters to you it seems.”

The judge mumbled behind the gag before Eddie roughly ripped it off and held his knife to the man’s throat as a warning. 

“You’re one to talk Mr. Harrington! Kidnapping a judge isn’t exactly ‘upholding the law’, now is it, son?”

Steve chuckled and Eddie’s fist flew hitting the man in the nose hard. 

“I’m not your son, thank God, but you do remind me of my father. People like him, you, and Mr. Y/L/N pretend to be these moral men but you’re not. What my friend and I do helps the people. We don’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it.”

“Who are you to make that call!?”

The metalhead hit the man again and pressed the tip of the blade deeper into his skin. 

“Who are you? You were appointed and let the people down. You gloat behind your fucking Ferrari and 3 story mansion while people like Y/N rot, scared and alone IN A JAIL CELL!”

As Steve slowly became more ramped up, he rose to his feet till he was hovering over the frightened man below him. Blinking, he quickly regained his composure and took a step back. 

The sound of the judge’s laugh had both men tilting their heads. 

“Jesus. Out of all the women in the world, you fall for that one. An alcoholic whore with an arrest record now who won’t be able to do anything in this world without ‘a few favors’. Favors you can’t help with financially on your salary, Steven.”, he laughs. “Hopefully she’s good on her knees—MMPH!”

While he mocked you, Eddie himself had been struggling to keep it together. You were always so kind to him and made him feel seen. Steve was one of the few people to treat him like an equal but when you came along, even with what you were going through, you never looked down on him. He wasn’t going to allow anyone to disrespect you and especially not this asshole. 

The judge gritted his teeth as the metalhead removed his blade from his leg and wiped the blood along his pristine button up white shirt. 

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

“L-L-Look, boys. What do you want? You want her freed? I can do that—”

“We don’t need you for that. Without you there to block the appeal, the new judge will review her case and this one owes me a favor.” The judge’s eyes widen as his gaze shifts between Eddie’s wild eyes and Steve’s calm demeanor. “I think there’s a bit of a misunderstanding here. You seem to believe there’s a route you can take that has you walking out of this building alive.”

“You won’t get away with this! I’m a prominent member of this community! People will—”

The metalhead, placing a fresh price of tape over his mouth, interrupted the man’s pleas as the lawyer smirked, stepping forward. 

“Trust me, Judge White. We’ve been doing this for a while. No one will find you.”

###################

“Oh shit. I mean, hey, hey sweetheart. What, um, what are you doing here?”, Eddie asked when he answered your knock on their door. 

“I just wanted to come by and thank you so much for what you did. I mean…filing the appeal and finally getting me out of that awful place.”, you smile as you glance behind him to see Steve saunter up in gray sweats and a white short sleeved undershirt that showed off his muscles. “Um, I brought some food…as a thank you…I can drop it off and leave if you’re busy or—”

“No, Y/N, don’t be silly. Come on in. Thank you so much.”, the man behind him chuckled as he reached for what you were carrying while his friend met him with wide cautious eyes. “It’s alright.”, you heard him whisper before Eddie shut the door. 

“We’re just, um, doing some renovations here and there so we apologize for the mess.”

Smirking, you gesture towards the nice, expansive living room.

“What mess?”, you giggle. “The only thing messy is you two.”

The metalhead swoons as your hand reaches out to lightly tug on his hair and trails down his chest allowing your fingers to trace the Metallica logo on his shirt. 

“I was with Kallie but after a while I couldn’t sit inside so I thought I’d come thank you.”

“We can understand that. You spent so much time in a dungeon basically.”, Eddie sighs as he helps distribute the food you brought. 

As the night continued, you got to know both boys as you asked them questions you had been dying to know for months. Both men were single but they insisted this was due to their busy schedules. Steve followed in his father’s footsteps and became a lawyer but deviated to open his own firm which pissed his family off. Eddie’s computer knowledge was all self-taught having picked up some tricks through the years from other people as well as felon father. 

“One time I applied for a manager position in the tech department of some security firm but they kept brushing me off saying I had no experience for such a high position so I hacked into their mainframe showing them how good I was finding flaws.”, Eddie cackled as your laugh warmed his heart. “Yeah, Stevie had to use his know how to keep me out of jail.”

“What?! They didn’t hire you?! I would have if you showed me something like that.”

“Naw, companies like that have huge egos that are way more important to them than anything.”, the lawyer smiled as he sighed. “After seeing what he did, I asked him to come work for me and we’ve been together ever since.”

“That’s amazing. The two of you saving lives one broken hearted girl at a time.”, you grin as you take a sip of soda avoiding their gaze. 

After glancing towards each other, Eddie’s own smile widens as he gestures towards the radio that had been playing in the background. 

“I can play this song on the guitar.” Steve studies you as you giggle and playfully shake your head. “You don’t believe me? My uncle loves The Beatles.”

Reaching behind him, he grabs his acoustic instrument and begins to strum along with the music as he hums. 

“I want you… I want you so bad…”, you sing under your breath causing them both to watch you intensely. “I want you so bad, it’s drivin’ me mad, it’s driving me…”

The energy in the room starts to thicken and the lawyer catches onto it first as he sees his friend’s eyes darken with that familiarity he recognizes from when they take and dispose of their victims. Steve knew for a fact that Eddie didn’t want to hurt you like that. They both cared about you deeply but that intense need to take care of you and please you… To have someone love every bit of them…even the darkness… was pushing through and even he was struggling to control it as he listened to you sing. 

