#she may not have friends but at least she has a house filled to the brim with random shit she crafted from reading like one book | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fayes-fics · 7 months ago

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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denwritesandcries · 1 month ago

Text

Fall(ing for You) – S.C

Pairing: sam carpenter x soft goth!reader

Summary: Sam is certain that Tara's new quiet friend may turn out to be Ghostface, unfortunately – or not –, that friend is you.

or, it takes the help of tara and a dog for sam to finally come to her senses.

Word count: 6,0k.

Content: scream 6 but without the killing, r's 23, cursing, wingman tara ft. yr dog, jokes abt r being ghostface, fluff, pining, sam falling first AND harder, silly movie references.

Note: hey guys, It's been a while since I've written for scream but I rewatched it recently and finally got some inspiration again! I describe the reader a little more in this but it won't really affect anything if you choose to ignore it.

English is not my first language.

Tara made a new friend.

Sam still isn't sure exactly, but the only plausible explanation for the way Tara has been acting lately is that her sister met someone interesting enough to keep her attention so that she gave everyone a break from her tantrums and reckless behavior since their new start outside of Woodsboro.

Now, that could be a good thing, it had been months since the kids started college and they were all doing relatively well. Mindy had Anika, Chad had Ethan and also there was Quinn, even though she wasn't very close to anyone. Tara should have someone too.

The problem is that Sam has no idea who this person is. Tara just won't tell her.

You see, Sam understands that she might have been a little too protective of her sister and that this made Tara's behavior become defensive towards her. Her new therapist – after she got rid of that quack – is helping her work through that, okay? But curiosity and worry were eating away at her insides. The curfews, the tasers and pepper sprays, and especially the ID checks were all important to keep them safe, dammit! Mindy and Chad had no problem with it, and it was only after all the appropriate measures were in place that Sam could breathe and let these new people be a part of their lives. Not knowing this so-called friend, let alone who they were, was driving her to the brink of a breakdown.

She was trying to give her some space, probing with subtle questions here and there and the most she got was an eye roll and ‘It’s just a sophomore I met at the film club, haven't you said I should try to be part of something that didn’t involve frat parties?’

Well, at least it wasn’t a boyfriend, given the lack of dreamy sighs, giggles into the phone and late-night escapades. That was good. They already had enough problems to deal with and a new relationship so quickly was the same as asking for a ghostface to go for them again and Sam hadn’t been back in Tara’s life long enough to know how to deal with this part of being a big sister yet.

Sam had understood that she wouldn’t meet this mysterious person for a while, at least until her sister’s tantrum had passed, and between two shitty jobs and trying to keep a structured life being responsible for a bunch of teenagers in the big city, she couldn’t find it in herself to insist on the subject any further and get the risk of causing a fight. She thought it would be forgotten.

Now just imagine Sam's surprise when she came home one night after a long, exhausting shift, expecting to eat the leftover pizza she had hidden in the fridge and fall into a deep sleep, only to be knocked over by an noisy and strange dog with a piece of pizza in its mouth as soon as she opened the apartment door. Her pizza.

“Koda!” Someone called. Someone unfamiliar. It wasn’t just the dog, there was a stranger in her house.

Sam’s hand instinctively moves to reach for the taser hidden in her jacket when a pair of black-clad legs show up in her vision. Does Ghostface work with dogs now? She wonders in confusion for a moment, and has given up on the voice changer?

The only thing stopping her from tasing this potential killer in front of her is the pure bewilderment and Tara’s laughter filling the room.

“Oh my god,” the figure bends down, picking up the dog who turns out to be a very excited puppy, the pizza falling from its mouth and onto her shirt, getting it all over her, “I’m so sorry.”

It’s a girl, a face she’s never seen before, looking completely mortified.

“Hey, Sam,” Tara stops beside her, a barely hidden tone of satisfaction in her voice, “This is my friend. I thought you’d like to meet her.”

It's safe to say that Sam didn't like Tara's new friend at all.

“You didn’t think about telling me you were bringing someone?” Sam exclaimed, rubbing her temples wearily, “Especially that Lydia Deetz project right there? I almost shocked her in the middle of the hallway!”

Quinn shifted from where she was leaning against the counter in the small impromptu meeting and didn’t bother to hold back her laugh, “Nah, I think Tara would fit that role better.”

“Quinn,” Sam groaned exasperatedly.

“If I had told you you would have said no,” Tara shrugged.

“Yes! Because we don’t know her!”

It was quite awkward sitting on the couch in their living room less than five feet away from the kitchen and being able to hear every word spoken as if you weren't right there, with your messy dog happily chewing on the sock on your ankle.

This wasn't the turn you expected your night to take when you decided to accept Tara's sudden invitation for a movie night, visiting her off-campus for the first time since you became friends.

You met her at the start of the school year, the day she showed up for a film club meeting before anyone else arrived, well, anyone except you. She seemed completely lost and suspicious, even though she was clearly struggling not to show it, which made you like her right away.

Getting attention and starting conversations was never really your thing, this whole club thing wasn't either, honestly, but you ended up being one of the last older members to join with most of the others having recently graduated and the responsibility of looking after the new freshmans gradually fell on you. Most of the time you kept to yourself, preferring the behind-the-scenes side of things to participating in the long-winded debates of high school teens obsessed with slashers and making Stab parodies, but you noticed the way Tara seemed desperate for any sense of normalcy beneath her laid-back facade and the whispers of murder that haunted her.

You took what seemed like a rabid kitten under your wing and ended up cornered by the personification of a Doberman because of it. Talk about doing good deeds and stepping out of your comfort zone. What a joke.

Tara’s older sister, Sam, if you got it right, stared at you with narrowed, suspicious eyes – just like Tara when you first approached her – towering over your figure that tried to look smaller than it actually was on the couch, as if she was trying to learn every little hidden detail about you.

“So…” you began hesitantly, wanting to break the awkward silence that had ensued, “you have such a beautiful house.”

“Aren’t you too old to hangout with a freshmen?" Sam cut in coldly, one eyebrow perfectly arched in distrust.

You sighed, this conversation sure started off very well, “I’m 23,” you cleared your throat, “Tara’s in the same club as me, and I’ve just been helping her with some classes I used to take when I first started here.”

You hear Tara’s distinct chuckle, clearly amused by your frustration, which doesn’t help your situation much. What a wonderful friend, indeed.

Sam hummed with fake indifference and the other two housemates watched the exchange intently, eyes darting between you like they were at a tennis match, amused by the sight of Sam trying to intimidate the poor unsuspecting twit that you were.

A great friend, for sure. Ugh, this is why you don’t sponsor obviously troubled kids.

It’s not like Sam Carpenter is really intimidating or scaring you out the way she seems to want to, she has bags under her eyes and a greasy pizza stain on her shirt and you’re a grown woman, for God’s sake! It’s just that it was extremely embarrassing to cause a scene like that, especially with someone who you really wanted to make a good first impression.

