#one where I actually write rather than just reblog | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strangerstilinski · 6 months ago

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𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

summary: steve is plagued by bad dreams. one night, he needs a little help finding his way back. [3.8k]

content warnings: roommate!steve, hurt/comfort, night terrors/ptsd, panic attack?, copious amounts of pining, could actually be either canon compliant or au depending on how you want to interpret his nightmares, this was mostly just an excuse to write sad cuddles with stevie

a/n: no, this most certainly has not been sitting in my drafts for the last 9 months. what are you talking ab-? ok, yeah, it definitely has. but i finally got my shit together! everybody cheer! [p.s. mar ily to the actual ends of the earth thank u for proofing this for me]

as always, please reblog if you enjoy! xx (if you're feelin really crazy, you could even say smth nice)

dividers by @strangergraphics

It's a knock against your bedroom door that wakes you. A quiet rap of knuckles on wood so soft that you nearly fall back asleep after convincing yourself you must've dreamt the noise entirely— until it sounds again.

A soft grumble of confusion escapes you as you push your weight onto your forearm to sit up in bed, using the knuckles of one hand to rub sleep from your eyes and squinting toward your bedroom door in confusion; fighting to focus the way that the faint light coming in through your bedroom window illuminates the hallway through the crack in the door. The familiarity of the shadowy figure slowly solidifies under your hazy gaze.

“Steve?” You call out in question, voice a little hoarse from disuse.

“Yeah.”

His voice is quiet on the other side of the door, the sound more of a breathy exhale than a word, really. You run your fingers through sleep-mussed hair as you try to focus on the clock on the bedside table. Your brain can barely comprehend the early hour, even as the clock clicks quietly, the last number flipping as one minute gives way to the next. It takes a few seconds, but your eyes begin to adjust to the dark rather quickly and it's with newly awakened attention that you turn toward the door again.

“You can come in.” You call out softly, your words slightly less scratchy with sleep now that your drowsiness has begun to bleed away and the quiet night around you comes more and more into focus.

The door creaks open a little further after a moment and you find Steve there in the dark. His chest is heaving, his lungs expanding and deflating rapidly beneath his ribs. The sound of his quick breaths is loud in the silence, bare feet shuffling against the hardwood in the hallway as he continues to stand just outside the door.

You wait, but he makes no move to enter. He looks so meek like this. His sharper edges have been softened and shrunken by the weight of his anxiety. The threadbare tshirt that's stretched across his shoulders hangs loose around his neck. You can see the crooked line of scattered moles you love so much decorating the line of his throat and eventually disappearing beneath the fabric, though the cotton sags enough to reveal a bit of the hair below his collarbones.

It all makes him appear smaller, somehow. Like a man so much younger than he is. Like a boy standing in the dark outside of his parent's bedroom, patiently awaiting comfort.

“Sorry. For wakin' you up.” Steve manages quietly, his words clipped.

The full-blown panic attack he'd been on the brink of moments before in the privacy of his own bedroom had receded, but just barely. The world around him still shifted in and out of focus, a buzzing sort of white noise filling his ears like cotton.

He glances up at you— Where you've pushed up onto your elbow to squint at him in the dark, your face baring the faint imprint of creases from your pillowcase. Steve spares a fleeting thought to how lovely you look like this, sleep-induced wrinkles on your cheeks and heavy lidded eyes. But he's only granted a moment to admire the sight before the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears forces his gaze to drop to the floorboards again.

With difficulty, he swallows past the lump lodged in his throat, pinching his eyes shut for a moment when a discarded pair of jeans on your bedroom floor look just a bit too much like a thick, crawling vine making its way toward him in the dark.

“No! No, it's okay,” You're reassuring him in a rush, “What's wrong?”

“I, uh.. I-I need your help.” His admission comes out a little like it causes him physical pain to say it out loud. His fingers shake as they comb through the sweaty hair that's flopped down over his forehead in sleep, pushing it back from his face, though a few stubborn strands immediately break free and curl over his brow again.

“Okay,” You readjust yourself on the mattress, pushing yourself to sit up a little straighter, crossing your legs beneath the blankets while you watch him in confusion, “Y'can come in.” You repeat softly.

“I just-” Steve pants, voice hoarse with the way his labored breaths have dried out his throat, “I-”

“Steve?” Your skin has begun to prickle with that itch that tells you something isn't right, but lingering drowsiness fogs your brain just enough that the severity of it hasn't quite sunken in.

His gaze flicks once again to the rumpled pile of denim on your bedroom floor, one pant-leg outstretched in his direction, and the longer he keeps his eyes trained on it, the more the shape of it melts into the dark vines from his nightmare. He blinks, just once, and he swears the thing fucking moves. He thinks it might be crawling its way across the scuffed floorboards, toward him-

Steve's panicked breathing picks up, and your own heart ticks a little faster with worry. You watch as Steve's hand meets the trim around your doorway, his long fingers curling tight around the wood as he tries to steady his wobbly legs.

He makes an awful sound, like he's suffocating. He's nearly gasping for air, choking on the words as he pushes them out, “I- I can't-”

The blankets that cover your lap have already been tossed haphazardly to the side as you stumble from the bed in a rush. You're reaching out for him even as your mind struggles to comprehend what's wrong — why it is that he seems to be panicking.

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” You soothe as gently as you can manage, doing your best to push your own anxieties down to focus on the man in front of you. “Steve-”

His cheeks are warm beneath your palms as your hands find either side of his face, thumbs dragging soft over the apples of his cheeks while your fingertips tangle lightly in the tufts of hair that curl out from behind his ears. The ragged breaths rushing past his lips fall over your face when you guide his gaze up from the floor to meet your own, his dry lips parted and quivering with every exhale.

“It's okay, you're okay.” Your words don't come out nearly as firm as you want, one of your hands leaving his cheek to drag over his sweaty forehead.

Your fingertips smooth over the furrowed line of his eyebrow before falling back to his cheek and finally settling over the column of his throat. His racing pulse thumps soft against your hand, a barely-there fluttering like a hummingbird's wings flapping beneath his skin.

Steve reaches up. His sweaty palm grips your wrist so tight it aches while his head tips a little farther into your touch. He lets out a shaky breath once he makes it just one small step through the doorway.

“What is it? What d'you need my help with?” You ask, voice a little airy with concern.

His chest continues to rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths, and with the help of the soft glow of the streetlight outside your window, you manage to catch the longing glance that he casts to the bed behind you. You're quick to guide him toward it, back peddling until you feel the cushion of the mattress against the backs of your thighs. You settle into the rumpled blankets again and tug at Steve's hand until he has little choice but to climb in after you.

“What is it? What's wrong?” You ask, words whisper-soft.

It takes a moment before his breathing has calmed enough for him to respond, the clock on the bedside table clicking quietly once more as one minute flips to the next, the sound of Steve's ragged inhales and shaky exhales drowning out the silence of the night.

“I, uh. God, it sounds so stupid now, but I-I had this dream,” Steve starts slowly. His trembling fingers prompt you to tighten your grip on the large hand still cradled in your own as he continues, “It was- Fuck, I just- It was a bad one and I-” A harsh breath is forced past his lips, “Feel like I'm still dreaming.. Even now, I feel like.. Like everything's about to flip on its side n' then the nightmare'll take over-”

Your heart cracks at the wobble in his voice, and you can't help but reach up to smooth some of the bedhead back from his face once again, “You're not, though. You're awake,” You promise softly, “You're with me, you're safe.”

“Well, to be fair, you'd probably say that in my dream too, though, right?” Steve points out with a weak laugh, muscles in his jaw tense as he gives a self-deprecating shake of his head.

The dim light pouring in from outside catches the sharp line of his jaw, casts a pretty glow over his long lashes when his downcast eyes focus on the mess of blankets surrounding the two of you. In any normal situation, you'd be ecstatic to have Steve in your bed. But tonight, in the presence of his distress, that elation is decidedly overcome by something more akin to sorrow.

“Yeah, I guess I probably would,” You laugh quietly, though it's a joyless sounding thing, “What can I do then? How can I help?”

“I dunno, I just- I.. Didn't wanna be alone, I guess.” His voice is quiet, embarrassed maybe, and it only makes that urge to pull him into your arms that much stronger.

“You never have to be alone.” You tell him. And you mean it.

“Right,” Steve nods once, adam's apple bobbing in his throat when he swallows, “Thanks.”

You want to help. God, you ache to help — but you have no idea where to start.

“How.. How do you usually bring yourself back after you wake up? When you are alone?”

“Sometimes I, uh, I count my fingers-” His voice is scratchy as he speaks.

He brings one of his hands in the narrow space between you with a small, playful waggle of his fingers. But both of your gazes fall to the slight tremble of his hand, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“-I read somewhere once, 'm pretty sure, that if you're dreaming, the number of fingers? On your hand? It'll be off.” His words come out choppy, unsure. Like he's expecting you to misunderstand him.

“Off.. Like, you'll have twelve fingers or something?” You clarify carefully.

“More or less.” He shrugs like it doesn't mean much, but you know it does. “It's stupid. And I'm probably not even remembering it right-”

“It's not stupid,” You insist, continuing only a moment later when he only frowns in response, “You are not stupid, Steve Harrington.”

Steve laughs weakly, the sound dejected and harsh, “That's a first.” He jokes.

Now's not the time to get into it, not really, but his words make your stomach twist with a pained emotion you can't quite name. You find yourself needing to reassure him just once more, even if he might not believe you.

“I mean it.”

He doesn't respond to that, though his eyes shine a little at his waterline. The silence that follows feels heavy enough to smother you both. Another click sounds from your alarm clock, seemingly louder now, though you know its volume is the same as it always is.

“You.. Y're warm,” Steve whispers after a moment, tongue poking out to wet his dry lips before his eyes flick up to meet your own, “That helps, y'know? Because there's no warm or cold in.. in dreams.”

You squeeze his hand once before pushing up onto your knees and turning to prop a couple of pillows up against the headboard. You lean back into the cushion when you're done and urge him to lay with you with a small wave of your hand.

Steve only hesitates for a second before he follows your silent command, crawling forward as you fall back with a sense of familiarity. The two of you move a bit like there's a tether connecting you to one another. It's easy. Like it could just be a ordinary Thursday night, settling onto the sofa in the living room for the newest episode of Night Court. The simple normalcy of it has a shaky sigh tumbling past his lips when his head finally meets your chest, and he all-but melts into your side.

“How's this? Okay?” You ask cautiously. When Steve nods, lightly-stubbled cheek scraping against your shirt, you wrap an arm around him and take both of his hands into your smaller ones, “D'you wanna count with me?”

“Please.” Steve's response comes so quiet, so vulnerable.

You've never seen him like this. You're flooded with the overwhelming urge to protect him, to shield him away from every bad dream he's ever had, and every one that threatens to haunt him in the future. He avoids your gaze though his face is upturned toward your own, his chin dipped into his chest so he can focus on the way your joined hands fit together.

It's slow going. You fold Steve's fingers down one at a time, the two of you counting them off together beneath whispered breaths.

He audibly sighs in relief when you finish his first hand with five fingers, and his breaths truly begin to even out as you carefully curl your palm around his knuckles and fold down finger number ten on his other hand.

The moment you finish, Steve is grabbing one of your wrists in a gentle grip, his thumbs smoothing over your soft skin before he starts to count off the fingers on your hand as well, silently this time. He continues to calm, though it's a gradual thing. The once rapid heaving of his chest slows imperceptibly. His body relaxes more heavily into your own.

His whispered counting comes to a stop when he reaches your last finger, but he doesn't release you. You allow your free hand to card through his hair all the while, combing delicately through the silky strands, damp as they may be. Your fingertips rub over his scalp softly while he continues to toy with the fingers of your opposite hand.

“You okay?” You murmur in question after a few minutes have clicked by in the silence.

“Yeah.. Yeah, 'm fine.” Steve admits quietly, and he almost means it. He's comfortable here, in your arms — far more comfortable than he thinks he has any right to be. He narrows his eyes as he focuses determinedly on the smooth length of your fingers beneath his own, “Sorry. I just- I mean, Jesus Christ, 's fucking humiliating-”

“Would you.. Do you want to talk about the dream?” You interrupt carefully.

Steve doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're about to reassure him that doesn't need to tell you anything, but he speaks before you can.

“Usually, it's these.. Well, they're kinda bats.. But also not..?” He chuckles darkly, squeezing your hand once before loosening his grip and unfolding your fist.

He begins straightening your fingers one at a time, his thumb stroking soft along the inside of each one as he continues, “Tonight it was the vines. Sometimes.. Sometimes it's this.. This giant thing. Made up of blood and flesh, but in all the wrong ways. 'n there're these face-less, alien-looking...” He pauses like he's debating the final word, “'s just.. It's kid shit, y'know? Or, maybe horror movie shit. Just.. Monsters.”

“It doesn't sound like kid shit. It's.. It sounds terrifying. Honestly.” You acknowledge when he falls silent, your fingers still combing gently through his hair. “The bats..?” You repeat, leaving the word open in question.