“She's so…Heavy…heavy, heavy, heavy…”

When his fingers stopped strumming you chuckled as you wiped away a tear that fell. 

“I love The Beatles to.”

The long-haired boy abruptly jerked forward and grabbed your cheeks, bringing your lips to his. It was a passionate kiss filled with so much want, you couldn’t get enough. After moving his guitar to the side, you climbed onto his lap, circling your arms and legs around him as he lifted you up and placed your back on the floor. 

While Eddie’s lips trailed down your cheek to suck on your neck, you glanced towards Steve who was still focused on your features as he watched your mouth fall open. Your hand reached for his face and he tenderly held the back as he brought your palm to his mouth. 

“Want…you…to...please.”

His eyes soften in a way you had never seen before from him. It was almost as if he had never heard someone tell him that…or maybe no one had ever proved it to be true. 

“You want me, baby?”

The subtle crack in his voice broke your heart as you nodded and Eddie fell to your side without removing his lips from your neck as Steve slid over to join him.

##########

You awoke a few hours later with a desperate need to use the bathroom. 

Your eyes flick to the metalhead who was fast asleep on his stomach and you couldn’t help but kiss his bare shoulder, grinning when he adorably groaned and turned his head to face the other direction. Shifting your gaze to the other sleeping boy, your finger gently reached out to move some of his fluffy hair away from his face as you tenderly kissed cheek. 

“Hm. Everything ok?”, he mumbled as his palm lazily came up to pet your head. 

“May I use your restroom?”

“Yeah, honey, of course. There’s one down the hall on the left.”

You smile as you kiss him before grabbing Eddie’s shirt and scurrying to where he directed. After finishing your needs and washing your hands, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was slightly out of place from where they had run their fingers through it and you had little marks on your neck leading down your chest from where they had sucked hickies into your skin. 

Just a few nights ago, you were in the worst place of your life and now you were safe because of these two men who did everything they could to get you out. As you reentered the hallway, you glanced up stairs and in your giddy state, curiosity got the better of you. 

The first bedroom you found was Steve’s, assumed by the cleanliness and strong smell of cologne. Your fingers grazed his dresser as you browsed the many scents and sticky notes along the mirror reminding him of things like meetings or court dates. By his bed, he had a pack of cigarettes and note pad with what you thought were case notes before actually taking in the words on the page.

“-Dick called her a name again. Sister said he doesn’t mean it he’s just angry. I don’t care. I don’t like the way he talks about her.

-Munson found evidence in bank account, dick bribing to keep her unhappy to “teach her a lesson”. Fucker.

-Emails and messages, calls her a whore…fucking… She’s not…she deserves everything good…”

What threw you off even more was when you opened the drawer and found a small gun nestled on the top. 

“As a lawyer, he probably feels he needs this as protection.”, you told yourself as you carefully put it away. 

Eddie’s room was the complete opposite with his clothes thrown every which way and the strong smell of cigarettes hanging in the air. Unlike his friend, he had a few photos on his own dresser of a gorgeous woman you assumed to be his mother and his uncle hugging him when he was smaller. 

On the wall across from his bed, you noticed little marks that looked like he had thrown something sharp at the material and as your foot hit a box underneath the mattress you learned what had caused them, quietly bending down to open it, finding many shiny, sharp knifes nestled in their foam beds. 

A couple were missing but you found one stabbed into the wood of his bedside table next to cigarettes and, to your surprise, a picture of you next to a notebook. Eddie’s notes were much more chaotic than Steve’s as he scribbled random words and doddles on the paper. One page you found had a sketch of you when they went to visit you after you had gotten jumped. 

You looked so broken and the words around your frame seemed to convey the same except underneath each sentence was another in bold as if he was trying to comfort you.

“I’m scared.”

“It’s ok, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you out. You’re safe with us.”

“Someone jumped me. It’s ok. I’m ok.”

“Tell me who, baby, and I’ll make them regret it.”

“It’s only 6 more months.”

“No. It’ll be sooner than that, pretty girl. I don’t care what we have to do.”

Blinking, you placed everything back where you found it and began heading back towards the stairs before another room down the hall caught your eye. 

You should ignore it and you know that. You’ve already disobeyed and invaded their privacy by coming upstairs but…curiosity got the better of you. 

The door creaked louder than you wanted it to as you gradually opened it and tiptoed inside. There was a desk with a desktop that had multiple monitors with another notebook beside it; Eddie’s handwriting scrawled throughout. 

“Transactions every week, same time from Mr. Y/L/N to Judge White… 5 grand…

Schedule: due to be in court Tuesday.

Takes Ferrari back home at 7pm. 

Camera on front and back entrances. (disabled)

No wife or children

Sometimes picks up a woman on Field St for the night.

Vacant building 5 miles away.”

Backing towards the other side, you noticed photos on the adjacent wall of Judge White as well as the missing knife stabbed into one of the images of him getting in his car. On the floor was a black trash bag and as you shakily opened it, you noticed one of Steve’s suits caked in what appeared to be dried blood. 