Interacting so much socially lately was becoming relatively exhausting and you expected it wouldn't become a thing, as you were feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything. You hoped this would be the last big meeting you had for a while. Tara had told you a lot about her sister, mainly about how it was a pain in the ass to always have someone hovering over her, but it was something you never took seriously because of the way she sounded when she talked about it, too loving for someone who hated the situation so much. No, Sam was important and Tara had insisted that you meet her after doing the same with the twins just a few days ago. You had carefully planned how it would happen, what clothes you would wear and what you would say and now your chance to make things right was ruined, the words seeming to have escaped you in a flash. You were reserved, quiet, small in the midst of so much hustle and bustle, used to watching everything go by from the safety of the shadows. Being a mouse was easy.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Less easy when caged with a lion.

“Look,” you tried again, silently squirming as your pup start sniffing Sam’s combat boots furiously as you stood to pick him up, “I really didn’t want to cause any trouble or misunderstanding, Tara called me earlier while I was walking this little guy and insisted it would be okay if I came over for a movie. I can leave now if you want to, I’m really sorry for… well, all of this.”

You noticed Sam's expression became conflicted, as if she didn't know exactly what to make of you standing in the middle of her living room without showing any threat and wasn't used to people actually listening to her on sight. Still, she wasn't going to give up that easily.

“Great,” Sam nodded, her voice sounding less firm, “go then.” She pointed directly at your dog, now sitting at her feet with its fluffy head tilted to the side in a guiltily innocent manner, “And make sure to take that pizza thief with you.”

(You swear he looked personally offended.)

“What? No!” Tara seemed to realize that her little game could backfire and came out from behind the counter in your defense.

“Tara—”

“Come on, Sam, it's movie night!” She stomped her foot loudly, “I refused the invite to Jason's party for that, we were marathoning all the Texas Chainsaw Massacres!”

You don’t even have to be good at reading people to know that Sam had lost that fight the moment Tara looked at her with pleading eyes, knowing that there was no way to blame her for simply doing what she asked.

That didn’t stop Sam from rolling her eyes and huffing in irritation.

“Fine,” she practically growled, shifting her attention back to you, “But I’m gonna keep an eye on you, so you better not act all smart and keep that fleabag away from me.”

“His name’s Koda.” You pointed out, before softening, “And thank you, I promise I’m not gonna—”

“Shush.”

Sam was sure this was all part of an act of yours, just the first step to infiltrate their lives and pull the rug out like others have done before, because no one in their right mind would sit quietly next to someone who nearly shocked and threatened them in many ways just a few minutes ago.

Especially if that someone is burning holes in your head with their eyes, like she's doing now.

Sam watches shamelessly and intrigued, shooting daggers at your figure as you lean back with Tara babbling enthusiastically between you, your puppy completely knocked out on her lap, oblivious to the sounds of death and fake blood spurting from the TV. She notices the way you effectively ignore her, responding to Tara’s remarks with genuine interest, even if your voice doesn’t match her enthusiasm.

You remained quiet beyond those moments and the tiredness along with your lack of sudden movements made Sam feel secure enough to leave the room and finally take a shower – because along with everything she never saw much fun in these movies like Tara –, warning you that it was better for everyone to finish the night when the movie ended.

(She also forced Quinn to take her place on the couch and promise to scream if anything happened. You didn't comment on that either.)

Sam only falls asleep when she hears the sounds of goodbyes coming from the living room and the door house being closed, finally relaxing after all the interaction, deciding that it was enough. You could have been at her house, but that doesn't mean she would let you come over again.

You come back, because of course Tara doesn’t give a damn about Sam’s warnings about being careful around strangers – incessantly claiming that you’re not a stranger – and there you are at the next game night that Chad insisted on making a tradition.

At least there’s no sign of the shirt-destroying furball this time and there are pizzas smelling good on the kitchen counter.

“‘Sup, Sam!” Chad greeted loudly as she walked through the door, waving excitedly from the couch, “We’re playin’ uno!”

Her eyes landed on you, who waved at her with a small, tight smile, awkwardly sandwiched between Anika and Ethan, the way you stood out among them so comical that Sam suppressed a snort. She decided to join in without much protest, someone responsible still had to watch you, after all.

Sam wouldn’t admit to anyone, absolutely anyone, that she was enjoying the evening, listening to the heated exchanges as everyone got competitive. Strangely, she noticed that you didn’t try to engage much in the conversation, just like the other night, seeming happy to just be there. She thought you had been withdrawn then because of her behavior towards you, but maybe you were just shy.

That made her raise an eyebrow, Tara didn’t usually embrace introverts. Actually, she had always been pretty popular even before Sam left, if she remembered correctly, so this was new. She felt a small piece of curiosity spark inside her instead of more mistrust as she expected and it disconcerted her.

“The whole point of the 7 card is that you're not supposed to talk, man!” Mindy throwing chips at Ethan interrupted Sam's flow of thoughts.

“This rule is stupid! The manual doesn't even mention it, read it for yourself!” Ethan shuffled the cards wildly – everyone at the table had seen his hand – pointing, “And you’re talking too!”

“Whatever! Nobody reads the fuckin manual to play uno, Ethan!”

Tara groaned, “Guys, just shut up and everybody buys a card.”

“But that’s not how you play!”

She decided to abandon the game and all the fuss in favor of getting some air and a slice of pizza and was surprised to find that her favorite was still untouched, which was a miracle in such a crowded house.

“Tara said that you liked this flavor,” your voice coming from nearby startled her and Sam saw you gesture to the box in front of her, “My treat, for the other day.”

She cleared her throat hesitantly, “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” you dismissed with a wider smile, “My dog left you without dinner.”

Sam didn’t respond, but you leaned against the counter next to her anyway, picking at the dark polish on your nails casually, listening to your friends arguing in the background.

“Get tired of the crowd?” Sam asked, deciding that ignoring you wasn’t an option since you clearly weren’t leaving.

“Yeah,” you agreed, shrugging with an odd laugh, “I guess I’ve had enough socializing for one day.”

Sam wasn’t sure why she didn’t just send you away then, seizing the perfect chance to dismiss you like she’d wanted all along and avail everyone's presence to remind that you weren’t welcome, but that strange spark flared in her and made her smile unconsciously, more sincere than the previous tense ones.

“Oh, I know what you mean,” she agreed slowly.

Your expression brightens in surprise, as if you expected a cold, blunt rejection or maybe a slap (probably both) and Sam feels a bit guilty by it. Sighing, she waves you towards the apartment’s tiny balcony, silently inviting you to join her, to which you respond with a firm nod as you watch her unwind the chain on the sliding door – they keep everything locked up tight now – and follow her.

Sam swears she’s not doing this to be nice or anything, all she wants is to repay you for your politeness, that’s all.

The night breeze is refreshing and sends pleasant shivers down your arms and shoulders as Sam leans against the railing and the two of you fall silent. It’s pleasant, actually.

Sam takes a moment to look at you, like, really look at you for the first time since you met and her breath hitches.