“The bats..” Steve swallows, no longer counting your fingers but merely stroking the length of them idly as he speaks, “They're huge. Like, the size of a fuckin' hawk. But they've also got, like, four tails? N' I dunno if bats even have tails, normally. But they just- Just tear into you 'til you either bleed out or wake up.”

The motion of your hand running through his hair stutters, but just for a moment, “Jesus,” You pause for only a second before you have to ask, “And the vines?”

“They're.. Damn, what's the word? Sentient, kind of?” He explains in a soft rasp, “And strong as all hell. If they get ahold of you, you're not gettin away, y'know? They wrap around your limbs and you're stuck. They- they wrap around your neck and you can't fuckin' breathe.”

The air seems to catch in his chest at just the memory. A small hitch in his purposefully steady breathing that has you readjusting on the mattress to press yourself that much harder into his warmth.

“I'm sorry-” Your chin presses into the crown of his hair for a moment.

The gesture is meant to comfort him, and you hope it does, even as your nose fills with the scent of his expensive shampoo and a delicious, sleepy scent that's entirely Steve. It makes your stomach swoop familiarly, though you try to push the feeling down.

“-That all sounds awful.”

He swallows thickly before continuing in a quiet voice, “And it's not just me, y'know? More often than not it's the people I care about. It's Robin, or the kids, or Nance and Jonathan. It's-”

His voice grows hoarse with emotion before he cuts off to lick at his lips, head tipping back. His wide, earnest gaze flicks up to you, his eyebrows pinched with something pained.

“Sometimes it's you, and that's- Fuck, 's worse. So much worse than when it's just me. Christ, it's fucking scary. Having to watch any of you dying.. Bleeding out, right in front of me — and there's nothing I can do, I can only watch-”

“I know it doesn't feel like it, but they're just dreams, Steve,” You whisper carefully, “That's all they are. They can't hurt us, any of us.. And they can't hurt you.”

He nods once after giving your words a moment to sink in, stubble on his chin scratching softly against the cotton of your shirt. You ache to say more, to find the right words to magically make it all better, but you know there's no articulation that will serve as such an all-healing balm. Even if there was, he's gone this long without someone to placate him with empty, pitying promises, and the absolute last thing you want is to make him feel any smaller than he already does.

Silence falls over the room again like a weighted blanket, a contented sort of quiet that you're both grateful for.

The rumble of a lone car cuts through the night, headlights colliding with shadows against the far wall. The glow reflects on the window as the car comes and goes, and for just a brief moment, you get a clear view of the twin beauty marks on his cheek — You have to rein in the all-encompassing urge to drag your thumb over them.

Now's not the time.

But you do wonder what it might be like, to share a bed with Steve under more normal circumstances. What it would feel like to wake in the late hours of the night and have his head resting on the pillow beside your own. For your sheets to hold that musky, sleep-riddled scent that lingers on his skin now.

You watch Steve's full lashes flutter as he blinks, his unfocussed gaze trained on the way your fingers curl and straighten under his own ministrations, bending them this way and that as his thumb presses into the meat of your palm. Your tongue has gone heavy in your mouth with the words you long to say:

I want you.

I love you.

I'll protect you.

You push them down, tough as they are to swallow, and instead break the silence as gently as you can, “You know, you can always come in here after a bad dream. Even if it's not as bad as tonight. If this helps, then I want you to.. I don't want you to worry about waking me up or-”

“Thanks, I- Yeah, maybe.” Steve murmurs noncommittally.

“Steve,” You speak sternly. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you carefully tip his head back, his chin jutting up as he's forced to look at you. “I mean it. You're more than just my roommate. We- We're friends. I care about you. I don't mind.”

Steve swallows, hesitates. His adam's apple bobs before he nods his head in your hold slowly, “Okay.” He says finally, a weight that he didn't realize was even there suddenly lifts from his shoulders.

You allow yourself to drag your thumb lovingly over the long line of his brow, just once. A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips, “Then it's settled.”

The wonky streetlight outside your window flickers for a moment-

You probably wouldn't have even paid the momentary darkness a second thought if not for the way Steve stiffens suddenly. The flickering only lasts a second or two before it re-settles into that same dim stream of light that always illuminates your bedroom at night, but Steve lets out an audible breath of relief when it does.

Neither of you mention it, but the shakiness of that gust of air when it pushed past his lips is nearly enough to break your heart.

You watch the way his jaw flexes, your gaze drawn to the smooth expanse of his neck covered only by the long, curling ends of his hair. You can almost make out his jumping pulse at the hollow of his throat, the dark shadow twitching nearly imperceptibly as Steve forces the too-quick beat of his heart to slow once again.

You're about to ask him if he's okay, but Steve must feel it coming, because he manages to speak first.

“You should get back to sleep.” He says softly.

He releases your hand to prop himself up on an elbow, a small gap of space growing between you that feels so much larger than it is.

Your hand slips from the hair at the back of Steve's head, but you manage to grab ahold of his bicep.

“Do you wanna stay?” You find yourself asking.

“Y'sure?” Steve asks in surprise, “I mean, you.. really don't mind if I stay?” He questions cautiously, golden eyes wide and entirely too pretty, looking a little like even after all this, he can't quite believe you'd let him stick around any longer than necessary.

In lieu of responding, you slip further underneath the blankets. You roll onto your back and open your arms — a silent beckoning for him to join you.

Steve huffs a soft breath through his nose, a relieved sounding thing. The walls that he was rushing to put back up just a moment before crumble in an instant, the stiff set of his shoulders falling slack as well. He drops his head down onto the pillow beside you before draping an arm around your waist to drag you back against his chest.

You're lulled back to sleep by the soft puffs of breath he lets out against your neck and the warm weight of his body wrapped around you.

The last thing you'd ever wish for is for Steve to suffer, but you can't help finding yourself somewhat looking forward to the next time he'll crawl into bed with you — Regardless of the circumstances.

You're more than happy to be his rock.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #*

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bloatedandalone04 · 28 days ago

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Under the Tree

➪the one where you and tyler celebrate christmas together, and he has a surprise waiting for you underneath the tree.

Warnings: fluff, swearing, mentions of smut, nothing too wild (yes, i write fluff too).

Word Count: 2.8k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡ | Merry Christmas !

The department store was crowded, but what store wasn’t during this time of year? Christmas was next month, after all.

You were currently in the ornament aisle of the store, practically shoulder to shoulder with Tyler and an elderly woman that was standing to the left side of you. While you felt a little bad for dragging your boyfriend here after he just finished a rather grueling chase yesterday and likely still needed to rest, Tyler was still a pretty festive guy. And the chances of there being another tornado for the next few months was unlikely, so he would have lots of time to rest.

And he didn’t even look annoyed or irritated at the moment, even though you had been in this aisle for about fifteen minutes now. His arm was slung around your waist as your eyes flickered all over the various boxes of Christmas tree ornaments, an active debate going on in your head as you thought about what theme you wanted to go for this year.

This would be yours and Tyler’s first Christmas together, alone that is. You’d been together for almost three years, and the first year you had spent the holiday with your own families, and the second year with all of them together, but this year it was just you and him. Tyler’s family is going on a vacation this year, so you and he spent last weekend with them, and your mom was taking care of your dad since he just had surgery on his leg, so it wasn’t really a good year for them. Though you were planning on stopping by a few days after Christmas.

With that being said, this was the first year it was just you and Tyler, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t so excited to spend the holiday with him.

“No rush, babe, but is there a reason we’ve been standin’ here for over ten minutes?” he asked after watching you glance between two different boxes over and over again. “Again, no rush at all, but…someone’s grandma is looking a little pissed off.”

When you looked to your left and saw the elderly woman glaring at you, your hand came up to cover your mouth as you tried to hold in a laugh. “She has a valid reason,” you said, leaning more into your boyfriend’s side to give her a little more room. “This time of year is…stressful for everyone.”

Tyler hummed in agreement, wrapping his arm tighter around you as he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “True…but I don’t think pickin’ out what to put on the tree is very stressful,” he teases, “Or at least it’s not supposed to be.”

You laughed quietly, watching as the woman grabbed a box of all red ornaments before briskly leaving the aisle. “I don’t know which ones I want,” you whined, pulling him back to where you were before. “I don’t know if we should do red and green, or white and gold, or white, gold and red.”

Tyler laughed under his breath as he looked at the multitude of different colored ornaments on the shelves. “Well, we have a pretty big tree, why don’t we do a mix of all of them? And maybe we can add some random ones here and there. We still have the ornament my mom got us last year to put on too, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” you smiled, looking back at him. His mom had gotten you a cute ornament that said both yours and Tyler’s names on the brims of a Santa hat that two penguins were wearing, and you were kind of obsessed with it. “That’s actually a really cute idea. You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”

Tyler smirked, wrapping his arm around your waist again as he pulled you back against his side. “I love Christmas, you know that,”

You nodded, wrapping both your arms around his middle as you leaned your head against his chest. “I know you do,” you hummed, “But most guys don’t.”

“Baby, I think we’ve long since discovered that I’m not like most guys,” he grunted, reaching for both the big boxes of the red and green ornaments, leaving you to grab the smaller box that held both white and gold ones.

When he gestured for you to finally leave the aisle, you rolled your eyes. “Must you always show off?” you huffed, grabbing the smaller box before following after him.

“In front of you?” he grinned, “Always.”

“Pick a movie already,” you groaned, worried that the candy cane hot chocolate you had made for both you and Tyler would be stone cold by the time a film was even chosen. The living room was only lit up by the recently put up Christmas tree in the corner, an array of ornaments scattered on its branches, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think it was one of the cutest and prettiest things you had ever seen.

Tyler turned around from where he was hunched over the fake fireplace. The remote had been lost a long time ago, so whenever either of you wanted it on, you had to get onto your knees and hit the button manually.

The look he gave you had you cackling as you draped the big throw blanket your mom got you a few years ago across your body. “I did,” he said, “Two of them, actually. You said no to both.”

You laughed and sipped on your drink. “The Grinch is so overrated, and Home Alone is so overplayed,” you mumbled, placing your whole palm around your mug to warm your hand. “We watch it, like, five times every December.”

Tyler, once he turned the fireplace on, stood up and towered over you, his hands on his hips. His red and green Christmas pyjama pants he was wearing made your smile grow, even though you were wearing matching ones, complete with Max from The Grinch scattered all over the fabric. “Because it’s a classic,” he defended his choice of movie as he moved towards the couch. “And it’s good. Your choice was awful, but you don’t hear me complainin’, do you?”

His words weren’t harsh at all but rather teasing as he grabbed his own mug before sitting next to you and leaning over to kiss your cheek when you draped the blanket over him as well. “Love Actually is good,” you muttered, bringing the rim of your mug up to your mouth again.

Tyler laughed, reaching for the remote with his free hand. “Babe, it’s barely a Christmas movie,”

“Okay, you have not seen it enough times to be able to say that,” you said and Tyler grunted.

“Alright, fine, it doesn’t feel like a Christmas movie,” he corrected himself as he flipped through the Holiday section on Netflix. “How about…this one?”

You looked up and saw that he was hovering over Four Christmases, and your lips curved into a smile. “Okay,” you answered, cuddling close to him while being careful not to spill your drink.

When the opening scene started, Tyler turned his head and nuzzled his nose against your temple. “We should do that,” he murmured, draping his arm around your shoulder as he pulled you closer to his side.

“What?” you laughed, your eyes still on the TV but your focus was almost entirely on your boyfriend.

“You know…roleplay,” he said, and your face heated up as you looked over at him, seeing the mischievous look in his eyes you were very used to by now.

“Roleplay?” you echoed, tilting your head back to get a better look at his handsome face. “You wanna call me a bitch, hmm? And tell me you hate my earrings?”

Tyler’s face heated up now and he quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he rushed out, but you just laughed and draped your legs over his under the blanket. “I just meant, like…you know, pretendin’ we don’t know each other, only for me to kiss you in front of a room full of people like it’s the only thing I want to do for the rest of my life.”

You bit your lip and pressed your cheek against his shoulder, running the tip of your nose along his jawline. “You already do that,” you murmured, “Kiss me in a room full of people. What would be different?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before pressing his own against it. “We could make it like our first date all over again. I could act all cool and confident, when really I was already fallin’ head over heels for you, and you could pretend you aren’t completely obsessed with me already and just dyin’ to hear more of my storm chasin’ stories.”

You scoffed, pulling back to lightly slap his shoulder. “You’re so full of it,” you shook your head before moving closer to him again. “It wasn’t your stories that drew me in, it was you. Just you.”

Tyler smiled down at you before leaning in and pressing a firm kiss to your mouth. “Everythin’ about you drew me in,” he mumbled against your lips. “Your eyes, your laugh, your smile…and those tight jeans you were wearing definitely did somethin’ to me.”