Your mouth fell open as a tear slid down your cheek but as you turned to head back downstairs, you bumped into a broad chest promptly meeting the lawyer’s angry irises. 

Covering your mouth and pulling you to his chest, Steve effortlessly carried you back downstairs where the other boy was pacing. 

“Did she…?”

“I told you to burn all the stuff upstairs yesterday.”, he growled as he used his free hand to point furiously his way. “This is your fucking fault.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened in a way you had never seen from this kind man before as he stood up straighter and his head tilted. 

“You’re the one that let her in the fucking house.”

“I didn’t think she’d misbehave.”, he hissed into your ear. “Especially not after everything we’ve done for her.”

The lawyer felt your lips moving against his palm and he lowered it slightly to allow you to speak. 

“I’m sorry. I-I-I didn’t mean to… I just—”

Covering your mouth again, he grunted in frustration as he slammed his fist against the wall. This was new behavior for you to witness when it came to him. Usually, Steve was calm and in control but right now he seemed…wild…and that scared you but not for the reason they would think. 

Eddie noticed first that unlike other people caught by them, you weren’t fighting against his friend’s hold. Your eyes didn’t reflect fear but worry, not for yourself…but Steve.

“Harrington.”

“WHAT?!”, he screamed making your jump as the metalhead narrowed his eyes. 

“Let her go.”

“I can’t do that, Ed—”

“Let. Her. Go.”

The deep rumble that left his friend’s throat had his own head tilting; even more so when a little whine only he heard left yours. Slowly, the man lifted his arms expecting you to bolt out the front door but when you instead turned to circle your limbs around him…he was surprised. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey. I just…I wanted to know more about you…and I got curious. I should have just asked. I’m sorry. Please, Steve, don’t be upset.”

He’d be lying if he said he knew how to respond. Instead, he carefully unhooked you from his waist and took a couple steps back to sit on the armchair behind him. His amber eyes remained locked on yours as you did the same, placing yourself on the couch.

Eddie startled you slightly eliciting a small squeak when he jumped over the back of the sofa and balanced on his heels beside you. His long fingers reach out to move some of your hair behind your ear and you can’t help but sigh as your eyes close, absorbing his touch. 

“I told you she was perfect, Steve.”

“Hang on a minute—”

“She’s not scared of us at all.”

“She hasn’t seen the real us yet—”

“Why are you trying to ruin this!?”

Just as the lawyer leaned forward, prepared to yell at his friend, your own palm extended out to caress the metalhead’s cheek. 

“It’s ok, baby. Let him think. He’s analytical…like Kallie. Kallie always thinks before reacting. I’m the opposite…obviously.”, you reply with a nervous chuckle.

“Kallie doesn’t kill people.”

“Neither do you.” Steve’s eyes narrow in confusion at your response. “I’ve known you for a while now. You’ve been…incredibly kind and loving to me and my sister… I’ve seen how you both are with the people around you. If…if you are hurting people…they probably deserve it…right? L-Like Judge White?”

“Your father wasn’t the only one he was taking bribes from. Add in all girls he picked up and used from the street. He didn’t even pay them, Y/N. He’d threaten them, fuck them, and send them back like they were trash.”, Eddie growled, closing his eyes as he tried to control his anger. “He still had the nerve to disrespect you even when we had him tied to a chair—”

“Edward.”, Steve interrupted with a low rumble. “You’re right, Y/N. I am more analytical whereas my friend is mostly emotions. This is how he really is…especially when he steps into that particular headspace… he’s harder to control but when he’s hunting…whether it be online or out in the world…he’s zeroed in and focused. Add in the fact that he’s amazing with a knife.”

At the word, Eddie grabs one you hadn’t noticed nearby and it rings through the air as he holds the sharp side to your cheek. Again, you don’t flinch or show fear and again he swoons. 

“Fuck me, you’re so beautiful.”, the metalhead whines as his nose replaces the blade and his breath warms your face. “I told him, sweetheart. I told Steve you were perfect and you deserved the world.”, he panted as his fingertips ghosted along your inner thigh. “You like this, baby girl. I can feel how warm you are between these sexy fucking legs. I bet that pussy is dripping. Fuuuuuuck and you’re wearing my shirt to—”

“Munson.”

This time Steve’s voice radiated authority, deep with a particular note of anger that had your head lulling towards Eddie’s smiling lips. 

“W-What are you like? In that headspace?”, you murmur breathily.

“You mean what am I really like?” His chest vibrates as a cool laugh escapes him. “I’m like him…I just hold it in better. I like control.”

“So do I—”

“No, little girl, you don’t!”, he snaps cutting you off. “Not the way we do it.”

“How would you know? I imagine no one’s ever seen you both like this before. I mean…no one who actually cared about you and wanted to be with you.”

“No one cares about us.”

At his sullen remark, you slowly rise from the couch and carefully climb into his lap, resting your head on his chest as you wrap your arm around his neck and twirl your finger in his hair. 

“I do. I care about you both a lot. Besides my sister, you’re the only people who actually seemed to give a damn. You wrote me letters and made me feel safe. Every time you visited me or called; every time I heard your voices… I knew everything would be ok.”