Your relaxed features look cheerful and are well-emphasized by the makeup you’re wearing – she tries to search her memory and gets frustrated when she can’t remember if it’s the same style as the night you met – your hair blows a little in the wind and your clothes just fit. Every single thing about you seems to have been specially made to be this way, charming, beautiful.

Your elbow brushes hers in the small space as you lean in to better contemplate the dreary, empty New York sky and Sam’s skin is burning and she doesn’t understand why.

Sam didn’t realize, through all the haze of anger and suspicion and tantrum, until she was touching a pretty girl, that you were, in fact, a pretty girl.

Shit.

“You’re trying so hard not to like her that I’m getting embarrassed for you.”

It’s late. Everyone has already left, including you, who went early claiming you had to work the next morning. Tara should be in bed by now, but she’d be upset if Sam told her to do that, so she doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam dismisses, packing up the last of the leftover pizza to put in the fridge.

“But you do,” Tara hums smugly, stifling a yawn, “Just admit that you were wrong and that I’ve made a friend who’s not a potential serial killer. And that you might have a crush on her. I saw you two on the balcony.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she grumbles, “And I wasn’t wrong for being worried that you brought home a stranger without telling me, even if she’s not dangerous.”

“Ha!” Tara points out, “So you admit she’s no danger.”

Sam sighs tiredly, bringing a hand up to massage her temple, “She can keep coming over for movie nights or whatever if that’s what you're asking me.”

Tara cheered, jumping up from where she was sitting on the counter to finally go to sleep. She stopped just before turning the corner to her room.

“Seriously though,” she caught Sam’s attention, “You guys have more in common then you might think, that’s why I like her. I think you could too, if you get to know her better.”

“That’s impossible, Tar,” Sam says weary, looking at her sister with the most done expression, “I don’t ‘get to know’ anyone, I already have all the people I need in my life.”

“Maybe you’ll be surprised,” she shrugged, “It would be good for you anyway.”

Sam's approval was all Tara needed to make you a regular fixture in their lives and make movie nights an official thing. Sam usually walks in when they're in full swing, with the two of you deep in conversation about the completely random movie you decided to watch that day, and now she greets you back instead of ignoring like she did before and you look happier every time she does it openly.

She finds excuses to wander around the living room and kitchen when she hears Tara pause the tv for whatever reason, just so she doesn't leave you unsupervised in their house – it was still too early to rule out all the care, after all. It ends up making her feel kind of ridiculous, because, hell, she shouldn't have to make excuses to wander around her own house! But you guys talk during these moments, sometimes.

Sam learns more about you as time goes on, and she tells herself that it's just gathering information, that you're not friends at all, but she finds herself soaking up every bit of detail. What are you majoring in, how long have you been in town, if you live close to campus like most students or if you have roommates like them.

(Actually, when she thinks about it now, Sam probably sounded more like a maniac trying to find out where you live, but at least you didn’t call her out on it.)

Then movie nights are joined by study sessions that Tara insists on having as her first week of finals approaches, and you manage to convince Sam to let you bring your puppy too so he won’t be alone for so many hours and she can act a little more normal around you and have a conversation that doesn’t sound like a job interview. You tell her about the movies you like – which consist of more than just an extensive list of slashers like she initially assumed – in a loud and excited tone instead of your usual repressed one, and it stirs something inside her, which leads to several other facts. Your favorite color, what kind of music you like, what you do when her sister isn't dragging you somewhere, and why you decided to adopt a dog so young when you already had so many other responsibilities.

“He helps me not feel alone,” you replied, looking deep into her eyes, “my roommate graduated last year and moved out. I guess I couldn’t stand coming home to empty houses, you know? And he’s my guard dog, he takes care of me and I take care of him. The little guy might be small but knows how to do damage.”

She could relate to that, in part.

And then you start asking too, suddenly and Sam finds herself with a dilemma after so long avoiding your attempts to get to know her. She’d rather remain closed off.

But a trade isn’t a fair trade unless she gives you something back, is it? And you’ve been quenching her thirst for knowledge for a long time now, you gave her a lot.

So, during one night when you insist on helping her make dinner, she confides in you – somewhat reluctantly – that she really enjoys cooking, especially healthier meals. She doesn't look at you, nor does she say it clearly but still, you listen and Sam is surprised when she finds herself speaking.

“You really should ask her out.”

And of course, Tara is always close enough to raise an eyebrow with a knowing look at her on practically every occasion.

“I've told you already, it's not like that.”

“You're cuddling her dog right now.”

“Just so he stays quiet and doesn't disturb you two! Shouldn't you be studying, by the way?”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

Sam can almost, almost admit that you're her friend too.

(Though she kinda wished it were a little more than that.)

Movie nights evolve into sleepovers, because Sam argues that it’s simply too late and dangerous for you to come back alone and she feels embarrassed – and guilty as much – when Quinn brings up that it has always been dangerous and she didn’t mind letting you go before, when she didn’t care about you.

Now there are some of your clothes in a drawer Tara set aside for you just like a colorful food bowl in the living room for your dog – Mindy jokes that it's theirs now – and there’s rarely a day that goes by where she doesn’t see you.

And when you don’t come over, Tara makes sure to remind her of how anxious she looks waiting for a knock on the door and how she lights up when you greet her first when you finally arrive.

“I swear that now she comes here more to see you than me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Yeah, sure,” she huffs, “And when are you gonna make a move again?”

“Never, Tara.”

Sam hasn't heard a thing about you in days. Tara said yesterday that you ended up getting really busy with a college project, preparing a presentation that, her sister quotes, 'needs to be perfect because public speaking is horrible and there's a big chance I'll embarrass myself.'

It's not that Sam asked, it's just that she doesn't text you often and Tara thought it would be convenient to talk about it out loud when she was on the phone with Mindy.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter, it's not like you two are close. You are Tara's friend. If it weren't for her, you two wouldn't even have a reason to see each other. There's no reason to be so stressed.

But she misses you anyway. She's having a shitty day at her shitty job and everything seems to go by even slower because Sam knows that when she gets home at night you probably won't be on the couch waiting with the soft smile she's grown accustomed to looking forward and if she has to deal with another group of rude teenagers she'll freak out.

The sound of the bell ringing at the entrance draws Sam’s attention back to the counter and she ends up face to face with the person who has been on her mind all day.

“Sam!” you approached with a tired smile, your dog wagging his tail happily on a leash in one hand and a paper bag in the other, “I was looking for you.”

You'd never visited her at work before, she didn't even know you knew where it was, having only mentioned it in passing, but there you were, with the smile she wanted to see and bags under your eyes.

“Hi,” she cleared her throat, feeling her face heat up. Damn, she looked like a teen girl with a crush, “I didn't expect to see you here, what, uhm, what do you need?”

You snorted at her flustered attending voice. Seeing her show any kind of nervousness was very unusual.

“Tara called me today demanding I get out of the house for a bit and ‘touch some grass’, so I decided to bring this buddy along, he was begging me for a proper walk,” you shrugged, “And she asked me to bring your lunch.”