You rolled your eyes and placed your hand flat against his face, pushing him away from you. “Once again, you’re full of it,” you muttered, quickly pulling your hand away from him when his tongue poked out and licked your palm. “And disgusting.”

Tyler laughed, and the sound made your mouth curve upwards in a smile as you turned your gaze back to the movie. “You love it,”

Christmas Day always seemed to creep up on you ever since you became an adult, unlike how it seemed to take forever to arrive when you were a kid.

With that being said, it was just as exciting as it was when you were younger. Back then, you, like any other kid, loved receiving gifts, but now that you are older, you love giving them out.

Okay, maybe you go a bit overboard every year, but your mom could always use another mug, and your dad could always upgrade his housecoat. And Tyler could always stock up on that piney, sexy cologne you fucking love.

When you woke up on the 25th of December, alone and cold in your bed, you groaned and grabbed Tyler’s Tor-nae-do hoodie and shrugged it over your shoulders, the grey fabric matching well with your Grinch pajamas.

You left the room and walked down the stairs, hearing the faint sound of Christmas music playing from the living room. When you entered the room, you found Tyler sitting on the couch, his laptop placed on his thighs and his legs kicked up on the coffee table as he scrolled through the comments on an old upload.

“Working on Christmas?” you asked with a tired grin, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorway.

Tyler looked over at you, his handsome grin forming on his lips as he closed his laptop, instantly giving you his full attention like he always did. “Someone has to,” he teased, setting it aside as he leaned back on the couch. “Kinda hard to make money when you’re in bed and sleepin’ all morning.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, pushing off the wall when he reached his hand out to you. “It’s only ten thirty,” you mumbled, crawling onto his lap as you snuggled up on his chest. “And yeah, yeah…you’re the breadwinner out of the two of us. I know that.”

Tyler hummed as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms wrapping around your body as he held you against him. “That’s not true and you know it,” he murmured, dipping his head down to nuzzle his face against your neck. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

You smiled, closing your eyes as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw. “Merry Christmas, Ty,” you said back, sitting up on his lap and placing your hands on his chest. “What do you say? I make breakfast, we sit for a bit, then open presents? Maybe after we can have a nap too…you kept me up late last night.”

Tyler smirked, shrugging a bit as he ran his hands up your back, under his hoodie. “What can I say? I know how to celebrate a holiday,” he grinned, then sat up a bit. “How ‘bout presents first? I got you somethin’ I’ve been dying to see you open for weeks now.”

One of your brows raised as you let out a soft hum. “Weeks, huh?” you echoed, a small smile forming on your lips. “Alright, we’ll do presents first.”

“Okay,” he immediately agreed, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze. “Open mine first. It’s right there, under the tree.” he nodded towards the corner of the living room, the Christmas tree lit up in a soft, warm tone, and under it was a small, surprisingly well wrapped box.

“Okay,” you said, getting off his lap to retrieve the box, and one of the gifts you got him. You walked back over to him and sat down on the couch beside him, rather than on top of him again, and placed your gift for him on his lap. “Remember, we said we weren’t going to go overboard since it’s just us this year, right? You remember that?”

Tyler grinned and draped his arm around your shoulders. “Babe, just open it,” he laughed, his other hand wrapping around one of your thighs to pull you closer to him.

You laughed quietly too, draping your legs over his lap. As your fingers began ripping at the wrapping paper, you noticed that Tyler began to shift beside you, but he only gestured for you to keep going when you looked over at him. “Are you okay?” you asked, glancing up at him again as you pulled off the rest of the paper. “You’re acting kinda weird or anxious or-”

You cut yourself off when you opened a small box, and you quickly looked down to see what was in it. When your eyes caught sight of the princess cut ring that was sitting on the velvet cushion inside the box, your throat closed up as a soft gasp left your mouth.

“Ty,” you murmured, your eyes burning a bit with unshed tears as you tore your gaze off the stunning ring to look over at him.

Tyler looked less nervous now as his fingers ran up and down your thigh, his eyes wide but his face relaxed. “Baby,” he said back, reaching up to caress your jaw in his hand. “I love you. More than anythin’ in the world. You know that.”

You nodded quickly, your hands shaking a bit as you looked between him and the ring in the box. “Yeah,” you whispered, gripping his arm tightly with the hand that wasn’t holding the box.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Tyler rasped, taking the ring out of the box as he held it between his fingers. “I want to marry you, babe. I want everythin’ with you, forever.”

Your cheeks heated up in a blush, your eyes filling with tears as you moved closer to him. “I want that too,”

“Yeah?” Tyler grinned, taking your left hand in his as he held the ring up to you. “Will you marry me, baby?”

You were nodding before he even finished asking the question, your arms thrown around his shoulders as you pressed a deep kiss to his mouth. “Tyler, oh my God,” you mumbled against his mouth, your voice muffled by his lips. “Yes.”

Tyler laughed against your lips, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he pressed multiple kisses to your mouth. Neither of you knew how long had passed before you finally broke the kiss and pulled back so he could slide the ring onto your finger, and already you were absolutely obsessed with it.

“It’s so beautiful, Ty,” you said quietly as you gazed down at the new addition to your left hand.

“Yeah? I tried findin’ the prettiest one because you’re the prettiest girl,” he smirked, running his hand up and down your spine as you snuggled up against his side. “This one will have to do.”

You scoffed and shook your head, nuzzling your face against the side of his neck. “It’s perfect,” you mumbled, kissing his shoulder. “I love it. I don’t even want you to open my gift now because you’ve given me the best one by far. I feel cheap.”

Tyler laughed, holding you tightly against his side as he looked down at the gift bag you had put on his lap. “Oh yeah, it’s gonna take you at least…I don’t know, four Christmases to catch up to me now,” he said, a proud smile on his face, and he was clearly happy with his stupid joke as he reached for the bag. “Oh, and thanks for the cologne by the way, wifey.”

#grumpys glen grove #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens smut #tyler owens fic #tyler owens twisters #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens fanfiction #tyler owens x you #twisters #twisters movie #twisters 2024 #twisters fanfic #twisters tyler owen’s #twisters x reader #twisters imagine #glen powell

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scoutofmymind · 9 days ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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sjywrites · 5 months ago

Text

༊*·˚ Prada & Versace (dropped)

: ̗̀➛ 𝓢ugar 𝓓addy!𝓛ee 𝓗eeseung x 𝓕!reader. 𝓖enre smut, fluff, age gap, s2l. 𝓢ypnosis where reader is a broke and single college student celebrating her best friends birthday, and at said party she meets someone who might solve more than just one of her problems. 𝓦𝓒 estimated 5-10k. 𝓒𝓦 age gap, oral (f! and m! receiving), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), pet names (good girl, baby, slut in an affectionate way!), mentions of alcohol, both hee and reader smokes, reader is a bit intoxicated but still fully aware of what she’s doing.

𝓝ote this is a sneak-peak of the actual story, this is the first story I’ve ever posted on tumblr so if you see anything that I can improve, please let me know. I want the first story I post to be good enough for me to be motivated to keep writing!

This is purely fiction and is not meant to interpret how the idols act in real life!

,, not proofread + english is not my first language ! ೃ⁀➷

Edit: this fic will be dropped, I've lost full motivation for it and it doesn't really fit what I want to write in the future. Sorry.

Flashing lights, loud music and the smell of sweaty bodies. That’s what most clubs look like, and this one was no different.

It was Ryujins 19th birthday, and she wanted to celebrate it with just her closest friends and her girlfriend. That’s why Y/N agreed to it in the first place. She’s not used to social settings and spends most of her time stressing over finals, so being forced into a social setting wasn't making her any less stressed. Her and Ryujin are the complete opposite of each other and she can’t really remember how they became best friends, but somehow they did. And that’s why she’s in this position right now, pressed between strangers in a club that reeked of alcohol, dressed in a skimpy black dress that barely covered her up.

“Hey Y/N, get me another drink will ya’!” Ryujin shouted and laughed, fully intoxicated. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea Ryu” I said, a little worried about her condition “you’ve had a lot already” I tell her, hoping she would just give up “It’s fineee, I’m fineee, trust!” She laughed and grabbed another beer. I tried to stop her but she was too fast. I just gave up and sighed, trying to reason with her when she’s drunk is like trying to argue with a wall “You’re gonna throw up later I’ll tell you that.” I grabbed my lighter and walked outside for a smoke, leaving her to Yeji, her girlfriend. I love Ryujin, but sometimes she can be a handful to look after.

I walk out on the balcony, leaning against the rack and admire the glowing night sky, letting the cold wind run over my body. It’s a relaxing moment until I hear someone approaching and I assume it’s either Ryujin or Yeji, until they lean against the rack beside me. Build too big to be either of them, I look over in their direction. A tall, hot guy with glasses stands there. He lights a cigarette and looks over to me. I forgot how to breathe for a moment, embarrassed, I looked away slightly. When I look back to see if he’s still there, we make eye contact. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat roaming around him. And I can't tell if it’s the embarrassment or the close contact with the man that makes my cheeks heat up, but I’d rather not find out.

I take a look at the man in front of me, scanning him up and down. Dressed in a suit too fine to be worn at a basic club, hair styled in a way that makes it look almost untouched, and his eyes, his eyes were so easy to get lost in. I snap out of it when I realize I’d been staring for a while, a slight smirk on the man's lips as he leans down to my level.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer”

✩ ♬ ₊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N please let me know if you want me to finish it! Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated ♡ (Also someone please teach me how to make my posts aesthetic I've never posted on Tumblr before so I don't know how it works 😔)

#-`♡´- Lia Writes!#enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enha #enhypen fluff #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen scenarios #enhypen heeseung #heeseung #lee heeseung #lee heesung x reader #lee heesung smut #Spotify

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inklore · 1 year ago

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I’ve seen your reblog ‘“i’ve been thinking about you all day” as they’re filling your pussy’ and I was wondering if it was okay to request this with Jordan Li (established relationship)

NIGHTS LIKE THESE

pairing: jordan li x (f)reader

contents: foreplay, p in v, oral, this is very soft, it’s basically fluff with smut, both of their presenting forms involved, everyone is love sick and clingy idk | wc: 860

note: they're everything to me!! i have something much longer in the works for them but i needed to write something quick and yearny.

Your wrists are pinned above your head, their fingers twined with yours as they hold you in place, as if you’d ever escape them, leave them, or try to.

As if you could go anywhere with their body pressed against yours and their hips moving between your thighs.

Slow thrusts that make you feel every inch of them moving inside of you. Fucking you at that languid pace that comes from the frustration of long days and the yearning that pricks at one’s heart from being separated for too long.

Course work and keeping your rankings are chores in and of themselves, but living up to the expectations it sets is even harder. So if a day goes by and Jordan can’t have you pressed up against them, at their side, or at the very least your nose in your test books laying against the other sprawled on their bed, each of you doing your own thing: their day just doesn't feel right.

Doesn’t feel normal if they can’t pull you to the side in the hall and press a kiss on your lips.

Can’t get the death glare you always give them when they forget to eat lunch because they were too busy helping Brink, and you surprise them with dinner and dessert—the dessert usually forgotten and turns into you between their legs or vice versa.

Their days aren’t normal unless you’re in them.

They haven’t felt normal since the two of you decided to try this. To be together.

“You’ve rewired me,” they mumble against your shoulder as the two of you try to fall asleep one night. The clock on your nightstand glowing 1:00AM in big, haunting letters. Your night supposed to be spent working, but there are only so many sneaking glances and innocent touches against skin before you are both done pretending you want to do anything besides have the other naked and against you all day.

And you know that they’ve rewired you too.

Made the fucked up in your life a little less fucked, made the days easier to endure when there’s the constant pressure of greatness looming over you.

You could crash and burn, and you know you’d still have their support, just as they would have yours. And that’s a higher score than rankings could ever give you.

It’s rare the two of you will go a day without seeing each other, without ending up pressed together in bed—weed filled lungs laughing until the haze lolls you to sleep and you’re waking the next morning to Jordan’s alarm clock and the shifting groan of both their forms pulling their pillow over their head. Pulling you back down into bed when you actually do something crazy like get up and not lay with them for five more minutes.

But nights like these make up for days when you are both swamped and Brink needs Jordan for something, and you are stuck alone with your nose in a book or forcing Marie and Emma to get Vought A Burger with you.

Nights where there’s no rush. No need to go fast and get off as many times as your body aches for—as many times as the other wants to swallow and taste the pleasure each time you come against them, on top of them, or inside of you. Like you’re both dying of thirst, and only the others come will do.

These nights are slow. Savored. Like you’ve been away at war rather than occupied over a span of twenty four hours.

Jordan kisses you achingly slowly these nights. Let’s their tongue linger in your mouth for longer than normal, nipping at your bottom lip with gentle teeth. Their fingers stripping you of your clothes like they need to press their lips to every bit of skin they free.

And when their tongue finally makes contact with your pussy it feels like you can finally breathe. Like you’ve been holding your breath for days—all night—for them to finally soothe the ache that they’ve caused.