You felt it above your head, his jawline twitch as his chest rose and fell. The arms he had resting beside him gradually came up to wrap around you and you could barely contain the giddy pride that ran through you at the feeling. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Steve, either of you. Eddie’s right…I like this…” Grasping his hand in yours, you slowly glide it along your skin, between your legs till his fingers graze the slick sticking to your inner thighs. “I want you.”

His hair wipes to the side as his eyes meet yours. 

“You want me?”

“Yes, Sir. I want you both.”

Within his eyes, you see multiple emotions flash through them before finally darkening once more. 

“Show me. Show me how much you want me.”

Your eyes never left his as you slid down on to your knees between his legs and reached into his boxers to free his cock. When your lips delicately kissed his mushroom head, his whole body down to his toes shuddered in pleasure. 

“How does Mr. Harrington like it, baby, tell me.”, you whimper as your tongue darts out to lick his slit down the long vein that traced his massive size to his balls. 

“I don’t—fuck—I don’t want to hurt you.”, he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut as his fingers dug into the furniture. 

“That’s not what I asked.”, you giggle causing him to glare down at you at the sound. This time, your head leans to your left as you visually take him in. “Oh…I see…”, you nod as you let him go and rise to your feet, backing away slowly. 

Steve’s fury practically radiated from him as your gaze shifted to Eddie who was still balancing on his heels as his earnest eyes followed your every step with a smirk on his lips. 

“Ok.”, you repeat before turning to sprint in the opposite direction.

You manage to make it all the way up the stairs again before you’re grabbed by the leg and tumble to the ground. A ringed hand grabs your bicep preventing you from falling to hard and the long-haired boy’s husky voice fills your ear as he places his whole body on top of yours. 

“Didn’t get very far did you pretty girl?”

You push back against him but all that does is make him laugh as you feel his arm bend back and his fingers glide effortlessly through your folds.

“Fuck, baby, I knew you were dripping. I could fucking smell it.” 

As he breached your entrance with two of his fingers, you noticed a set of feet step over you both and Steve kneeling down in front of you. 

With his free hand, Eddie lifted you till you were on your palms and knees as the other boy pulled back your hair with his first. 

“I said…show me how much you fucking want me.”

Utilizing your hand, you grabbed his cock and enveloped him into your mouth greedily while his friend pumped his fingers into you at a fast pace. 

“Do you hear that, Steve? Oh my god. I’m gonna bust faster than I did when I lost my virginity. My dick is so fucking hard, Y/N.”

Holding your hair tighter in his grasp, the lawyer thrust his hips, pushing his length to the back of your throat as you gag. 

“That’s it, little girl. You said you fucking want us—shit—this is fucking us.”

“Fuck, Steve, I can’t…I need to…” Eddie had never bothered to put on any item of clothing like his friend so it didn’t take him long to position himself behind you to guide his cock inside your entrance. 

The cool metal of his rings stung a bit as his palm came down hard on your ass as he thrust his hips roughly into yours.

“Told you, honey. No self-control.”, Steve chuckled before pulling out to allow you to collect some air. “Like a fucking animal.”

It was Eddie’s turn to tangle his fingers in your hair as he pulled till your back arched and you mewled as his dick overwhelmed you filling you so completely that it felt like your pussy was made for him. 

“You like how my cock feels, dirty girl?”

“Y-Yes…oh ma…Goood…”

“H-He’s right. I am a fucking animal. M-My knife has slit so many throats but—f-fuck—baby, when I killed that fucking asshole—”

“Eddie.”, Steve scolded but was met with wild eyes you didn’t see. 

“Fuck off, Steven!”

“T-Tell me, baby. Please.”, you begged as your forehead rested against his cheek causing him to deliver the lawyer an “I told you so” smile.

“He…he was so fucking rude. He called you a fucking—mmph—a fucking whore. You’re not a whore and you shouldn’t have been in that cold cell. We made him pay, sweetheart. I-I wasn’t going to allow him to k-keep living while you were in so much pain because of w-what he did.”

“Thank you. Thank you f-for saving me.”

“Oh, f-fuck.”

At your whimpered words, his palm pushed your face against the carpet as his rhythm faltered and he slammed his release inside of you. Feeling him warm you as he whined was all you needed as the coil snapped and you came hard.

You barely had time to come down from your high as Steve circled his arm around your waist and lifted you like luggage as he carried you back to the room he found you in before dropping you on your knees. 

He was on you fast as he pinned your back to the floor and held your arms above your head. His expressive eyes watched your face as slid his cock into your cunt and your own eyes fluttered closed. 

“No. Open, Y/N. Keep them open.” You did as he commanded while he rolled his hips hitting that sensitive spot inside you slow and deep. “Look around you. This is what you want?” As your arms pushed against his grip, he clenched his teeth as he let go of one of your limbs to wrap his palm around your throat and turn your head to take in the photos on the wall. “I said fucking look. Answer me.”

“I want you.”, you repeated. “A-And everything that comes with you.”

Something in your voice slowed his pace and loosened his grip enough for you to look at him once more. 

“I’m not afraid of you…either of you…please, baby.”, you beg as your hand cups his cheek. “Give it to me. Give me all of you.”

Steve’s palm slithered to the back of your neck as he brought your lips to his and began pounding into you. He wasn’t as…animalistic…as Eddie but his pace was definitely rough and overwhelming in the best way. 