Sam paused at that, Tara definitely didn't make lunches for her, much less go to the trouble of delivering them like that.

“...Thank you,” she accepted the paper bag you held out delicately, eyeing the package suspiciously. You held back a giggle when she looked at you again, “Anything else?”

“Oh, um,” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, obviously nervous, “I’m taking Koda to the park nearby and I thought maybe you’d like to come with us. If you can, of course.”

Sam couldn’t really, it was still a few hours before her shift ended at the coffee shop, but she didn’t want you to leave without the promise of seeing you again.

“Of course,” she found herself replying instead, “I can meet you there in a few minutes.”

She knew she’d made the right decision when you gifted her with one of your warm smiles.

“Okay! Nice,” you nod, absently twirling your dog’s leash around your fingers, startled by the sudden, loud bark he lets out at the delay, breaking the oblivious bubble you were in, “Alright, I should go before he starts trying to jump over the counter.”

Sam barely hears the sound of the bell announcing your departure over how loudly her heart pounds in her ears.

It takes a lot of willpower and her last pack of good cigarettes to convince her insufferable coworker — who’d watched the whole thing with a bored expression and loudly chewing gum while cleaning the coffee machine — to cover the rest of her shift. He ended up ordering her lunch too, thinking it might be something special, only to complain when he was met with a sad peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a carton of warm apple juice. Tara really didn’t cook… but then why had she done that?

(She laughed at him anyway.)

“You owe me, Carpenter,” he grumbled, taping a note to her arm that had fallen out of the package.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Sam was out the door before he could change his mind.

Taking a deep breath of the damp autumn air, she picked up the yellow post-it note curiously, recognizing her sister’s handwriting immediately.

‘u looked so depressed lately that I

decided to send u a gift

DO something this time

good luck!!’

She knew. She fucking knew that smartass had set her up. Sam should have guessed it before. Tara would never let her get away with this without doing something with her own hands. At least she hadn’t brought Mindy into the scheme this time.

The park you had mentioned was more like a small square and with the rainy cold weather of the last few days, it was pretty empty. Sam could spot you without difficulty, sitting on one of the few benches watching the scenery and she made her presence known when she got close enough.

“Can he even sit still sometimes?” Sam asked, hands in her bomber jacket pockets, pointing with her chin at the dog playing alone on the grass. You moved a little so she could sit next to you and subtly moved closer when she did.

“It rained last night and he's a big fan of puddles,” you chuckled, “I guess he's just excited, we haven't been out much lately.”

He wasn't the puppy he'd been when Sam had first seen him a few months ago and the sight of him running around the trees chasing flowers and stray twigs was actually quite funny.

“He's so covered in mud that it looks like a bear.”

“Well, his name's Koda,” you pointed out amusedly, “I would have called him Pongo but he always looked more like a small bear than a dalmatian anyway.”

She snorted, “If you say so.”

Sam couldn't remember a time when she felt so relaxed, with the weight of your shoulder resting against hers, enjoying the weather of the early season, the ground covered in orange and yellow leaves framing your surroundings.

She couldn't stop the restlessness she felt inside her chest, watching your profile. Feeling warm inside, but also shivering with a terrible fear of ruining everything. Do something, do something, do something echoing like a mantra in her head.

Sam took a deep breath. She'd faced murderers before, for God's sake! She could be braver than that.

"So..." She coughed, "Tara set this up, you know? The lunch stuff and everything."

You turned your attention to Sam, raising an eyebrow with a confused look.

"She did?" You asked, "Why would she do that?"

It's now or never, Carpenter. Focus.

“She did it so I could see you,” she looked away, “Because I missed you. Because I…” She felt your hand reach for hers and noticed a fallen leaf on your shoulder.

“Because you…?” your voice echoed anxious. She could do this. She's going to do this.

“I—”

A loud howl scared the two of you and you turned to see Koda behind a pile of leaves, pupils dilated and jumping up and down.

“Oh no.”

“What?” She stammered.

“He saw a pigeon.”

You see, Sam is not a pet person. She has only had one guinea pig her entire life and only before her father left and a 6-year-old Tara let it escape from its cage never to be seen again – poor Darwin would always be remembered – she does not know how to handle dogs, much less big, excitable ones like yours.

Yet she grabs the leash from your hands when you finally reach your dog who won't stop barking at a tree and ignores your warnings that he is heavy and strong, Sam, it will end up dragging you away and tries to gently pull him to convince him to let go so you can get out of there. Because she is big and strong and she wants to show you that she can handle a mere happy dog.

He acknowledges her like she wanted and also drags her like you said he would.

This manages to surprise her more than the first stab wound she took, how one minute she’s standing still, telling your silly dog to walk in a confident condescending tone, and the next she’s running at full speed through the trees and puddles of the park, your worried voice ringing behind her, as does your laughter.

“Sam!” you exclaimed from a distance, hands cupped around your mouth and dark red scarf falling from your neck, “You need to stop!”

She does stop, yes, but only after your dog has already circled her and Sam must be a ridiculous sight with a colorful leash wrapped around her legs and a dog panting with its tongue out next to her.

“Oh my god,” you lean in closer, unable to hide the amusement in your voice, “Are you okay?”

Sam huffed, feeling a strand of hair fall across her face: “A little help would be appreciated.”

“Sure,” you laughed, reaching out to carefully untangle it, “Maybe I should call him Pongo after all.”

She rolled her eyes: “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you, it’s just cute.”

Sam opened her mouth to retort, only to realize how close you two were, with your hands resting on her shoulders to steady her and your faces just inches apart, your breath tickling her skin. You seemed to realize the same thing, tongue coming out to wet your lips, your gaze fixed on her mouth.

Do something. Do something. Do something.

She finally does something. She kisses you.

It's all a mix of sensations, she feels when you sigh, breathing through your nose in surprise and satisfaction, she feels where your hands tighten on the fabric of her jacket and tastes you, warm lips contrasting with the cold skin of your cheeks, with traces of coffee, lipstick and something else so undeniably you that Sam swears her heart might stop.

You pull apart hesitantly, breathing fast, noses touching, eyes shining, and she feels herself falling, literally. Your dog jumps on your waist, demanding to be petted, and you fall, taking Sam with you.

Landing in a pile of leaves is more uncomfortable than the movies make it out to be, but Sam can’t find it in herself to protest when you’re the one on top of her. She smiles and you laugh out loud. She didn’t mess up.

“You’re covered in leaves,” you say, running your fingers through her hair, “And your face is smeared with black lipstick.”

She scoffs, “I wonder who’s responsible for that.”

“He is,” you point innocently at the dog standing next to you.

Sam rolls her eyes, but cups your face with her cold hands to pull you close again, and the second kiss she gives you is just as magical as the first.

Tara doesn’t expect to find a dog taking up the entire couch for the first time in days when she comes back from Chad’s dorm after sending you off on a fake mission to find her sister. Yet, hours later, there it is, with one of the sneakers she forgot to put away when she got home from class stuck in his mouth and trails of mud and leaves across the room.