Their hips buck against the air when you switch positions, and your tongue presses between their thighs. A slow tease of teeth and tongue tracing down their hip bones until you’ve reached where they’re soaked, or hard for you.

Neither of you letting the other come until Jordan is inside of you.

Until you’re both sighing from that first initial push inside, the head of their cock easily fills you with how wet you are—how wet they’ve made you. Gasps breathed into mouths from that first slow roll of their hips.

It’s heady and fucking torturous, and you love it.

You both do.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” they murmur against your lips. Their fingers flexing against yours as they keep them above your head, as they completely take control of your body and show you just what they’ve been thinking about. “You take up every part of my brain, and it’s a problem, but I fucking love it.” They moan into your mouth; roll their hips in that way that has air whooshing from your lungs and your pelvis pushing up to drive them deeper.

#jordan li x reader #jordan li x you #jordan li smut #gen v fic #jordan li imagine #gen v fanfic #jordan li fic #jordan li fanfic #jordan li x y/n #gen v smut #jordan li

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meichenxi · 1 month ago

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12 hyper-specific actionable neurodivergent-friendly goal suggestions for the New Year!

If you are considering writing goals / intentions / focus points that are more ADHD and/or autism friendly and not overly focused on career or relationships but rather on feeling at home in your body, here are 12 very specific, very actionable tiny steps that have made my life actively better in the last year. Feel free to reblog with similarly actionable points!

(Obligatory disclaimer: these are what have helped me – hence why ‘hyperspecific’! They might be completely the opposite of what you need, or irrelevant to your situation. And all of them, of course, are funds-dependent. But I hope you can find something to inspire you to think about more actionable goals for the coming year.)

1) Get a recipe box

This is number one for a reason. In the past, I have lived for three years on sandwiches (!). I cannot cook or reliably feed myself, and have been beating myself up about it for years. At its best it is humiliating, and at its worst I have gotten various illnesses from malnutrition. I find cooking a sensory hell, as well as triggering past ED thoughts, and shopping and deciding every day what to eat is an executive dysfunction nightmare.

‘You should be able to cook’ – okay, but you can’t. If you can afford it, what’s more important – that you eat well, or that you fail again and again at doing what you ‘should’ be able to do? I think of it as part of my autism accommodations, and just one of the ways that existing as a disabled person is more expensive. Please take the shame away from it, and use it if you need.

I pay for Gousto – it’s the best for vegans, and costs about £35 a week. This is a huge part of my budget for the month, but I find it worth it a million times over. It delivers the recipes and packaged foods in correct amounts to my house every week, and I always choose the quickest recipes to cook. They are done in about fifteen minutes. This forces me to be in the kitchen every day, which has the added benefit of making it very clean, because I can’t stand to cook when the kitchen is very dirty.

2) Go to the gym for ten minutes a day

- (If you don’t want to go to the gym but do other exercise instead, swap the location out for your preferred place!)

- Most traditional advice around exercise revolves around not doing too much – so for most beginners that means 3-4 times a week, at the maximum. The problem is that for AuDHD and other neurodivergent people that habits may be much harder, if not impossible, to form. This means that the executive function required to remember to go to the gym if it’s only 3 times a week, conversely, is actually significantly higher than if you do it every day.

- The ‘ten minutes a day’ thing, for me, means that my goal is not to do X amount of exercise or overwhelm myself. My goal is only to get there. Once I’m there, I can do whatever I want. This formulation of the goal in my mind removes the demand-avoidance and executive dysfunction barriers because if I really don’t want to exercise, I can just walk on the treadmill for a bit and then leave. Knowing this means that I almost always do more exercise than I otherwise would if I were forced to follow a difficult and tiring exercise regime.

- The key to this is that you actually have to mean it. Don’t beat yourself up if after ten minutes, you go home. That’s okay. Your goal was ten minutes – your goal is to make going to the gym a habit, not necessarily the actual exercise you do. That comes next.

3) Use a weighted neck-wrap, cushion or plushie

- For a disorganised sensory system, as many autistic people in particular have, proprioceptive input (that tells your body where it is in space – so weight, pressure, compression etc) can be hugely regulating and calming. A weighted neck wrap is small enough to go under your clothes or can go over your chest as you sleep. I already use a weighted blanket, but this means I can have a little bit of calming proprioceptive input as I work at my desk as well.

4) Get a smoothie box

- This is a similar point to the recipe box. I frequently have health problems because I absolutely hate the texture of fruit and vegetables, and just don’t ever eat them. Rather than forcing myself, as I have done for the past several years, to just try – I’ve leant into my difficulties and worked around them. Smoothies work for me. A smoothie box that comes every month averages out to about £2 per smoothie, which is less than the cost of a bottle in a supermarket. You don’t have to chop anything, just put it in the blender with water or oat or coconut milk.

- Most smoothies have 3 of your 5 a day at least, and some even have 5! If you are struggling nutritionally, it might be something to think about. It’s helped me hugely, and I now consider it an essential part of my budget.

- If it’s too expensive, consider buying frozen fruit by yourself if you have the spoons for that.

5) How can you look the most ‘put together’ without doing anything at all?

- I don’t mean showering. I mean infrequent practices like haircuts! I hate wearing makeup for sensory reasons, but I have a good haircut, one that makes me feel like myself and sharp and confident – I feel so much better, and it’s something I only have to do once. I now make it a deliberate choice to put a haircut in my calendar for every two months.

- Consider a ‘no style’ haircut that will look smart whatever you do! My haircut is a short French bob. You need essentially no styling, it works curly or wavy or straight (though if you have curly or coily hair, you should go to someone who can work with your texture – if you don’t thin it out properly, it’ll give you a horrible triangle shape!). I feel SO put-together with this haircut – it elevates even pyjamas, and I have to do absolutely nothing.

- I bite my nails to the point of bleeding – getting professional gel paint on my nails (no extensions) is the only thing that works to stop me, because the smooth round tips meant I could stim with those instead of biting. For ages, I didn’t because it was a ‘waste of money’. This year I realised: if I’m not going to stop stimming, I need to give myself something to stim with that doesn’t hurt me. Accept your neurodivergence and work around it. I now book a nails appointment every 6 weeks or so, for £20-£25. I find it again more than worth it.

- Similarly, I have just got a nose piercing, and I am considering tattoos for next year. For me piercings and tattoos do the same thing as the above two: they make me look more put together without actually ever having to think about wearing temporary jewellery or makeup (which I can’t for sensory reasons). What might work for you?

6) Dress for Sensory Good

- I have found a noticeable difference in my self-confidence with my appearance once I a) accepted that I have sensory differences, and b) bought clothes that accommodated those differences without making me look like a slob. For example, I hate feeling constricted around my thighs as I like to jump and stim and dance, but I don’t want to live in tracksuit bottoms because that leads to Depression Soup – so I have started buying formal, ‘monk-style’ trousers with a wrap-around belt and flowy legs. I like the feeling of pressure around my waist that a tight top provides, but I hate it around my shoulders (don’t ask me why…), so I have started wearing tops with huge baggy sleeves and a wrap-belt around the waist. So many of these tiny adjustments, and for the first time in my life I feel both comfortable and beautiful in my wardrobe.

- Do you like heavy things? Soft textures? Scratchy wool? Lots of badges to play with? Tight compression? Flowing fabrics? And how does this work with your lifestyle? When I am overwhelmed, I often want to cover the lower half of my face and neck – it feels comforting to me. So I have started wearing light scarves that I can wrap around my face like an old lady (!) which both block out the world, provide that comfort, and also look...normal? It lets me stim without visibly outing myself as autistic, which I don’t always feel safe doing.

- Other things to consider that might help: compression clothing, weighted jackets, heavy boots, ankle and wrist weights (there are some that are very minimalist and look like bracelets), wrap trousers, tight belts, cloaks with hoods, cowl necklines, activewear, Merino wool (if you sweat a lot or can’t shower / do laundry often), complete light-blocking sunglasses (you can buy these from a ski shop), stretchy fabric, etc. Whatever works for you – find it!

7) Use a sippy bottle with a straw

- I can’t stay hydrated. If it’s left up to me, I drink less than a glass of water every single day. I have constantly bleeding cracked lips and skin from lack of hydration. The only thing that has worked so far – and it has been a game-changer! – is to buy a huge 1.2 litre / 40 oz water-bottle with a built-in straw that I can take around everywhere. I can stim with it, the straw feels nice, I much prefer drinking from a straw because I hate accidentally wetting my chin / sleeves - and all I have to do is remember to fill it up twice a day. That’s way less mental effort than remembering eight glasses!

8) Get noise-cancelling headphones and Loops

- I assume everyone who is autistic has these. If you don’t – they will change your life. I only got them last year and suddenly so many places have become accessible to me that I would have just avoided before. I also tell people very honestly that I often wear them, so please don’t be alarmed if I do – if you want to start this, I’ve found it less intimidating to do it with strangers first, and then moving up to friends / family. Now everyone is used to it, and I get way less overwhelmed.

9) Use an audiobook service

- For a long time I thought that I had lost the ability to read. I now know that’s directly correlated to my levels of overwhelm (which makes my ADHD traits worse), but even so, my short-term memory is so poor that I have basically never been able to read non-fiction – it goes in one ear and out the other. Now that I use an audiobook service, however – I am listening to lecture series about so many things I’m passionate about and actually remembering things for the first time in my life!

- Knowing that I can listen to things I love whilst I clean or tidy my room or pack or whatever helps me so much. I also enjoy lying down in the dark under my weighted blanket listening to audiobooks as I wake up and go to sleep – it has completely replaced scrolling on my phone as the first / last thing to do in a day. When I’m overwhelmed I often can’t look at a physical book as it hurts my eyes, so an audiobook is far better.

10) Get Huel / Pleny / other meal-replacement drinks

- Because sometimes even with a recipe box, you won’t be able to cook. You’ll have forgotten to go shopping. You’ll be so sensory-weird that the thought of eating food is awful and makes you want to vomit. This doesn’t work for my partner, who hates the texture of Huel, but for me I can bear it and often enjoy the same-ness of knowing exactly what to expect. On days when I can’t cook or go out or sort out a meal, Huel is a life-saver.

11) Add active rest time to your calendar

- I don’t mean necessarily an actual calendar, but about how you think about time and your day. I make it a habit now to automatically add the same amount of time as the activity took as recovery time afterwards. So if I schedule a date for 2pm to 4pm, then I know that after I get home I will need two hours to recover before I can do something else.

- This has helped me be both more deliberate about my rest time (I don’t scroll or watch anything – I deliberately ‘go in’, as I call it, using my weighted blanket, other weighted things on my chest, a blindfold, brown noise, pitch black room etc), and also be realistic about how much I can do in my life. I know that if I have to rest for two hours after a two-hour event, it’s very unlikely that I can do more than one social engagement in a day. This expands to longer periods: if I go and visit my family for four days, I will likely need four days doing not much afterwards, and certainly no cognitively demanding tasks or socialising. This is a reality check which helps me say no to certain things that are not crucial.

12) Try compression clothes

- These provide a subtle and constant proprioceptive input which can calm the nervous system – as I have said above, proprioceptive input (knowing where your body is in space, pressure etc) is hugely regulating to AuDHD nervous systems. It also massively affects the other sensory systems if it is dysregulated – so if you aren’t meeting your sensory needs for proprioception, it’s likely that visual or auditory will be even harder. You don’t need to buy ones specifically for autism – UnderArmour or shapewear or activewear works just as well.

---

I hope these help! I have many more suggestions, but will leave that to another post :)

#audhd #autism #actually autistic #adhd #actually adhd #neurodivergence

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withleeknow · 9 months ago

Note

i think you'll do well with requests bc they seem to be popular in the fanfic side of tumblr! but even if it doesn't take off that quick, at least that'll be less overwhelming bc some ppl can be so demanding....anyways, i hope the best for you in this new journey haha 💝

me personally, i'm not very creative so i'll leave the details to the professionals (aka you) but i'd like to req something from minho's pov. i think those type of stories are SEVERELY lacking in the lee know fics department lol 🥲 it could be a childhood friends to lovers where he is pining for oc but he has a lot of self esteem issues and thinks she's not interested in him. also a big softie and just all around head over heels for her. you can add your magic! (if this is even remotely interesting enough to write lol i just want a minho pov tbh shsjjfjdjdj 😭)

light years.

summary: three times minho bites his tongue, and one time you don't let him.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, angst; kissing, cursing, so much pining i could hurl. could this have been more edited? oh absolutely lmao but i actually don't hate it sooo this is what we're going with :p word count: 4.2k note: to the first anon, thank you so much for your kind words! :') and i'm sorry that this took me longer than expected. i was trying to figure out what i wanted to write for your prompt but then i got the second request with the song and i thought they would go nicely together hehehehe i hope the both of you enjoy thissss

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / request masterlist / ko-fi

I'm not sure what it means to love But I blink kind of slow around you I'm not sure what it means to love But I'll grow wherever you do What that means, I don't have a clue

I'm Not Sure - Margeaux Beylier

One.