When you made love to them earlier that night, they were gentle and generous which you absolutely loved. This dominate energy they were displaying now, however, was perfect beyond compare and the fact that you were now aware they could enter both headspaces made you feel safer. 

Your body shook almost violently as you came, clinging to his shoulders as your nails dug into his skin. He grunted at the sensation and his head fell into the nook of your neck as he chased his own high before emptying his release inside of you. 

Steve collapsed on top of you as he panted, his cheek against your chest with his head under your chin and your fingers began to absently play with his hair as he listened to your heartbeat. 

“Eddie, why are you so far?”, you murmur as one of your hands reaches for where he was sitting against the wall fiddling with one of his knifes. 

“I didn’t want to…overcrowd you…”, he replied with a softness that told you he was back to the long-haired boy you had known for the past view months. 

“You won’t overcrowd me, sweetie.”

At the term of endearment, his chocolate eyes lit up like a boy on Christmas as he tossed his weapon away and crawled to your side. You hissed as Steve pulled out and both men scanned over your features with concern. 

“It’s ok. I’m just sore.”

After exchanging a glance, they silently rise to their feet and the metalhead lifts you in his arms as they carry you to his bedroom. The lawyer gets a bath going and once everything is ready, your (Eddie’s) shirt is removed before you’re lowered into the warm water. 

You sign pleasantly as they take care of you, beaming occasionally when their eyeline finds yours but Steve’s seemingly unhappy face gives you pause. 

“Are…are you still mad at me?”

“No, honey. I was never mad at you…just the situation…”

“You still seem upset.”

At your small voice, he smiles gently as he gestures around him. 

“I’m not used to the filthy conditions.”

“Rude.”, Eddie teases as he hits his friend’s thigh and the man laughs. “We could have gone to your room, asshole.”

“I thought…your room would make her more comfortable… My room is kind of, I don’t know, sterile? Hazard of growing up with my family.”

You softly grin as you reach for his hand and caress his skin comfortingly with your thumb. 

“You both make me comfortable.”

After kissing your forehead, the metalhead lifts you out of the bath and dries you but when the other man turns to wrap you up in one of his button up shirts you were suddenly gone. The tail end of the towel caught their attention and they followed it to find you taking in the photos of their latest victim on their wall. 

“It’s a little hard to fathom, you know? That my dad would work so hard…to punish me like he did…” Steve gradually came up behind you to remove the towel around you and replace it with what was in his hands. “Did Judge White really call me a whore?”

Eddie, who was now leaning on the desk in front of you, nodded.

“We don’t usually like to…play so close to home…”, he added. “But we tried everything else first, sweetheart, we really did.”

“We also don’t…” Your eyebrow quirks upward as the lawyer gestures towards the floor. 

“Play with women the way you just did with me?”

They both emphatically nod. 

“Where is he now? Judge White.”

“Would you like to see?”

######################

After a short boat ride, you found yourself with them in the middle of the lake on the opposite side of town. 

“Are you alright?”, Eddie asked as you clung to his arm. 

“Yeah. I’m just…I’m a little afraid of the…water…Not the water per say but what I can’t see in the water…like, ya know, sharks.” 

The metalhead smirks when you lightly laugh at yourself and tilts down to kiss your cheek as his fingers tangle with yours. 

“No sharks, honey, only bodies.”

“A lot?”

“Define a lot.”, Steve commands firmly as he brings the cigarette to his lips. 

“Do you EVER just answer a question?”, you giggle. 

Tossing the stick between his fingers overboard, he stalks your way till his face is hovering just above yours. 

“Sometimes.”, he jokes eliciting a wide smile as you push up to kiss him. “You’re fascinating, Y/N. We’ve never met a woman like you before. That being said…”, he pauses as his eyes search yours. “You have no idea what you’re in for when it comes to dating us; the danger it could put you in.”

“I’m not afraid of cops or anything else. I trust you to keep me safe. I know that’s odd to say but—”

Steve’s mouth cuts you off as Eddie wraps his arms around you from behind. 

“How did you do that? How do you know I didn’t mean us?”, he whispers as he rests his forehead against your own. 

“I told you…I trust you… I know your analytical mind may need some time to learn to trust me but I’m willing to wait.”

The metalhead abruptly lets you go with a little oh as he grabs the trash bag they brought and dumps its contents into a bin before pulling out a set of matches from his pocket. 

Steve’s eyes watch you as saunter towards the other man and place your hand on his to stop him, taking the matches, and lighting one yourself. You bring the flame to the cigarette between his teeth as his own eyes take in your beautiful smile and soft features before turning to drop it in the bin in front of him setting all the evidence ablaze.

##################

@dashingdeb16 @myherometalhead @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes

I just tagged the always lol if you want to be added let know

[wheneverfeasible]

So we all know the mechanic Eddie aus out there, all love a greasy dirty Eddie Munson in coveralls, but what about mechanic Steve?

Steve, who has a nice car, who learned how to take care of it himself. Steve who found that he was actually pretty good with his hands, and a knack for fixing things. He understands cars, likes to tinker with them in his spare time, even if he had to teach himself at first.