“C’mon, man, that’s not a toy!”

She hears a laugh and finds herself face to face with Sam, looking completely filthy despite the sound of the shower running in the hallway and Tara knows Quinn isn’t home yet. Oh.

“So, you finally did something?”

Sam nods solemnly, pointing to the dark kiss etched into her jaw.

“I did.”

#sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter #scream x reader #scream vi #scream imagine #sam carpenter x you #sam carpenter x y/n #sam carpenter imagine #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #melissa barrera #denwrites #scream franchise #sam carpenter fluff

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pascaloverx · 5 months ago

Text

DANDELIONS

Summary: You are the new guest of the Bridgertons. Your mother, an old friend of Lady Violet Bridgerton, has requested that you spend a season at the Bridgerton house in hopes that you will change your perspective on true love and marriage. You are convinced that love is a fictional construct and that a marriage without love will be your downfall; but some time with the Bridgerton siblings might change your mind.

Author's Note: The characters belong to the Bridgerton universe and Julia Quinn. However, the story will have some changes from what happens in the Bridgerton series (2020-). Dear readers, this story may contain strong language and steamy romance scenes. It may even feature a love triangle. Be warned and enjoy the reading.

AO3 LINK TWO

ONE

"A great idea," you grumbled the entire way from your house to the Bridgerton house. Your mother had told you it would be an excellent idea for you to venture into society. "An independent mission," she said. Your father is so ill and trapped in his own world that he didn't mind letting his only daughter go to a stranger's house. Your mother has given up on arranging a conventional marriage for you. She doesn't respect the fact that you don't want a marriage like hers. You wonder if it's so wrong to want a marriage filled with tenderness, passion, love, or any feeling other than indifference. You basically grew up knowing you were the product of an obligation. The only child your parents managed to conceive before your father became too ill to have more children. Or rather, before your mother gave up trying to love him. When you were born, at least she had shed the moral burden of having to provide your father with an heir. Obviously, both she and he had hoped you would be a boy. But you think that over the years they have grown accustomed to you. This year, for some reason, your mother wants you to get married. Perhaps it's because your father is on the brink of death. If you find a husband who can manage your father's properties and investments, maybe you will become something useful to your family. Your father only mutters about wanting a male grandchild to carry on his legacy, and your mother wants you married. After Lady Violet Bridgerton successfully married off her daughter Daphne, your mother began to think that perhaps she could help you. So, after exchanging a few letters, you are now on your way to the Bridgerton house to be introduced to society's marriage system.

"I need to step out of this carriage for a moment," you say as you stop murmuring your mother's words. Your companion gives you a look that says, "She's lost her mind," but you know she will eventually let you get out of the carriage.

"Actually, we are already in front of the Bridgerton house entrance. I must remind you that your mother recommended I stay by your side most of the time," Mrs. Lydia says, as if you didn't know that, as your companion, she is supposed to always be nearby.

"I know your job is to protect my honor, but believe me, if I enter the Bridgerton house in my current mood, they will expel me before midnight. I need a moment to think," you say, nervously adjusting the hem of your dress. Your companion gently nods as if she understands. Lydia is the closest thing to true family that you have. So it's no surprise that she understands you.

"Enter the house for a moment and be polite. There's a stable on the Bridgerton property; I'll see what I can do. Ask Lady Bridgerton or the Viscount Bridgerton if you can go for a ride. And try not to get into trouble. I'll pretend to accompany you but give you some time alone," Lydia says, and you hug her tightly. A good horse ride after meeting the Bridgertons is just what you need. Not that you know much about them. You can only imagine. They are several siblings, and you are an only child. It's not hard to imagine there will be some incompatibilities. Minutes later, you step out of the carriage with Lydia, observing several people standing around you two.

"Dear Miss Y/L/N, it's a pleasure to welcome you here. I must confess that when your mother informed me of your arrival, we all looked forward to it," Lady Violet Bridgerton says as she approaches you. She seems so friendly that you feel inclined to hug her.

"I would like to thank you, Lady Bridgerton, and your lovely family for your hospitality. Unfortunately, my mother couldn't come with me, but my companion Lydia is here," you say awkwardly. The truth is, you're feeling that this season at Aubrey Hall with all the Bridgertons might be more challenging than you imagine.

"Let's not waste time exchanging pleasantries and let's go inside so you can see your quarters. I believe it will be the perfect time for you to get to know my children better," she says as she guides you into the house. The place is spectacular. As soon as you enter, you see some people approaching.

"Miss Y/L/N, I must warn you that this family can be a bit lively, but we will try our best to welcome you with courtesy," says a girl who must be a little younger than you. She has a book in her hands and is the first to approach you as you enter.

"Eloise, don't scare off our guest. Welcome to our abode, Miss Y/L/N. My name is Colin Bridgerton, and if you need someone to talk to, I'll be available. But I know that after a journey, the best thing is a good night's rest," Colin says to you, who smiles, finding it amusing how many Bridgertons are showing up.

"I believe I should thank Miss Eloise for the warning and Mr. Bridgerton for his kindness. Although I believe I still have a long way to go until my restful moment," you say, looking at the two who seem pleased with your gratitude.

"Your dress is beautiful, Miss Y/L/N. By the way, unlike my older brothers, I know how to introduce myself. My name is Hyacinth Bridgerton." A girl who seemed not to be at the entrance of the house just moments ago suddenly appears, saying this as she walks quickly toward you.

"You're mistaking knowing how to introduce yourself with flattery, Hyacinth. I'm Gregory Bridgerton, but you can call me Gregory," says a young boy who appears to be almost the same age as Hyacinth, while the girl taps him on the shoulder. You find it cute and funny how they behave. Having siblings seems to be at least entertaining.

"The younger ones are so noisy. I wish you a pleasant stay with us, Miss Y/L/N. You'll need it. If you need some peace, just look for me. My name is Francesca," a young woman says kindly as she moves away from the confusion that this introduction session is becoming.

"Now that Miss Y/L/N has met most of the Bridgertons who reside in this house, how about having some tea in the garden of the property?" Lady Violet speaks gently, touching your arm. You nod in agreement.

"I would just like to go to the quarters where I will be staying for a change of clothing. I hope you understand, Lady Violet." You were already starting to feel pain in your back from the corset that was too tight on you.

"My dear, you can call me Violet, and you may go. I'll ask them to take you to the room where you'll be staying, and your companion will join you shortly to assist. Once you're done, I'll be in the garden waiting for you." Lady Bridgerton speaks, and you follow the servant she assigns to show you where you'll be staying. Knowing that Lydia will be with you shortly, as soon as you enter the room, you lock the door.

"What are you doing here, Miss?" A male voice speaks as soon as you lock the door, and you startle as you turn around to find a man, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, staring at you.