Minho is 18 years old, and he doesn't know what love is, doesn't really care for it at all.

While his friends are out there wrapped in the clutches of young love - the kind that blooms with stolen glances in classrooms and sticky notes passed in secrecy, Minho finds it simply unnecessary. He doesn't understand it whenever Hyunjin whines about not having a girlfriend because they're still young, they've got all the time in the world for romance later down the line. It's not the end of the world like Hyunjin laments it is.

Minho has his own life to prioritize. College is starting after the summer and he still needs to figure out how he's going to cope with the absence of his cats once he moves away. He's got dancing and he's got his other hobbies to keep him fulfilled and occupied.

And above all, he's got you.

You're getting ready for your sister's wedding when it happens for the first time. Or rather, when it doesn't happen.

You step back into the room where Minho is waiting for you on the sofa, his gaze resting idly on the screen of his phone, scrolling absentmindedly through his friends' group chat even though he has no interest in whatever they're talking about. You cough lightly to indicate your return after disappearing into the bathroom minutes prior to change into your dress. He looks up upon your soft announcement, and when his eyes settle on you, he swears it feels like an invisible force has collided with his chest and knocked all of the air from his lungs.

Throughout all his years of knowing you, inseparable from childhood until now, Minho has never seen you like this - all dolled up with your hair falling over your collarbones, cascading over your shoulders in soft waves that beckons him to run his fingers through. The light blue dress hugs you beautifully, the silky material catching the light from outside the window every time you shift on your feet under his steady gaze.

"So...?" you ask, moving your arms awkwardly behind your back like you're not sure what to do with them. "What do you think?"

What does he think?

Minho thinks you might just be the prettiest girl in the world. He thinks he must have been an idiot his whole life, to have spent most of his waking hours beside you and not once has he noticed how truly breathtaking you are. He thinks about the feeling that spreads in the pit of his stomach, sends warmth throughout his body and makes his heartbeat race a million miles an hours.

Your best friend blinks slowly as he savors the warmth that he's never experienced before. It's similar to the feeling you get when you're sitting under the shade of a big tree on a summer's day. It's comparable to the satisfied tranquility you get after you've just finished a hearty meal. A little hazy in your contentment.

It's not until you probe with a pointed Well? that Minho realizes he's been staring at you in silence for a few minutes now. He swallows thickly, willing away the words that he wants to say but they get lodged in his throat. He reckons it's weird to verbalize them, because it's not how the two of you function. You don't often utter that kind of sentiment out loud and he doesn't either. Never have and likely never will.

In the end, he bites his tongue. "You look presentable," is what he settles on.

You roll your eyes, then reward him with a laugh.

Minho doesn't care about love. He only cares about you.

Two.

Minho is 21 years old, and he's gotten used to his heart beating erratically whenever he's in your presence.

Three years flew by in the blink of an eye, and graduation is just around the corner. You've always done well in school, straight A student with a track record that most could only dream to have. You put in the hours, you do the work. You deserve everything that you've achieved.

But it's been a challenging few months for you both, being seniors and all. He's had to watch you struggle to stay on top of your classes while also having to slave over a thesis 24/7 until you were sure it was perfect. It reduced you to tears a few times, and Minho was there to hold your hand through it all.

He held you in his comforting embrace when you wanted to give up. He made you dinner when you were too immersed in your schoolwork to notice that you'd forgotten to eat. He was your biggest support system; if it weren't for him, you don't know if you would've made it through.

It's hot outside today, a little unbearable but not uncharacteristic for June. Minho waits in a familiar hallway, the same hall that he's walked past for hundreds of times over the past few years, the same hall that he won't see again once he holds a degree in his hands in only a few weeks' time.

As he sits on an old wooden bench, he bounces his leg as if he's one of the people in the classrooms that line the hall. He doesn't have to be on campus today, but here he is regardless because you're scheduled for your thesis defense this morning. You're in one of those rooms, probably also bouncing your leg from the overwhelming nerves. Minutes feel like hours; you went in there a while ago after he had sent you off with a pat on the head and an encouraging Godspeed.

He's nervous for you, but he's sure that you'll do great. Years of hard work accumulating in what must be the most important moment of your academic journey. You even stayed up all night last night, refusing to sleep a wink just to revise your arguments and talking points.

Minho's head snaps up instantly as he hears a door creak open, the sound of it reverberating throughout the empty hallway like a gong announcing your return from battle. It takes you a few seconds to step out of the room and into his line of sight. He can't see you very well with all this distance between you, but he can still make out the way your frame is visibly shaking with every step you take. He rises to his feet, and you break into a sprint.

He opens his arms wide - a hug of consolation or congratulations, he doesn't know yet - but he still can't seem to brace himself for the collision. You run straight into his embrace, your warms wounding around his middle tightly. Minho feels your tremors, hears your sniffles from where you're pressing your cheek against his shoulder.

"How did it go?" he asks gently.

You start crying then, and he doesn't know if the tears that his shirt is soaking up are those of joy or of grief, but he holds you through it anyway. He swears he can feel every single beat of your heart, hammering so wildly as you're pressed against him like you could sink into him if only you'd push just a little bit more.

"I passed," you say in between sobs. "I got an A."

Minho heaves out the breath that he's been holding ever since you entered that classroom, but it's not like he had any doubt about it to begin with. He hugs you tighter than he's ever had before, and he loves you just the same.

You two must look so dramatic, all wrapped up together in your own little bubble, but who the fuck cares? Although, when another student passes by and coughs, you do break away from him, a little embarrassed for a second.

Even with your hair all mussed up and your flushed cheeks stained with tears, he still thinks you look the same as you did when you were 18 at your sister's wedding. The prettiest girl in the world.

Minho wipes away the wetness on your face with his sleeves, then swipes with gentle thumbs at the moisture that's gathered along your lash lines.

"Holy fucking shit," you breathe out, your shoulders sagging with evident relief, so much more relaxed now that you've done it. "I can't believe it's finally over."

Your best friend can't entirely agree, because he's always believed in you. He's had faith in you since the beginning, since you were mere children laughing and crying together on the playground. You were meant to do great things, this was always crystal clear to Minho.

I love you, he thinks as he smooths a hand over your hair, his chest swelling with nothing but pride and fondness for you. You did so well.

But it's not what he ends up telling you. He swallows it down, washes it away with a dose of regret and longing. He's still not the type to express sappy sentiments, and he's grown accustomed to adoring you only in secret.

"Let's go," he says softly. "I'll buy you dinner."

Minho is still young, he's still got his whole life ahead of him, but he knows what love is now. He knows that it's you.

Three.

Minho is 24 years old, and he finds it hard to make peace with the fact that you're starting to get out there, that you're finally going on dates now that academics aren't taking up most of your time anymore.

To be fair, none of the guys you've seen have been graced with a second date, and Minho thanks his lucky stars whenever you return from a night out and text him a simple Not it. He knows that it wasn't your decision in the first place, that your mom and your sister have been setting you up on blind dates because they want to see you bring a boyfriend home.

You complain about it all the time, whining about how you're not interested but your family is adamant on it. Minho is well aware, and yet, there's a part of him that's a little shaken, because what if? What if the universe miscalculates and the stars misalign just enough in his misfortune for you to cross paths with someone who's absolutely perfect for you? Someone who's a good man that can give you what you've always deserved to have.

He really doesn't know what he would do if that happens. When it happens?

He doesn't know why you're here tonight either, sitting on a chair on the other side of his kitchen island in a pretty dress when you're supposed to be going on a date in half an hour. The guy apparently works for a big record label, some producer that your sister knows through a friend of a friend.

You look indifferent, kind of bored, as you watch Minho makes dinner for himself. "You seem miserable," he comments, taking a quick break from chopping vegetables to glance up at you. You do look a bit miserable, but you're still the most beautiful in his eyes.

You throw your head back and groan loudly, "Because I am. God, I don't know why they keep making me do this. These guys always give nothing."

"Please elaborate."

"They're all boring suits with tedious routines." you say, and as absentminded as your tone is, it sounds a little pointed to Minho's ears. "They don't make me laugh."

Do they not make you laugh, or do they not make you laugh more than I can?

"Then don't go," he snickers, though there's no humor in his voice at all. "These guys sound like duds. Just tell your sister to fuck off."

"Do you mean that? Do you really think I shouldn't go?"

And there's something in your gaze, something so suddenly expectant in the way you're looking at him that makes Minho wonder. If he says yes, would you listen? Would you stay here with him? Would you stay here for him?

I'm serious. Don't go. You can have this and I'll make myself ramyeon. Just be here with me.

You both stare at each other on either side of his kitchen island for an infinite stretch of time. He feels like your eyes are trying to tell him something that he can't decipher, as if they're sending him signals in a language that he never learned how to read.

For a second there, he indulges himself. He pretends that you're only asking because you want to hear him say it. That you want him to put up a fight and not let you go.

But he bites his tongue because it's become a bad habit. A habit that he can't shake because he simply doesn't have the courage to do so. Because if you stay here tonight, looking like that under the cozy lighting of his living room, he might just spill his secrets and he wouldn't be able to take it when reality comes crashing down and you end up telling him that you've never felt the same way.

"I'm kidding," he musters up the words, and tries to plaster on a smile for your sake, even though he's not sure if you really believe it. "You're dressed up anyway. Go and get a free fancy dinner, if anything."

Minho knows what love is, but his love has always lived in the shadows, his longing has only existed in the dark that it terrifies him just thinking about it meeting the light.

Four.

Minho is 26 years old, and he's been a coward for the better part of a decade.

Maybe he's loved you for even longer, but he has spent the past eight years head over heels in love with you, and not once has he done anything about it. Never been able to gather enough courage to ask you out, never even hinted at his feelings for you. He loves you from his place by your side and yet, you've never known.

He loves you the most, but he loves you in the worst way that a person can love another - he loves you in silence.

You're the prettiest girl in the world, and Lee Minho is a pathetic coward.

All these years, he's kept quiet and for what? There's always a spot reserved for him right next to you and yet, it feels like he can only watch you from the sidelines, far away from where it really matters, because he doesn't think he can fit into your life the way he truly wants. You taught him what love was, and love, to Minho, is unattainable. Something he can spend the rest of his life yearning for but won't ever have.

Love hurts. Sometimes, all love does is hurt.

"I would've taken you to a nice restaurant if you asked, you know," he says, putting a chocolate cupcake on the coffee table in front of you before he sits down next to you on the fluffy carpet of your living room. He pulls out a candle next, placing it right in the center of the sweet treat.

Your gaze follows his hand has he lights the candle, your eyes glinting with excitement as though you're a child again and your favorite day of the year is still your birthday. The tiny flame curves and bends, dancing to a rhythm that looks like only you can hear. You watch the candle like it's magic, while Minho just watches you, thinking the same thing.

He watches as you close your eyes and clasp your hands together for the theatrics, then you blow out the flame seconds later with a swift breath.

You turn to him with a smile, "I don't need a nice restaurant. This is perfect."

He blinks, and there's that warmth simmering in his belly again. He first felt it when he was 18, and he feels it now. He feels it almost every moment that he spends with you, and he reckons it's only reasonable, because you're his home personified and love can still be beautiful even when it hurts. There's his heart racing again, but that's nothing new to Minho.

He muses over your words. Perfect. Just one simple word is enough to get his hopes up in a way that it really shouldn't.

Your definition of a birthday well spent is in your cozy apartment, eating takeout pizza with your best friend. Perfect, to you, is him baking you a singular chocolate cupcake upon your request and being with him within these four walls, where his fingers occasionally brush yours when you sit next to each other.

Oh, Minho would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to.

He clears his throat lightly, breaking away from your gaze that's full of gratitude and childlike wonder. "What did you wish for?"

"I'm not gonna tell you. It won't come true then."

Wishes don't come true anyway, he thinks, but obviously he won't say it out loud to you, and on your birthday no less. Instead, he diverts his attention to the cupcake, subconsciously tonguing his cheek as he takes a small chunk of the sweet and offers it to you.

You let him feed you even though your eyes are narrowed. "What was that look?" you ask.

"What look?"

"You had a look."

"No, I didn't," Minho insists.

"Yes, you did. You wanted to say something, didn't you?"

He shrugs, popping a piece of cupcake into his own mouth. The answer is yes, he did want to say something, but if you want to get technical about it, then he's wanted to say something for years now. He asks you the same thing every birthday, What did you wish for?, and you would refuse to tell him every time.

"Wishes don't come true," he verbalizes it this time, with a voice that's lighthearted on purpose despite knowing that you wouldn't take it that seriously either way.

You roll your eyes. "Now you're just being pessimistic."

"What? I'm speaking from experience."

"You've never had a birthday wish come true?"

"My birthday wishes haven't come true since I was 18."

Minho feels your eyes on the side of his face, and when you remain quiet for a beat too long, he turns his attention back to you. "What?"

"How do you know they didn't come true?"