Eventually he sees a Help Wanted sign at the mechanic’s and…well, why not? He applies, and he’s inexperienced, but they hire him. He sweeps and keeps things clean and tidy at first, and then he learns some hands-on experience, moves up in the job, and eventually he becomes the guy everyone wants to work on their car.

When the owner retires, it’s Steve who takes over the place, making the shop his own and making certain that it’s a safe place in a town where safety isn’t always guaranteed. The kids he used to babysit who aren’t kids anymore all learn car basics, Steve making certain they’re not caught in a jam and unable to help themselves, especially the girls. In the window, a small picture of Dorothy from Wizard of Oz rests, letting those who know…know.

And then maybe one day rockstar Eddie Munson returns to the small town he blazed out of after finally graduating, packing his shit up and high tailing it outta there like the bats of hell were chasing him. Maybe he’s still driving a shitty van, or maybe he got something a little more fancy. Maybe fame and money got to him a little bit and he’s got some fancy high end sports car and a bit of a dick personality. And this car breaks down. Who does he have to call?

King Mechanics.

And Eddie is huffing and complaining at it all, at his car for crapping out, for being late to meet his uncle, for having to wait for some mechanic to show up. And one does, not too much later after that first annoyed phone call. And the mechanic has surprisingly well-styled hair, and a body firm with muscle, filling out those oil stained coveralls nicely, and maybe Eddie starts to sort of flirt with the guy, until he looks at him properly.

Until he sees it’s Steve fucking Harrington.

And maybe they don’t get along well at first, and it’s all Eddie’s fault really, who is now huffy and puffy about having to deal with King Steve. Steve, on the other hand, is nothing but polite and professional, maybe even friendly. He might have taken back the moniker of king for his shop, might have even taken it as his last name after his parents disowned him when he came out as queer, but he’s far from who he was in high school.

And honestly? Teasing Eddie is kind of fun. Watching him get flustered and annoyed is funny because enough time has passed that Steve is comfortable with who he is and everyone in town knows he’s turned over a new leaf and it’s just amusing watching Eddie not realizing this yet.

They didn’t really have the parts he needs to fix Eddie’s car at the moment, however, so he orders them in. Offers to give Eddie a ride to wherever he needs to go. Maybe even mentions Wayne, with whom he actually got kind of close with, and who sometimes comes around for a cold drink now that he’s retired and has more free time on hand.

Eddie is incensed Wayne never told him he was friendly with King Steve, but Wayne never cared much for gossip, and Steve has been a godsend more than once when Wayne’s old clunker died frequently.

And so Steve and Eddie are thrown together, and Eddie realizes that maybe there’s more to Steve than meets the eyes, and that’s even before he discovers the Dorothy in the window. Sadly, he doesn’t discover it until after he goes on some rant about how Steve is clearly homophobic, but Steve just stares at him amused because he hadn’t even known Eddie was gay back in high school.

Eventually, Eddie realizes he and Steve have more in common than he ever realized. Realizes he’s become the sort of people he always despised and was a bit of an ass. Steve meanwhile was already aware of his crush on Eddie and was merely waiting for the right time to make his move.

Anyways. I just like the idea of done-up Eddie, slick and fancy, and dirty grubby mechanic Steve.

hostage tag: @derythcorvinus

[statementends]

Some might think Jonah Magnus is Web bait with all the plotting and manipulation he gets up to, but I disagree.

1. Jonah doesn't do anything. His plan is to pick a guy and watch him go. If he dies he dies. Sometimes he might say something about a dark power that he needs Jon to get stabbed by. That's it, that's his plan.

2. Jonah is reactive. Jurgen Leitner shows up and his first instinct is to brutal pipe murder him. Gertrude suddenly and inevitably betrays him and he shoots her and throws her in the tunnels. He hires Melanie because she has a slaughter bullet. Doesn't think about how maybe she might want to slaughter him.

He makes it a point to know everything about everyone because usually his counters come up on the fly.

3. He doesn't care about being found out. He could try to cover himself better. Having Jon trust him would make the venture way easier, but he doesn't see the point in trying to manipulate things more in his favour. Even if Jon gains his Knowing aspect, Jonah had time to spin it. He doesn't. He gets sent to jail because he doesn't think for a second keeping all his incriminating evidence at work might be a bad idea.

4. He wants to watch the drama. This means he wants there to be a level of uncertainty in everything he does. Jon is perfect because the web chose him, so he keeps pushing forward. Jonah does very little to actually entice him. He makes the bet with Peter because he's pretty sure which way Martin will go, but being able to see a choice is all the sweeter. He didn't have a back up plan because he's arrogant and as mentioned he's reactive.

Jonah is very much brand loyal Beholding. He watches without any real understanding. Despite everything he knows about literally everyone he rarely uses it for actual plans. He just knows them so well that he makes them think he has a complicated tangled web, when really it's like: ah I'll put the person that likes stabbing in the same room as Jon and see where that gets me. Oh how clever, I will send the person who is 90 percent of the Archivist's self-restraint on a wild goose chase while the scary coffin is there.

The one time he does an elaborate scheme with Jared Hoppworth it ends up failing. Web will use him as a patsy but it doesn't want him.

Manipulative Bastard card revoked. Bastard man is not good at manipulation or controling people.

[iwtv-theories]

How Iwtv may adapt “the vampire Armand” (theory)

Tw: given Armand’s trauma.