"I'm almost certain that I should be the one saying that, sir. I must warn you that if I were to scream, you'd be in trouble," you say, composing yourself as you observe the man looking at you curiously. Perhaps he knows that you wouldn't scream because it would ruin your reputation, or maybe he is part of the Bridgerton family, considering your mother warned you that there were three older adult brothers.

"Do you really want my family to know that I'm inappropriately dressed near you? Let me guess, you're desperate for a marriage and want to make your life easier by tying me to you?" The man speaks as he straightens up, buttoning the rest of his shirt.

"How dare you accuse me of such a strategy, considering that it is you who is in the quarters assigned to me, improperly dressed, and with an attitude worthy of pity. Honestly, my last thought at the moment would be to force a scandal so that you would have to become my husband," you reply, holding yourself near the door, keeping yourself away from whoever this Mr. Bridgerton is in front of you.

"Forgive me, Miss, but I don't trust a word coming out of your mouth at the moment. However, I assure you that this type of situation is not customary. I was trying to enter through the window of my room or one of my brothers' rooms, but I ended up in here. I had no idea that you would be arriving today. In fact, I'm being rude at this moment. I am Viscount Anthony Bridgerton," he says, approaching you cautiously as if analyzing you. Perhaps he is trying to figure out if you are an opportunist or not.

"Without intending to be rude, but already being so, whether you are a Viscount, Prince, or Duke, I don't care. What matters now is that no one finds out that we are alone here," you say, looking him squarely in the eyes, as if to firmly convey that you absolutely do not want them to be discovered.

"If you can draw the attention of the people in the house to yourself for a couple of minutes, I can leave the way I came in. Do you think that would be possible?" Anthony says with a certain petulance. However, a bold idea occurs to you. You give him a determined look and then step closer to him, bringing you both very near to each other.

"I'll simulate a small fall down the stairs. You'll have the time it takes for me to miraculously recover. Be efficient, Viscount Bridgerton," you say briefly and storm out of the room, aware that spending more time in the Viscount's presence would be a real test of your self-control. The room was starting to feel quite warm.

You descend the stairs, doing your best to appear slightly unsteady. You kick the last step with all your strength before reaching the bottom of the stairs and let out a loud groan of pain, loud enough to be heard from afar. You even manage to tear up a bit, waiting for everyone to come and check on you. Just as you are lightly sprawled on the floor, a man walks through the door. You don't remember being introduced to him before, but he is certainly a Bridgerton. He sees you and immediately rushes towards you.

"Miss, are you alright? Can I help you up?" The man asks with a concerned and caring expression. Knowing that Anthony needs more time, you let out a cry of complaint as if in fake pain when the Bridgerton in front of you tries to help you up. At that moment, you start to be surrounded by several people.

"Oh, I think I twisted my ankle, but there's no need to worry. I just need a moment," you say, uncertain if you can keep up the pretense much longer.

"My dear, don't strain yourself. Benedict will help you to a room where we can call for Dr. Lewis to examine you," Lady Violet Bridgerton says as she lightly touches the arm of who you presume to be Benedict.

"May I?" Benedict asks seconds before you nod your head in agreement. But to be honest, you're not even sure what you're agreeing to. Until Benedict lifts you, asking you to put your arms around his neck. You hold on tight to him, somewhat afraid he might drop you.

"Mr. Bridgerton, you are very kind. I believe you didn't need to lift me. But I am grateful for your help," you say as you are leaned close to Benedict's chest, which you now notice is slightly exposed. What's with the Bridgertons today that everyone is showing more than they should?

"I must admit, before my family enters here, that it was amusing to take part in your charade. It was quite artistic of you. I hope you'll call on me if you want to star in another theatrical piece to get my brother out of trouble. Have a good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N," he says all this as he gently releases you onto a sofa. He doesn't seem angry or anything like that; genuinely, he seems to be enjoying himself. As soon as he leaves the room where he left you, the rest of the Bridgerton family and some servants surround you. Now you'll have to pretend to be in pain for a little while longer while you're intrigued not only by one but by two Bridgerton brothers.

488 notes · View notes

celestie0 · 7 months ago

Text

choso x reader | punk rock au [18+]

in another life ch.1 cupid's arrow

ᰔ pairing. punk rock au - bass player! choso x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. you and choso were lovers in college when him and his rock band were just nobodies with nothing but a dream, but when his band strikes a deal with an up-and-coming record label in tokyo, you make the tough decision to break up with him since you couldn’t go with him to the city. flash forward seven years, his band is the biggest rock band in the world, n you move from the countryside to tokyo with your fiancé nanami to start your new life together. but in the heart of the city, home to many, there’s one person there that still has the power to turn your whole life upside down. and when you run into him again after all those years, feelings you didn’t know were still haunting you come crashing back all at once, and you’re not sure what it is you want from your life anymore.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fluff, angst, smut, punk rock au, partying, drinking/alcohol, weed usage, cigarette usage, romance, slow burn, friends to lovers, second chance romance, time skips, love triangle, bad boy choso, slight age gap (five yrs), longterm pining, jealousy, messy decisions, you know the drill

ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 6)

ᰔ words. 10.2k

a/n. hellooooo aaa welcome to my new choso fic :'') i'm so excited for this one! i'm just laughing at how i cannot just stick to a oneshot idea and somehow end up planning out a fullblown series instead hahah. but anyways, i hope you enjoy! thank you to everyone that wanted to be on the taglist, i'm really looking forward to diving into this story. see you at the bottom!!

alsooo my m00tie @sykosugu and i decided to post for our fics at the same time hehe she has a really spicy suguru x reader fic called 'on the run' that i highly recommend so go check that out as well if you're interestedd <33

nav. ch1 :: ch2 (pending)

“and there was something about you that now, i can’t remember. it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.”

present day. summer.

“We’re gonna miss you so, so, so much, love,” Mai groans, pulling you in towards her for a hug and you reciprocate with fondness.

Another pair of arms wraps around you, grip much tighter and you protest through a difficult breath. “Do you really have to go?” Nobara asks.

You tap on the skin of her arm, urging her to ease her hold in this group hug, and she finally relents and the three of you pull apart from one another. There’s a slight gasp from your lips as you breathe in fresh summer air. “I do, Nobie, I’m sorry. Nanami said it’s the final decision.”

You’re standing on hot concrete in front of a little countryside cottage that you’ve called home for years, but will soon just be a memory. You know which light switches illuminate corners of the rooms, and which creaking wood panels on the floor to avoid when looking for a midnight snack. It’s where you spent years studying for finals, arguing with your mom, learning how to care for Ms. Roxie, and it’s where you fell in love. More than once.

Your parents gave the house to you and Nanami once the two of you became engaged, but that blessing was soon to be given away, as Nanami received news six months ago that he was being promoted and relocated to Tokyo. Now, you have two bags in your hands, your purse slung around your shoulder, and a suitcase filled to the brim with the life you’ve tried to stuff in it. Your taxi driver has the other suitcase, because there were some things you couldn’t leave behind after all, and he’s putting it in the trunk right now.