"Because..."

Because you've been my wish for almost a decade now. I didn't use to believe in wishes but I always believed in you. Every year, I wish for you to look at me the way I look at you, but it never comes true. Every year, I wish that you would love me back, not just as a friend, but you never do. You are my wish, but you're also the very reason why I know wishes don't come true.

Then he's laughing, but nothing is remotely funny about this. It's your birthday and suddenly all he can think about is how much it stings to be reminded that you're the only thing he'll ever wish for, and still, maybe this simple wish is absurd enough that the universe will never grant him what he truly wants.

"Never mind," he says. "This whole thing is silly."

There he goes, biting his tongue again. Coward.

"No, what were you going to say?"

"You're so bossy today," Minho pretends to complain.

"It's my birthday. Tell me," you press on, and suddenly he can't find any appreciation for your stubbornness that he's adored all his life. You keep your eyes fixed on him when all he wants to do is hide from you.

What is he supposed to say to you? What can he even say? That he's spent more than a third of his life hopelessly enamored with you? That the second he utters any of this out loud, he knows it will be the end of your friendship?

And Minho can't afford to lose you. Even if it hurts, he would rather let love hurt than live in the absence of you.

"Eat your cupcake," he says instead. "I'll get some ice cream."

He makes a move to get up, and the bad habit further cements its place in his subconscious. He's always running away from you when you're supposed to be the person he can be the most open with. This is how he knows he doesn't deserve you.

But you reach for his wrist and it makes him still, the feeling of your hand sliding downward to hold onto his fingers. He's used to the feeling of your smaller hand in his, used to how he can hear his heartbeat in his ears whenever you lace your fingers together.

What he isn't accustomed to, is the look on your face this very second, akin to the one you wore two years ago as you sat on the other side of his kitchen island, asking him if you should go.

Expectant and hopeful; you're holding something back too.

The words that slip from your lips are ones that he never imagined you would say to him.

"I've waited for you long enough."

His poor excuse of retrieving ice cream is all but forgotten as he stares at you, doe-eyed and despairingly confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

You take a breath, and Minho wonders if this is how he looked every time he wanted to say something only to back down in the end.

Then it all comes rushing out.

"For a while, I thought there might've been something between us, something more than just friendship. I don't know why I thought that, I just had a feeling. On the day of our graduation, I thought you would finally kiss me or at least say something, but you didn't. Whenever I went on dates, I wanted you to tell me not to go, that I was wasting my time with those guys that couldn't make me laugh because they weren't you. You never said anything, you never did anything. I waited every birthday just like I waited tonight. You're still holding it over me and I'm starting to wonder if you really love me too or if I imagined everything this whole time."

Your voice gets smaller toward the end, almost as if the uncertainty takes over you the longer he remains silent. He doesn't have the words for it, doesn't really have the mental capacity to process all of what you just professed. Years and years of longing, of hoping that you would come running into his arms the same way you did on the morning of your thesis defense, and it turns out that you were always the one waiting for him to reach you.

If you really love me too.

Your fingers start to loosen around his but Minho doesn't let you get away, not now and not ever again. Not when he finally knows that he's burnt up enough of your time just because he was too stuck in his head to see that you were holding a hand out for him all along.

He pulls you into his orbit and he likes to imagine that somewhere out there in the infinite universe, two stars collide when he kisses you for the first time, long overdue but still heavenly nonetheless.

He's crying but you don't seem to mind the tears. You're kissing him back and it's really all that matters. He can't think straight but he adores you to the point that his lungs ache.

"I love you," he mumbles against your lips. The sentiment comes out clumsy, half coherent but wholeheartedly sincere. "I'm sorry. I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you."

You're the one who breaks the kiss first, with your hand on his chest gently pushing him away. Panic instantly shoots through him like a lightning strike. These are the words he's been holding back for years, did he not even say them right? Did he fuck things up yet again?

You brush the tears from his cheeks, your voice so impossibly soft when you ask, "Do you mean it?"

Minho splinters into a million pieces, of course he does.

Your name falls from his lips, sounding like a prayer, like the most tender plea that's ever been uttered, "I love you the most. I'm so in love with you that it hurts. I've been yours for so long and I never said anything. Fuck, I-I'm sorry. I love you so much. I'm sorry. I-"

You bring his face to yours once more, shushing him with a kiss that makes him putty in your hands. You tell him that it's okay, and you kiss him like you forgive him. The world could be ending right now, and he doesn't think that either of you would even care very much.

Because you're the only wish of his life, and you kiss him as though you want to make up for the lost years. Because Minho feels like he's 18 again and you're the most beautiful girl in the world, wearing a smile that leaves him breathless in the most wonderful way possible.

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho

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purple-plum-petals · 8 months ago

Text

⊱ You Can Do Better Than Me ⊰ || Boothill X Reader

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮ Character(s): Boothill (Honkai: Star Rail) Reader Type: Human, Not the Trailblazer (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): Break-up (Miscommunication/Assumptions… Not Permanent), Negative Body Image/Self-talk (Regarding Boothill), Use of Petnames (Boothill calls Reader “darlin’” and “sweets” and Reader calls Boothill “honey” and “love”), Slightly Suggestive Ending. Genre: Drabble, Angst, Fluff (Hurt/Comfort), Pre-Established Romantic Relationship Word Count: ~2500 words Prompt: “What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” Author’s Note: Hello everyone, I come back to you briefly with a random Boothill drabble because this cowboy has been on my brain for the past three months and I needed to get something written for him ASAP. I actually got both him and his lightcone on release day, so I’m still hyped about that (didn’t even need to break my F2P status either hehehe 😎). I will get around to writing a multi-chapter fic for him as soon as my summer semester is over and all of the current requests in the ask box have been answered. I’ve been managing the workload relatively well so far, but it’s genuinely been so overwhelming in terms of content/information that my brain can barely form coherent sentences after class and work. 😭 Anyways, have some self-conscious Boothill and my beloved hurt/comfort. Maybe instead of saving the horse, we should save the cowboy. Also… let me know if anyone is interested in a part two, and I’ll be happy to write it. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Tag-List: @anonima-2 – I know you wanted me to tag you if I got around to writing a Boothill X Reader fic, so here it is! It may not be a multi-chapter one, but I hope you enjoy this little drabble.

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated! ♡ ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

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You had known Boothill for quite some time now. You had crossed paths with the elusive Galaxy Ranger throughout the years, so many times that you eventually lost count. Three times was uncommon, five times was rare, but over twenty times? That was absolutely unheard of given the vast expanse of space. It got to the point where you both noticed how frequently you would meet, the two of you making jokes that the universe was pushing you together.

Boothill had thought for a while you were sent to capture and/or kill him by the IPC but, after a particularly intense “discussion” (where he proceeded to hold you at gunpoint, as he frequently did with most people), you were able to confirm that all of the times you two had met were indeed just an exceedingly rare coincidence. It was something you would occasionally bring up to tease him about nowadays, poking fun at the fact he had literally held his future partner at gunpoint. It was a memorable event to reminisce on when asked by others ‘how did you two meet?’.

Years had passed since that unforgettable interaction, and both you and Boothill were happy and content in your current relationship. All of that time together with him had given you insight into how the cowboy typically behaved. He could be brash and rush into trouble head-first, but he was also immensely intelligent and could think of a plan on the fly to get himself out of even the stickiest situations. He was the type of person who frequently spoke his mind, not allowing his tampered-with Synesthesia Beacon to completely censor what he wanted to say… which is why you were as worried as you were lately.

Your boyfriend hadn’t been as talkative as he usually was. He had returned from a three-month-long trek around the galaxy a few days ago, and he had been distant ever since he came back. His replies had been clipped, and he had a strange look in his eye whenever he glanced your way; he hadn’t even looked at you for more than a few seconds since his return.

Tentatively, you made your way over to where he was sitting by an open window in your home, the breeze gently blowing the strands of his black-and-white hair to and fro. You stepped closer to stand next to him as you asked, voice tender as you spoke, “Boothill, honey, what’s wrong? You’ve been more reserved than usual these past few days, and I just want to check to see if you’re ok–…”

Then, he spoke, his voice firm as he cut off the rest of what you were going to say, “…I wanna break up.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach at his words, and you felt your palms begin to clam up with sweat as you whispered, “W… What?” You swallowed harshly, stepping closer to him as you asked, double-checking to see if you had heard him correctly, “What did you just say?”

“I said I wanna break up.” He says once more, voice rough as he turns his head ever-so-slightly to watch you from his peripheral. It felt like the world had stopped moving when he confirmed what you had always hoped you would never have to hear, and you feel your eyes begin to water. He finally, after so many days, looks at you directly after what has felt like eons. Whatever expression was on your face caused him to flinch before he looked away once more, staring at his hat on the nearby table.

Boothill sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he continues to speak, his voice gentler than usual as he tells you, “I don’t think this,” He pauses, taking his hand and gesturing toward himself before finishing his thought, “…is good fer you.”

Your emotions were fluctuating so quickly that your mind didn’t know what to do with all of them. First, you were worried about your boyfriend, then you were heartbroken when he said he wanted you two to go your separate ways, and now? Now you were angry, a sudden burst of frustration filling your veins at his reasoning behind wanting to end your relationship. Your heart aches as you exclaim, trying not to pay attention to the wetness forming along your lashes, “Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?”

Boothill is back to refusing to look at you, so you try to move into his line of sight as you ask, your hands flailing about as you speak in a desperation-laced tone, “What, exactly, isn’t ‘good for me’ Boothill?”

He turns his head to look at you, standing up from where he had been sitting as he holds his hands out, trying to placate you as he says hastily, “Listen don’t – don’t get the wrong idea, alright?”

“How can I not get the wrong idea when you suddenly tell me you want to end our relationship!?” You yell back, feeling the tears begin to trickle down your cheeks. You were angry, sure, but the soul-crushing feeling of separating from the man you loved so deeply pierced your heart like a knife. Your frustration quickly began to be tainted with sorrow, your voice coming out softly as you ask him, your mind desperate for some kind of answer as you place a hand on your chest, “Did I… Did I do something for you to come to this decision?”

Panic floods his expression immediately as he reaches out, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leans down to look at your face. He quickly tells you, one of his hands coming up to gently cup your cheek as his thumb brushes away your tears, “No, no, no, no – you didn’t do anythin’, darlin’. You’ve been perfect in every way, I just…”

He pauses, gaze traveling to the ground as he thinks of what to say. His cold, metallic fingers against your skin are comforting to you in a way you couldn’t describe – comforting in a way no one else would be able to understand. Boothill’s eyes meet with yours once more as he continues speaking with a bittersweet smile, “You could do so much better than me, sweets. I don’t want to hold you back.”

The anger you had felt was suddenly back in full force as you asked him, brows furrowed as you questioned, “How?”

Your hands come up to hold onto his, the one that was still lovingly cupping your face as you ask, leaning forward toward him as you speak, “How could I do better than you? What are you holding me back from?”

Boothill shakes his head, saying with a frown, “There’s so many things I can’t give you… I can’t give ya a peaceful life, I can’t give ya a family…” His voice cracks slightly at the word, but he continues to speak as he begins to pull his hand away from your face, “You deserve someone who’s around more often – someone who can be there for ya whenever you need ‘em.”

Boothill chuckles bitterly, removing his hand from your grasp as walks over to grab his hat off of the nearby table, and you’ve never felt so cold and empty in your entire life. You watch helplessly as he places the hat on his head, staring as he begins to make his way toward the front door as he tells you, “You deserve someone who doesn’t cause you to jump every time their freezin’ cold hands touch ya – someone who can actually feel ya.”

You step toward him, reaching out to take his hand in yours and effectively stopping him in his tracks as you say firmly, “Boothill, shut the fuck up. Aren’t you going to at least ask me what I think about this?”

Boothill sighs, turning back around to look at you as he speaks. He doesn’t do anything to remove his hand from your grasp, instead gently squeezing it in a comforting manner as he tells you, “Listen, sweets, I just think it’s for the better that–…”

“No, it’s not.” You say, your voice strong despite the tears that had begun to flow down your face. You look up at him, bringing his hand to place on your chest as you tightly hold it over your heart, telling him firmly and genuinely despite the way your voice cracks, “I don’t care if you can’t give me those things. When did I even say that’s what I wanted in life?”

“Why wouldn’t you want that?” Boothill asks, looking down at you as if you had grown a second head, as if everything he said he couldn’t give you was something that everyone would want. He looks conflicted as he tells you, trying to take his hand back as he steps away from you and closer to the front door, “You deserve to be happy – you deserve to have someone who’s there for you.”

“What if all I want is you, huh?” You tell him, refusing to let go of his hand – refusing to let him leave your life in such a way. Your hold on Boothill’s hand was tight because you knew, deep down, if you let his hand slide out of yours, you’d never see him again. You look up at him as you speak, a spark of determination in your eyes which causes Boothill’s cheeks to flush a light shade of blue, “No one else can give me you. You’re the one that makes me happy – not some dream life, not some perfect family – just you.”