I personally don’t think a whole season will be dedicated to adapt tva. But, I do believe a subplot of his past will be developed over multiple seasons through flashbacks and other writing devices . We already have a new Indian writer hired for the show - who wrote a play about living in a brothel . so we’ll most likely dive more into his past and trauma . it’s also foreshadowed that Armand will eventually tell Daniel his story- similar to how Louis and Lestat did. Armand already told Daniel a (probably not quite accurate) depiction of his past with the children of Satan . And Armand saying to Daniel: “Do you want to hear my story? My first memory…” (could foreshadow he’ll eventually tell Daniel his entire story ).

But, given the nature of Armand’s past I assume a lot of scenes will be portrayed by Assad, and some scenes by a younger looking adult actor, along with darker scenes being verbally stated (similar to Claudia verbally recounting her trauma with Bruce, to Louis). But … I also believe that by the end of Armand’s story a huge “bomb” or several “revelations” will be revealed as Daniel asks “a few follow up questions.” Which indicate Marius is even worse than Armand openly admits or realizes. It would be similar to how Daniel at the end of s2, points out discrepancies in Louis’ story (that re-contextualize everything) .

I think Armand will have been turned as an adult, but I believe it’ll be revealed that Armand was younger in his past than the flashbacks indicate. Similar to how certain passages of Armand’s book made him seem much younger than what he claimed to be . In Armand’s own flashbacks he’d be a “BOY masquerading as a gentleman" (even deceiving the audience into thinking he was older). PS, the next things I mention are either from the books or show canon.

Daniel : “just some follow up questions. Your FIRST memory was being chased down by slavers , so you were young… you had to be only 3 or 4 then? No wonder you aren’t positive of your birth name. I ask cause you said you said you were 15 when Marius saved you from the brothel, right? But, you told me that the night he bought and made a move on you that you were “too young for wet pleasure“ - and then 2 years later that was no longer the case . So you’re saying you only started puberty at 17 years old? Are you sure you weren’t closer to Benji’s age when some of this stuff happened ?” (Benji is Armand’s 12 y foster son who was previously abused and trafficked) .

Daniel: “you told me in 2022 that you were a 514 year old vampire . So you were born in 1508? You said you were 20 years old  when ‘adoration of the shepherds’ was made. But historians say the painting was commissioned between 1520-1525. So you'd have been somewhere between the ages of 12-17 when he 'donated' you to his friends ."

Daniel: “ I don’t know how to say this, but… are you sure the other young boys (that lived with Marius ) didn’t get donated to his artist friends too? Those boys were being trained as painters and hanging out with Marius’ ilk all the time . They may have had a hard time saying no to Marius’ requests , as well. You even said there were rumors of 'bad boys' being 'banished’ from the house ‘immediately' , for saying disrespectful things about Marius. When you first met Ricardo and he painted you , why did he cry ,throw the paint brush and say“ a very different picture master has in mind for you.” Was he warning you that being painted by someone isn’t as nice as it seems? If Marius wasn’t with the other boys -why did he make all of them show their ankles because ‘to him the ankles of boys were beautiful’. Why were those young boys already experimenting with each other , going to brothels and hanging out with courtesans for fun, and teaching you how to read by showing you “frightening books about men and women in carnality.” Aren’t those all signs that they were exposed to that stuff way too early ?! Marius made you go to brothels to ‘train you’ to be better at bedding men and women. And when you were a kid, you said Marius took you to a “ luxurious house of pleasure", which kept … "only young boys.” You even said that , this boys-house was “Eastern styled” and that the boys looked “Egyptian or Babylonian" . He even bought a couch from that establishment. Are you sure he wasn’t a regular customer there ? Armand… I don’t think he bought you to 'rescue you from the brothel'. He bought you because you looked like the boys from his favorite establishment! And at Marius’ house, the first thing those boys did when they met you was say they “loved you” and wink… are you sure they weren’t taught to do that with all house guests? Are you sure Marius' palazzo wasn't just a high-end brothel of young boys?"

Armand describing Marius' palazzo...

Never forget Marius tried to marry pandora when she was 10 !That man is a repeat offender! I don’t trust Marius at all! idc if all the vamps in the books (or even AR respected him) . All my homies hate marius! And I feel like the show may re-contextualize some of those very questionable details sprinkled in the books , that were never addressed . I think the show will make Marius even worse than the books ! Iwtv writers tweeting: “Kendrick Lamar releases Marius diss track.” And in s2 Louis straight up says Marius “groomed” Armand. I don’t think, they’ll shy away from his questionable actions … but I wouldn't be surprised if a lot of the vamps initially fall for his charisma/wisdom (similar to how he garners respect from other vamps in the novels) . Similar to how a lot of abusers are often loved and respected by their peers. It was Marius after all that initially taught Amadeo how to 'lie' better. Not to mention (Marius' age and and drinking from Akasha would make ) his mind-gift and ability to control minds MUCH stronger than Armand's too . Which could (theoretically) have some scary narrative implications for the future... Daniel run before he tries to mess with your head .

[robin-evry]

Oooooohhhhh saw the robin yuu post, now how about a traveler yuu more specifically a lumine yuu that gets isekaied to twst?