“Nanami is so rude to take you from us,” Mai sighs, “but at least you’ll be one of those cool city girls now. So scary. I heard trends change faster there than the leaves on Rowan tree during spring.”

Nobara lets out a gasp that’s only half exaggerated. “No way! It can’t be!”

The taxi driver calls after you with a quick question, to which you answer back with a shout from where you stood. A quick glance at your watch tells you it’s time to get moving, as you’ll be taking a connecting train once you reach Tokyo that you need to be on time for. And then he’ll be there. Nanami will be waiting for you there, to lead you into the life that he’s started to make for the two of you.

“I’ll call so very often,” you promise the two of them, “and I will miss you two so very often as well.” Tears prickle in your eyes, and it seems to be contagious as they shimmer in Nobara and Mai’s eyes as well. Another group hug takes place between the three of you, harsh sun beating down with birds chirping in the distance as you try to take in the last few moments you’ve been granted of this place. “Take care of Roxie for us,” you say through a sniffle, “to you, it may seem like you’re only the bearer of food for her, but I promise that little kitty will love you two like no other.”

They both nod at you as you pull away, and you swipe at a tear that rolls down your cheek as you roll your suitcase down the pebbled walkway of your now past home.

The taxi driver helps hoist your suitcase into the trunk and places your other two bags into the back seat. You take a seat at the front with him, clicking the passenger seatbelt, and you roll down the window to wave bye with blown kisses as the taxi driver pulls away from the rocky mud road with crunching under the wheels. You watch Mai and Nobara and your home in the side view mirror until they’re no longer visible, but their voices of farewell linger in the air for a moment more.

“Alright, ma’am, bound for Tokyo!” your taxi driver chirps, his rough-looking hands opening and closing a few times to stretch out the joints of his fingers before tightly gripping onto the steering wheel again.

“Yes, Tokyo,” you murmur softly, gaze set out the window of the familiar street shops and stretches of patchy trees you know you’ll miss once you’re in the city.

“What’s your name?” the man asks, a thick country accent rolling off his tongue, with a sweetness like honey.

You turn your head to look at him more closely. The hair of his eyebrows is bushy, somewhat unkempt, and he has thick lines across his cheeks and forehead that can only mean that he’s lived a lot of life.

You tell him your name and he nods slowly as the two of you stop at a through road, a few school children hurrying past before he turns right onto the main road. “That’s a nice name. Which one of your parents gave it to ya?”

“Um. Both of them?”

He lets out a noise of acknowledgement, and doesn’t ask a further question. You smooth out the fabric of your long skirt with a hand, then toy with the band of your simple watch. Just when you think a comfortable silence has fallen between the two of you, and you think you have the luxury of losing yourself in your thoughts with sights beyond the polished glass window, the man speaks up again.

“Alright then, miss, tell me a story.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Pardon?”

“We’re gonna be spendin’ three hours in this car together, darlin’. It’s either I talk your ear off or you talk mine off,” he says, broad shoulders rolling backwards once as he gets comfortable in his driving position.

“Uh…do we need to talk at all?”

He glances over at you for a moment. The car wheels grind over rocks on gravel road near an agricultural field, and his fingers flex once again on the wheel. “You younger generations are so stuck in your own worlds. Entertain some conversation with the poor old taxi driver, will ya?”

You sigh, folding your hands in your nap neatly. “Alright. I don’t really have many stories to tell, though.”

“A young lady like you, packin’ up her whole life to move to a big city? I beg to differ,” he counters.

His words have you tucking your bottom lip under your teeth, a few blinks of your eyelids to process his observation of you. Your mind searches for stories to tell. Maybe that moment last week when you watched a momma duck waddle across a bridge with all seven of her baby ducklings. Or maybe you could tell him about that time you drove your car into a ditch the night of the comet festival and you swear you saw a UFO in the sky. The story you’ve been telling a lot lately, though, was the one of how Nanami proposed.

But then there’s a different story that comes to mind. With hazy images of blinding stage lights in dim venues, cigarette smoke wafting through the air, sounds of bass and drums and cheers. Smell of dry grass, the feeling of your back against a blanket, heart beating fast underneath the stars in front of a twinkling lake. And forever in your memory, the patterns of his inked skin.

“You got a boyfriend?” the man asks, suddenly.

“Are…are you hitting on me?” you ask awkwardly.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he shakes his head, lifting his left hand up from the steering wheel and turning the back of it to face you. A silver ring adorning his fourth finger shimmers from the reflected sunlight through the window. “Happily married. Been with my missus for 22 years.”

A small smile makes its way onto your face as you relax into your seat a little, feeling calmer. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry for assuming. And I have a fiancé, actually.”

“Oh?” he chirps, stealing a quick glance at your left hand that was still folded neatly underneath your right one in your lap. “How come I’m not seein’ a ring?”

You tug at the small chain around your neck, a chill felt as diamond stone and cold metal drags against the skin of your sternum before you pull out your own promise of marriage, dangling it in front of your chest for him to steal another glance at. “I wear it around my neck. I’m a pottery teacher, so I usually take it off when showing my students any demos. I figured if I kept taking it off like that, I might lose it, so I just wear it around my neck now.”

“That’s interesting,” he comments, “It’s a real nice ring, that’s for sure! Tell me about this man you’re marryin.”

Your heart aches at the thought of Nanami. It’s been six months since you’ve seen him, since he relocated to Tokyo first, and you’ve missed him every day since. You were in the middle of the academic year at the elementary school you taught at, so they asked you to stay back, but Nanami had already accepted the promotion, thus the two of you made the decision that he would move to Tokyo first to get situated and you’d soon follow in the summer. It was a lot of stress to handle as just one person; searching for apartments on top of managing the heightened expectations from his boss from his new role, but he did it all without a complaint. Because he loves you, and that’s who Nanami was. Someone who would move mountains for you. He’s worked hard to make a place for you in Tokyo, one to call home.

“He really loves me,” you say to the man, softly.

“And you love him?”

“So much.”

“Was he your first love?”

Your breath catches in your throat from his question, a small chill running down your spine. The silence that settles could’ve lasted two seconds or two centuries, and you never would’ve known.

You lick your lips before answering. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Hmm…” the man hums. Bumpy roads are now smooth as he turns onto properly laid roads, the exit from your town onto intercity roads. “I can tell.”

“You can tell?” you ask, skeptic in your tone as you tilt your head at him.

“I can tell from your voice that there was someone else before. Someone who meant a whole lot to you, but he went away for some reason,” he says.

You’re not sure why there’s a lump in your throat from his words, a heavy thing with so much substance that it threatens to weigh your heart as well. Your eyes study the side of his face. “You’re getting all of that from my voice?”

The man’s expression is blank as if it were tabula rasa, something so different from the way you’ve felt for so long now, like your heart has been torn in two. There was something so tempting about it; the luxury of a clean slate. Of a new beginning. A fresh start. And it’s hard not to imagine how you would’ve painted things differently.

“Tell me about him,” the man says, the story he was looking for having been found. “Your first love.”