“You don’t want me, darlin’ – I promise, once I’m gone, you’ll move on an’ another lucky fella will have the honor of being able to love ya.” Boothill tells you with furrowed brows and a smile, his sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lips as he tries to convince you he’s not what you want. You could feel your eyebrow twitch in frustration at his words, your tears slowing down as you refute his claim.

“What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” You ask him, a tinge of hurt and frustration mixed in your voice as you reach out to firmly hold both of his hands in your own. Boothill allows you to do so with no fanfare, a conflicted expression on his face; his fingers twitch in your hold. He watches as you close your eyes and take a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before once again looking at him as you whisper, “Listen, if you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you or hold you back, but…” You pause, smiling warmly at him before continuing, “but I want you. I want to be with you, not this hypothetical ‘fella’ you’ve envisioned who would give me a perfect life.”

Before Boothill could open his mouth to try and argue again, you quickly add on as you bring one of his hands to your lips, pressing a light kiss to his digits as you tell him, “I don’t care that you’re cold to the touch – I don’t care that we won’t have a picture-perfect life together…” You feel the tears beginning to form on your lashes again as you run your thumbs along his knuckles, telling him sincerely, “I’ve never imagined a future without you in it, love.”

Boothill looks down at you, his expression a clash between his adoration for you and the heaviness of the situation. He shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips as he presses a kiss to the back of it as he tells you, voice uncharacteristically quiet as he admits, “I… I don’t want to leave, sweets. I just…” He hesitates as he makes eye contact with you, raising a brow as he once again gestures to himself as he asks, “Are you sure this is what ya want?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life,” You tell him, letting go of his hands as you instead wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as your bodies press against one another. His arms wrap around your waist on instinct, pulling you close to him as you press your foreheads together. You stare into his eyes and bring a hand to his cheek, placing your palm against his face as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye. He leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm as you tell him with a smile, “Rain or shine, good or bad… I want to be beside you throughout it all.”

“Heh, well… I’m glad I get to be by yer side.” Boothill says, opening his eyes once more to look at you. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your temple as he whispers, almost as if he didn’t want the world to hear him – to keep this tender moment a secret between the two of you, “…Thank you for choosin’ me out of the rest of the blokes in the galaxy, darlin’. I’m a real lucky guy to have someone as wonderful as you.”

“I’d choose you in every universe, Boothill. That’s a promise.” You reply with a smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, almost as if you were teasing him.

He smirks at both your words and your actions, saying with a raised brow as he leans back, tilting his hat up with one finger as he speaks, “That’s quite a big promise there, darlin’. Sure you can keep it?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You reply, matching his expression as you huff, “Don’t doubt me, cowboy.”

“I won’t, I won’t…” Boothill says with a chuckle. He pauses, his smile faltering slightly as he looks down at you. Your eyes were still slightly red, and the stains your tears had left on your cheeks were still present. He pulls you closer to him, nuzzling his face into your neck as he takes a deep breath in, muttering against your skin, “Aeons, I love ya… I love ya so fudgin’ much.”

“I love you, too, honey.” You reply softly, running your hand up and down his back when an idea pops into your mind. It was a mischievous one, and the mere thought of it causes a smirk to grow on your lips. You reach up and grab the hat from his head as you instead place it on yours, asking him flirtatiously, “Why don’t I show you just how much I love you?”

“Well… I certainly like the sound of that.” Boothill replies lowly, his eyes half-lidded as he gently caresses your face, smirking at his hat now resting atop your head. He leans down and kisses you, whispering against your lips in a sultry tone, “Plus, I’d like to apologize for makin’ you cry… Can I, darlin’?”

The tone of his voice was enough to make your heart start beating faster, and you could feel your cheeks begin to warm as you replied quickly with a simple, “Please do.”

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normalgirlnextdoor · 3 months ago

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Alpha 141! X Omega reader??

Hii! I don't usually post my writing, but I had this idea and wrote up a draft/demo of and idea i have. Let me know what yall think and if you want to see it continued! Reblog if you like it please! Also I didn't really edit it, sorry lol!

You tapped away on your mechanical keyboard, the clicky sounds saving you from the quiet boredom that came with running your base's front desk. Running it of course was your punishment for.. Well lets just say when tensions get high you struggle to keep your mouth shut. And it just had to be today that you get dished this punishment. The day one-four-one was assigned to come in, you know to check the place out, see if there was a ‘missfit’ to take on their team.

You see, you unfortunately work at a special “military”' base, military used lightly as it's not really used for the government to have soldiers willing to fight, but actually to protect the government from lethal beings that could be useful military weapons. You and everyone else, including your current captain, have very dark reasons for why you’re in here. The only way you specifically could get out of the hellish base was if your true mates, yes mates with an “S”, came for you. Legally the government cannot keep anyone from their true mates, but considering you definitely had four, you had a snowball chance in hell of them coming to you.

Letting out a loud dramatic sigh you looked over your writing. Paperwork was the bane of your existence. Rubbing your eyes you go back to typing the latest mission report; only to be interrupted by the large military doors swinging open with a slam. In came five different, clearly not impressed people. Four out of the five are men, built like true military muscle heads, while the fifth was very fit female. Taking a deep breath you slip into profession mode, choosing to address the women instead of the four intimidating alpha males.

“Hello! Can I please get your names, ids, and the reason why you are here?” Your voice was overly sweet, sweeter than it usually was.

“I’m Kate Laswell with one-four-one. John-” she tossed her head to the side.

“Oh, of course you are,” You dropped the cute assistant act, pulling back into a neutral look. Blowing air through your nose you started to type a quick check in for the special operation group one-four-one. Laswell gaped at you.

“Okay,” You flicked your head up rather fast, causing your dog tags to clink with your military issued scent blocking collar.

“You guys are good,I’m Bite risk by the way,” you inform them that you yourself are on the team they will be montering, before telling them where to go. Laswell smiled at you, tipping her head in thanks as she strutted down the hall. One-four-one on the other hand, took their time analyzing you as they passed by. As the last and largest one, the one with the warm looking skullmask, passed by you rolled your eyes, going back to your mission report.

“Sir, I’m aware that you want to see your daughter and I am deeply empathetic to what you're going through right now. But unless you show me your Id, I won't be able to even let you into the security system for public visit days, which as I said are: Saturdays, Sundays and specific holidays,” your absolutely fed up. Your team including one-four-one, who are currently coming down the hall to collect you, could even tell just by the stressed undertone of your voice.

“I’m not going to show some barracks bunny my id! I want to see my daughter! Now let me in! I served in world war two! I don’t deserve this disturbing treatment from some omega floozy! You have no idea what it means to work in the military! You're just some whore-” A loud crash. Your captain quickly ran into the lobby, quickly ripping you off the disrespectful older man. Thankfully she was quick enough to prevent him from leaving with a deep bite scar. Your eyes glowed red as you tried to throw her off, but she kept her hold on you, even as you dug your elongated claws into what skin you could reach.

“Fang! Get him out of here!” She commanded one of your team mates. As he was being escorted out your captain shoved your face into the crook of her neck, letting out a strong calming scent. You drank it up, forcing your feral omega down. Meanwhile task force one-four-one silently watched. Genuinely surprised how quick things escalated in only the first three hours of their two week observation.

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” Price said, his thick British accent quickly catching your omegas' attention, red eyes looking over to the entire team. Interesting indeed you thought.

#poly 141 #141 x reader #price x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #john price #cod mw2 #x reader #alpha x omega #x omega reader #john soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #kate laswell #kyle gaz garrick

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arcane-vagabond · 11 months ago

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Today and Every Day

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: A glimpse into your life with the one and only Jake "Hangman" Seresin starting from your first date and ending with a twist. A fic inspired by the song "Marry Me" by train.

Content Warning: First dates, Proposal, Marriage, Pregnancy, Allusions to smut, Making out, Old Age, Nerves, Tooth rotting fluff, Romance. I think that's everything.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: This fic was written as a part of @ohtobeleah's Galentine's Day Special! I had so much fun writing it, and I hope you all have just as much fun reading it!! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! Until next time!

Jake was nervous. No. He was terrified, actually. He had never been this scared to go on a date before, but here he was, leg bouncing up and down in the driver’s seat as he waited outside of the restaurant he agreed to meet you at. He had met you at the cafe just last week, and already he was smitten. You had been sitting there, typing away on your laptop when he had spotted you as he walked in with Javy and Phoenix. It had taken an incredible amount of self will and determination to finally get up and go talk to you, but he was glad he had because now he was getting ready to go on your first date.

He really, really hoped he didn’t screw it up.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved the door of his truck open, stepping out and into the parking lot. He was a little early, but better that than being late, he supposed. He crossed the street, heart stopping and breath catching in his throat when he spotted you through the window. You were standing in a pretty, blue dress looking around the lobby nervously as you glanced down at your phone, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

Shaking himself from his stupor, he pulled the door open and stepped inside. You glanced up from your phone at the noise, giving him a soft smile that left him breathless all over again.

“Hey,” you greeted quietly, sliding your phone into your purse as you turned to face him. A shy smile curled on his lips as he took you in, a characteristic that felt so foreign to him. Jake was usually a man of confidence, but there was something about you that seemed send him into a tizzy with one look.

“Hey,” he responded. “Were you waiting long?”

“Not at all,” you assured him, smoothing down the skirt of your dress, an action that Jake found absolutely endearing. He tore his eyes away from you as the hostess came back to the stand, flashing a polite smile at the two of you.

“Are you ready?” He asked, gesturing towards the other woman. You turned around, eyes widening in surprise before flashing him a quick smile and a nod.

The hostess seated the two of you quickly, and your waiter had stopped by shortly after to take your drink order. The two of you sat in a moment of silence, and Jake noted that it wasn’t altogether an uncomfortable one, but rather tense and nervous.

“You know,” he spoke after another moment, causing your eyes to flicker up to meet his, “I was actually really nervous for today.”

That seemed to shock you, and you let out a startled giggle before smiling up at him.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“I was too, actually,” you admitted, glancing up at him shyly through your lashes. Jake tried not to think too much about how he wanted to reach out and lay kisses on the spots where your lashes brushed against your cheeks. Instead, he cleared his throat, and leaned forward to flash you a charming smile.

“So, let’s get to know each other,” he suggested, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “If you could attend any concert from any time period, who would it be?”

Jake hadn’t been this nervous in two years. Of course, the last time he had felt like this was on your first date, and now here he was, about to get down on one knee and ask you to be his wife. Truthfully, he had gone ring shopping the day after your first date. He had known from the moment he first laid eyes on you that you were it for him, and the date had just confirmed it.

The two of you had eaten and passed the time in giggles and more ridiculous questions, a conversation that soon became more in depth and personal, and Jake found that the longer he spent with you, the more he didn’t want the night to end.

So, at the end of the meal, he had asked you if you wanted to go for a walk along the beach, and you had happily agreed.

That was two years ago, and now the two of you walked along the same beach, hand in hand as Jake ran his other one nervously through his hair. You peered at him from the corner of your eye, brow furrowing and causing that cute little crease that Jake loved to kiss away.

“Are you feeling okay?” You asked him finally, stopping and turning to face him with a worried expression. You reached up to feel his forehead, humming as you dropped your hand.

“You don’t feel warm,” you muttered, tilting your head in confusion, the little crease deepening as you try to determine what on earth could possibly be wrong with your boyfriend. Jake let out a nervous chuckle, squeezing your hand in reassurance as he takes a steadying breath.

“I’m fine, darlin’,” he told you, but you didn’t seem convinced, eyes still sweeping over him to try and find something wrong with him. “‘m just nervous is all.”

“Nervous?” You questioned, shaking your head slightly. “What on earth for?”

Jake took another deep breath before dropping down onto one knee, smiling at the way your face morphs from confused concern into tearful surprise.

“Darlin’,” he began, pulling the tiny, black box out of his pocket and popping it open to reveal a stunning diamond ring, “the day we met in that little cafe was the beginning of something extraordinary. The past two years have been filled with laughter, tears, the occasional fight, and so much love. I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything in the world, do you hear me? The best day of my life was when you agreed to make it official and be my girlfriend, but I’m hoping you’ll top it here by agreeing to be my wife. Will you marry me?”

Tears streamed down your face as you covered your mouth to keep the sobs from spilling out. You began to nod frantically, wiping the tears away as you sobbed out a laugh, the pretty smile he loved oh so much coming into view.

“Jacob Seresin, of course I’ll marry you,” you laughed, reaching out for him to pull him into a soul-crushing kiss. Jake smiled against your lips as he moved to stand, hauling you into his arms as he rocked the two of you from side to side. Pulling away only when the two of you needed air, he slipped the ring onto your finger, stroking the soft skin as he continued to grin.

“I love you,” he said, looking up at you finally. You squeezed his hand, smiling up at him gently as you placed another kiss to his lips.

“I love you too.”