Sure thing, ask and you shall receive

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑!𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓☀️🌙

A traveler from another world who had their only kin taken away, forcing them to embark on a journey to find The Seven.

NRC unofficial errand runner, traveler!yuu will accept any task or any errand as long as it comes with a price or it comes from the good of their hearts.

Academically traveler!yuu would be pretty much an average student, their grades are not bad as well not the top of the class, just basically in the middle.

Don't underestimate or try to downgrade them, by far one of the most powerful or not the most powerful and skilled warriors in NRC, Lilia admits himself saying that traveler!Yuu is not someone you should underestimate, he could tell they are a warrior even more skilled than him, sebek of course rejects this idea and challenges them and loses badly after a few seconds.

It's unclear whether or not traveler!Yuu is a human or not because they're not originally from this world. Many students have debates whether they are or not and when asking them what they are, they always shrug it off and continue on their business. Their age is also a mystery do they carry the appearance of a young adult their age has suppressed a human And there's a popular rumor that they are older than Lilia himself like a thousand years older than him.

During the dwarf mine cave moment with the ink monster chasing behind them and their friends to get the stone, traveler!Yuu summons their sword and strikes it down with ease.

Traveler!Yuu have the unique ability to use as well to copy peoples magic by just touching the person as well observing small amounts of mana from people but it usually causes no harms to anybody, they use Carter's unique magic by accidentally bumping into him during lunch, as well the ability to purify things from blot.

They are on a journey of looking for their sibling who they got separated from in this world. Lilia seems to know about them since during his youth he mentioned a person similar to traveler!yuu as well in the text book mention about a strong warrior and by far having abilities suppressing anyone in this world dating back a few hundred years ago.

Works at mostro lounge as a part time job, but Azul has been trying to convince them to work full time, bro is so desperate to hire them. During work hours Traveler!yuu will help Floyd clean the place or as well run some errands with jade.

Very popular in NRC, other than their title of being errands runner. They are very popular in school for being one NRC most trustworthy student and friends. They go gargoyle exploring with malleus, sword training with sebek and silver, help paint the roses with Carter, etc. traveler!Yuu is a trustworthy companion in NRC.

Tales are told across the world many adventures and accomplishments of a powerful and courageous hero that once passed in this world, that looks identical to them but suddenly disappears and their whereabouts is unknown ( their sibling )

The first years are usually people they talk about their adventures, traveler!Yuu is also pretty smug after listing all their accomplishments like aiding in the defeat of an ancient sea god during one of their adventures and the first years jaw drop the floor meanwhile their 😏

Trey, Jamil and them would cook together occasionally once a week, traveler!yuu would start to learn exotic delicacy from Jamil and learn how to bake sweets with trey. Even tho they do have some ups and downs in their skill but they are learning.

Jamil and traveler!yuu originally get along with each other, whether or not Jamil is too busy dealing with kalim he will ask traveler!yuu to do the errands for him, he started to abuse this ability more often asking them to run errands because he doesn't feel like it, but was asked to stop by grim because traveler!yuu has become more exhausted.

Grim asks Crowley to tell the entire school to stop relying on traveler!yuu so much it has become a burden towards. Grim cannot stand his favourite henchman coming back home exhausted and drained it's now officially forbidden to ask for traveler!yuu to run your errands. Vil also personally asks travelers!yuu to stop students doing other people's work since it's their own responsibility not them. Pomifiore has already established this rule because vil realized his dorm started to slack off and have more free time. And if there was anyone that is persistent on having traveler!yuu to help them, they will stop by rook and him.

Crowley was also devastated by this decree because he was also using them but look his precious student is tired of Always helping other people he has no choice so he put up the decree, how gracious and kind hearted man he is meanwhile grim looking at him with a 😒

Everybody in the school knows that traveler!Yuu is by far from being weak, they possessed stamina that suppress most of the students as well skilled in hand to hand combat. Not to mention their unique ability to copy and absorb magic. Not to mention their physical abilities also suppress some non-human abilities. During flight classes instead of using brooms traveler!yuu occasionally use their wings to fly around ( their wings during the game's first cutscenes ) it's pretty for them to pop up their wings tho only a few students have only seen them. During free times epel is approved to be trained by them in hand to hand combat by traveler!yuu.

Some troublemakers once challenge traveler!yuu on a spar but lose to them in a blink of an eye, very respected by the savanaclaw dorm every time when traveler!yuu walk by them, they will greet them with respect like a leader. Occasionally also have spars with the savanaclaw students including jack meanwhile Leona and ruggie watch from the side, ruggie has been teasing about Leona getting on a spar with them but he will shrug it off excusing himself saying he doesn't have the time, deep down Leona knows he will be out best by traveler!yuu but He also started to suspect them to have the potential of taking down malleus which he hopes one day will happen.

Some students started to suspect that they might be aliens that are similar to arch angels but it's unclear, many students Described traveler!yuu is very symbolic to a star, they will shine light upon those who need their guidance and they shine eternally bright in the night sky similar to how traveler!yuu shine bright in NRC.

It's unclear why they are still at twst, but it's related to finding their sibling who they lost during one of their explorations together. And by far their search has been non stop and after their graduation from NRC whenever or not their planning on graduating or dropping out Traveler!Yuu is planning on traveling the world of twst to find traces of their missing siblings.