“Jake, you could power a whole city with how much you’re moving,” Javy griped, placing a reassuring hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Calm down, man.”

“Sorry,” Jake grimaced, glancing down the aisle towards the doors leading into the sanctuary of the church. The pews were filled with friends and family from both sides, eagerly awaiting the start of the ceremony.

“I’m just nervous,” he grumbled, eyes still trained on the doors where you would appear any moment.

“But why?” Javy frowned, following his best friend’s line of sight. Jake didn’t answer for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip as his foot tapped against the marble floor and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Jake?”

“What if she changes her mind?” Jake blurted out, eyes finally looking at Javy with panic lacing through the green. “What if she realizes that I’m not good enough for her? That I’m the worst choice she could possibly make?”

Javy stared at him for a moment before ducking his head down. For a moment, Jake was horrified that his best friend realized that he was right and didn’t know how to tell him, but then he realized that Javy’s shoulders were shaking, and the fear was replaced with indignant confusion as Javy reached out a hand to Jake’s shoulders in order to steady himself. Javy stood back up, wiping a stray tear as he almost broke out into another round of laughter.

“You really are an idiot sometimes, man. You know that?” Javy wheezed, patting Jake on the back. “That girl is so in love with you, it’s not funny. Besides, she could definitely do worse than you.”

“Like who?” Jake mumbled, glaring at the other man. Javy’s grin was wide as he answered.

“Like Bradshaw.”

Jake laughed at that, the nerves easing out of him slowly as he nodded.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he conceded, head snapping back to the doors as the music picked up. One by one, your bridesmaids came walking down the aisle, and Jake’s heart sped up as the last girl made her way down the aisle. The quintessential theme began to play as everyone stood up, and Jake felt the tears spring to his eyes as you finally came into view.

You were beautiful, dressed in your white gown. Jake always thought you looked beautiful, of course, but knowing that you were currently walking down the aisle to become his wife?

He wiped at his eyes, and he heard Javy let out a low chuckle behind him.

“You got this,” he whispered, and Jake let out a low laugh. Yeah, he did have this, and he never wanted to let this go. Your eyes were trained on him the entire walk down the aisle, a smile plastered on your face and Jake swore he could die happy right then and there.

You stopped in front of him, and Jake was only vaguely aware of the ceremony going on around him. Of course he spoke when he was supposed to, but other than that, his focus was locked on you, and it seemed you were in the same boat.

The second Jake heard the priest say “you may kiss the bride,” he was on you, hands cradling your jaw as he kissed you breathless, dipping you slightly as one hand came down to rest on your waist. You kissed him back, excited giggles escaping past your lips as the two of you got lost in the moment. Finally, Jake pulled away, green eyes sparkling as his thumb caressed the apple of your cheek.

“Mr. Seresin,” you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, not unlike the way you did on your first date.

“Mrs. Seresin,” he beamed, leaning in for another kiss.

“Honey, you’re making me nervous,” Jake chuckled, watching you bounce around the house, your nervous energy positively infectious. You glanced at him before quickly looking away, fighting back a smile as you scurried about with the laundry on your hip. You had never been good at keeping secrets from him, but he always thought it was cute how you tried.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” you assured him, placing the basket on the coffee table and picking up one of the many articles of clothing bunched together.

“I’m sure there isn’t, sugar,” Jake continued, picking up a t-shirt to help you fold. “But when you’ve been scurrying about the house for two days with that secretive little smirk of yours, it gets a man’s heart pumpin’ and mind racin’.”

You paused in your folding, watching him for a moment before snorting and continuing your task.

“I think you’re being a tad paranoid, babe,” you teased, setting down the t-shirt you had just finished folding. Jake moved to grab another t-shirt, opening his mouth to say something when he stopped. His brow furrowed in confusion as he lifted up a plain, white onesie.

“Is this Michelle’s?” He asked, giving you a questioning look. It wasn’t unusual for you to wash the clothes of your friends’ kids, but last he checked none of them had babies this small. Michelle had had a baby about half a year ago, but the bright, new bundle was already well past the size of the onesie he currently held in his hands. You smirked at him, continuing to fold the laundry.

“You know Michael is too big for that.”

“Then which of your friends has a baby that I don’t know about?”

“You know about all of my friends’ babies, Jake.”

“Is one of your friends expecting again?”

“Not one of my friends, no,” you grinned, waiting for him to catch on. He stared at you for a second, studying you like you would give him the answer. It wasn’t until you gently cupped your own stomach that his eyes went wide and tears kissed his lash line.

“Honey, are you serious?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. You bit at your bottom lip in excitement, a grin breaking out across your face.

“Sweetheart, please tell me you’re serious,” he begged, a smile tugging at the corner of his own lips, a shout escaping from him as you nodded in excitement. He tossed the onesie to the side, crossing the distance between you two to scoop you into his arms. He peppered kisses across your face, giggles breaking out between the two of you.

“You have no idea how happy I am right now, darlin’,” he beamed, cradling your face in his hands. “I’m gonna take such good care of the both of you, I promise.”

He placed another kiss to your lips before dropping to his knees in front of you, gently splaying his hands across your belly.

“And you, little one?” He whispered almost reverently. “I’m gonna be the best daddy to you. Make no mistake about it. You’re not even here yet and you’ve already got me wrapped around your little finger. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you ever, you hear me?”

He placed a kiss to your stomach, peering up at you as he rested his cheek against you, thumb stroking over your shirt.

“You’ve given me the best gift I could have ever asked for,” he murmured, heart so full as he stared up at you.

“It’s too quiet in here,” Jake muttered, leaning back in his recliner. You walked into the living room, handing him a beer with a knowing smile on your face. Jake frowned as you moved to sit on the couch, grabbing your hand and pulling you onto his lap with a grunt as you giggled.

“That’ll happen when your kids move out,” you reminded him with a smile. Your youngest had officially moved off to college a few days prior, and it came as no surprise to you that Jake was not handling the change very well.

Your home had been filled with the constant laughter and chatter of three, beautiful kids for twenty-three years now, and while you were sad to see your kids leave, you were happy to see them grow into the adults they had become. Jake, on the other hand, missed his children terribly.

“They should visit more,” he griped, resting his hand on your thigh, stroking his thumb up and down as you settled into him.

“Jake, they visit almost every week,” you snorted, resting a hand on his chest with a shake of your head. He gave you a look before taking a sip of his beer.

“And it’s not enough,” he retorted with a scowl. You rolled your eyes with a scoff before a smirk overtook your features. You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you began to place lingering kisses across his jaw.

“You’re telling me,” you hummed, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, smirk deepening as he shivered, “that you can’t think of any reason as to why having our kids out of the house might be beneficial to the two of us.”

Jake arched a brow at you, turning to look you over as a matching smirk pulled on his lips.

“Dunno, darlin’,” he murmured, maneuvering you so that you straddled him, “might need some convincin’ that it’s a good thing.”

“Well, I can be very persuasive,” you purred, lips moving down to place hot, open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck. Jake let out a low groan as you found the spot you knew drove him wild, nipping at the skin before laving your tongue over the same spot.

“Oh, I’m well aware, sugar,” he grunted, hands encouraging your hips to roll against his as he threw his head back in a moan. “You managed to get three kids out of me. Despite my protests, might I add. Practically cornered me until I gave you what you wanted.”

You pulled away with a mock glare, Jake whining at the loss of attention.

“I most certainly did not,” you scowled with a raise of an eyebrow. Jake tried to move your hips once more, but you remained unmoved as you glared at him. “In fact, I distinctly remember you begging me for each one of them.”

“Agree to disagree,” he muttered, leaning up to press his lips against yours. You moved to pull back and argue, but Jake held you firmly against him as you giggled into his mouth. His tongue stroked against your own, and your fingers found purchase in his graying locks. You ground down against him, Jake rewarding you with a delicious moan.

“What was that about convincing me that an empty nest is a good thing?” Jake panted, pulling back to look at you. Another grin spread across your face as you moved to stand. Jake stopped you and you looked at him in confusion as he smirked.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” He asked, running his hands up and down the backs of your thighs before gripping your ass with a hearty squeeze.

“The bedroom?” You supplied, amusement clear on your face.

“Thought part of the fun of being an empty nester was that we could do it wherever we wanted?”

You snorted. “The kids still have keys, Jake, and I’d rather not have our kids walk in unexpectedly on us ‘doing it’ as you so eloquently put it.”

Jake’s eyes widened in shock before nodding firmly. Giving your ass a quick swat, he helped you up off his lap before standing, tugging you quickly towards the bedroom.

“I’m confiscating those damn keys the next time they’re over, sugar,” he warned, grinning as you burst into a fit of giggles.

Jake watched from the porch as his grandkids ran around the expansive yard, screaming and giggling in delight as they chased each other. He still remembered the days when his own kids, their parents, would run around and cause mayhem around the house. He chuckled as the youngest, Ryan, toddled after his older cousins, a toothy grin on the toddler’s face.

His children and their spouses all sat by the fire pit, talking and laughing about something or other, just content to be all together once more, and Jake felt a surge of love at seeing his family together again after so long.

“What are you smiling about over here, honey?”

He turned to see you walking over towards him, a cup of tea in hand as you offered him a loving smile. Your hair had long since grayed, now a stunning silver that reminded him of starlight. The wrinkles around your eyes creased as you looked at him, and though he knew you were self conscious about them, prodding at them with your fingers and a scowl every morning, he made no secret of how much he loved them.

“Evidence of the years spent together,” he’d tell you before kissing each one.

Now he held his arm out for you to sidle up against him, aged hands resting on his back as he let out a contented sigh.

“You remember when our kids would run around out here?” He asked you, his own hand smoothing up and down the length of your back as he peered down at you. You turned your gaze to the yard, your eyes holding ardent adoration as you looked at your many grandchildren.

“Oh I remember,” you chuckled, resting your head against his shoulder as you took a sip of your tea. “You’d come in with mud on your shoes and I’d just about kill the lot of you.”

“You loved it,” he snickered, kissing the top of your head as you sighed, looking back up at him.

“I did,” you admitted. “I do miss it sometimes. And, while I love these critters we call grandkids, I’m always happy to ship them back home to their parents.”

Jake laughed at that, his own wrinkles creasing at the sides of his eyes as he squeezed you tighter. The two of you stood in contented silence as you watched the kids wear themselves out. Sarah, your middle child’s youngest, came running up to you with an excited gleam in her green eyes, words coming out in pants as she fought to catch her breath.

“Gramma, can we go look at the photos again?” She asked, clutching at your sweater and bouncing on the tips of her toes. You chuckled, smoothing a weathered hand over her blonde hair.

“Of course we can, my darling,” you cooed, motioning for her to lead the way. You turned back to give Jake a kiss, patting his cheek lovingly before following after the little girl. Jake watched you go, hoping the two of you had many more days like this to come.

“Are you going to go talk to her, or are you just going to keep staring like a creep?”

Jake startled from his daydream, green eyes wide as Phoenix gave him a knowing look. Javy slid into the seat next to him, nudging his shoulder as he took a sip from his to go cup.

“She’s right,” he said, gesturing over to where you sat two tables down, typing away contently at your laptop. “You look like a creep just staring at her like that. What are you doing? Thinking about your whole future together?”

Jake scowled at his best friend, shooting another glare at Phoenix for good measure.

“Don’t you two have something better to talk about?” He groused. Phoenix tapped her chin, pretending to think.

“Nope,” she said finally, popping her lips together as she gave him a grin. “Why don’t you go and introduce yourself?”

“I dunno,” Jake muttered, giving you another glance, his heart stuttering nervously as he took you in once more.

“Since when have you ever been the type to be nervous about talking to a girl?” Phoenix snorted, raising an eyebrow at Javy who just shrugged in return.

“‘m not nervous,” he muttered, fidgeting with his fingers as he glanced back at you once more. “Just don’t want to bother her is all.”

“Oh well,” Javy began, pushing his seat back and moving to stand, “if you’re not interested, then I guess I’ll-”

“Don’t you dare,” Jake snapped, grabbing his best friend’s wrist and standing. Javy gave him a triumphant smirk as Jake sighed, clearly bested. He pursed his lips, sparing his friends another glare before gathering up all of his courage and walking over to where you sat.

“Excuse me,” he said, causing you to jump, eyes wide as you gazed up at him. Jake swore his heart stopped then and there. He flashed you a charming smile, one you happily returned as he gestured to the seat next to you. “Is this seat taken?”

“Not at all,” you smiled, gesturing for him to sit. He did so, leaning forward on the table as he looked at you, nerves still fluttering in his stomach as he got a better look at you. You looked at him curiously as he continued to stare, raising an eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat with a sheepish smile, stretching out his hand for you to shake.

“Hi,” he said, noting how soft your hand felt in his as he gave it a squeeze. “I’m Jake.”

A/N: Aaaahh!! So what did you guys think?? Don't forget to follow my sideblog - @arcanevagabond-library and turn on post notifications if you'd like to be notified of when I post! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! You can also find me on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

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