“He…” you start, shocked that you’re actually answering, but it’s like an invitation you can’t resist, “he was my first boyfriend…my first serious boyfriend. I met him the summer after high school. During a summer like this one.”

seven years ago. summer.

chapter 1. cupid’s arrow.

“C’mon, faster!” Mai exclaims, her hand wrapped around your wrist to tug you across the dim streets of downtown.

“Just— wait— Mai, please, slow down,” you’re stumbling after her, feet failing to keep up, and you almost crash right into her when she comes to a sudden halt on the sidewalk.

“This is it,” she says, staring up at the sporadically blinking neon lights of what appears to be a small venue, black marquee letters that spell out Backseat Serenade Tonight @ 10pm stand out to you in a way that feels haunting. “We’re so late, let’s head inside.”

Mai drags you inside, and the security guy is less than thrilled by the commotion as he stands in front of closed double doors. You can feel the bass of music vibrating the walls, accompanied by loud shrill screams and chants coming from inside, and the red velvet flooring underneath your feet fuel you with static as you two approach the man dressed in full black.

Mai fumbles with her purse to pull out her phone, and the man scans the barcoded tickets on her screen before giving the two of you wristbands to wear and then he opens the door for the two of you.

The inside of the venue is small but packed, minimal lighting save for moving lights that illuminate the band on stage, but it’s even harder to see anything over the heads of people with their hands up in the air. Mai’s grip on your forearm is tight as she roughly weaves the two of you through the crowd, determined in her gait but you feel the need to apologize to the people she’s shoving in the process. You’re surprised at how fast the two of you make it to the front barricades, thanks to Mai’s nimbleness alone, and your eyes raise to the scene onstage through wafting smoke through the air.

“Alright, alright, alright,” one of the band members chimes right as the final instrumentals of the song begin to fade. His hair is a pale silver under dusty lighting, pushed up from out of his face by a black headband snapped to his forehead, and his eyes are distinctly blue. He has an electric guitar hanging from his neck by a thick black strap. He raises both of his hands up into the air, waving them down a few times to calm down the crowd, and there are scattered hushes surrounding you and Mai. “This is our last song, and we just want to thank you all so much for coming out tonight! This crowd’s the best we’ve ever had!”

The people cheer in response as a light and relaxed melody begins to tune together from the instrumentals on stage. You hear Mai groan beside you. “What the fuck?! We missed the entire set?!”

Your hands curl around the cold metal of the barricade dividers and your eyes sweep across the stage. There’s a man in the far back with short black hair, bouncing his leg up and down as he’s seated behind a drum set, fidgeting with wooden sticks in his hands, and you’re puzzled by the fact that he’s wearing a very poorly fitted suit onstage. Off to the right, a man with pink hair is messing with the headphones snapped to his ears in front of an electric keyboard, spread fingers pressing down on chords, and you can vaguely see the black nail polish at the tips of his fingers. A woman with mid length blonde hair and pink highlights stands at the front, her hand wrapped around the mic resting on top of the stand. She’s laughing, tipping her head back at something else the electric guitar player says over the mic, but you’ve drowned out the words because your eyes finally land on what’s directly in front of you.

With an almost bored expression on his face, a man stands with a matte black bass guitar hung from his neck as he has one foot up on the top of a subwoofer located flush to the edge of the stage. His hair is raven black, longer at the nape of his neck with shorter layers scattered, and tendrils fall over his face. There’s a glint to his polished black shoes off of where you’re standing, and he’s wearing tight black jeans that cling to the thick and lean muscles of his calves and thighs, with a leather belt fastened around the circumference of his hips. The shirt that’s tucked into his jeans is just as tight to his skin, and a small gasp leaves your lips when you take in the sight of his arms covered in intricate patterns of ink. His right arm is practically covered from the wrist all the way up to the cut of his short sleeve, likely beyond, and his left arm has ink traveling up to his forearm only, like he’s still working on mapping it all out. You watch the way his biceps flex as he bends his arms, bringing his hands up to his face to push his hair back, and your heart is keeping fast rhythm with the music.

“Cho!” the woman at the front speaks into the mic, turning her head to look at this man who you’re sure is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “You’ve hardly said a single word tonight, baby. Not that that’s unusual though. Why don’t you say a few words before we kick off the last song?”

A bunch of whoos!! and ahhhs!!! and yesss!!! scatter throughout the crowd in the form of cheers and you watch the man furrow his brows together, a scowl forming on his face. There’s a band of black underneath his eyes that runs across the bridge of his nose, with perpendicular lines resembling arrows running down his cheeks. Dark purple eyes that match the dark shadows around them glint under flickering stage lighting as he takes his foot off the speaker and walks a few steps backwards to position himself at his stationed mic.

“Fine,” he says, and you’re watching the way his lips barely brush against the mic as he speaks, “This is our last song. It’s called Lost Cause. Enjoy. Or don’t. It’s up to you. Who the fuck am I to tell you what to do.”

There’s only a slight beat of silence from the crowd before they’re cheering again, while his band members just stare at him stunned. The white-haired electric guitarist yells into his mic something like “THAT’S IT?!” before the drum player cuts him off with three taps of his sticks in the air, and then the song commences from them on practiced reflex.

The energy from the crowd is loud in the last few minutes of the show, smoke rising in the air from the machines spread across the raised stage, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the bass player. You rest your forearms on the cold metal in front of you, the sight of Mai jumping up and down in your periphery as she headbangs and shakes her hair.

The bass player’s eyes start to scan the venue within what seems to be the final chorus of the song, chin tipping up and fingers continuing to strum as he assesses the back of the crowd first, then gaze darting throughout the center, before he begins to study the front barricade. You watch his every movement, mapping the trail of his sight, and your heart skips a beat when those dark eyes finally fall on yours.

His eyes briefly flicker to your left, to continue his study of the crowd, but it’s as if his brain just registered something with a delay, and he quickly moves his gaze back to you in a double take. His eyes widen, bored expression quickly turned into one of surprise with a glint to his pupils, and you swear you’ve been struck by an arrow to your heart.

“Yaaaay! Thank you everyone!” the woman at the front exclaims, pulling her mic from the stand to walk around to make work of the crowd. The white-haired man approaches the edge of the stage with a pleased grin on his face, high-fiving all of the outstretched arms, and the man at the keyboard simply waves a few times before incessantly tuning buttons on his headphones. Drum boy hasn’t stopped playing some sort of loud rhythm as an encore. Your sight is set back onto the bass player, and he’s looking off somewhere else now. Somewhere backstage.

“Hey!” the white-haired man exclaims once he’s made it in front of the two of you. “Mai! You made it!”

She reaches out to grab his forearm, tugging down harshly so he’s stumbling and dropping one knee to the stage floor, kneeling. “Of course I was gonna make it! Thanks for the tickets,” she’s yelling over loud ambient cheers and music, “this is my friend y/n, by the way. Oh, and this is Gojo, he’s the guy I was telling you about.”

You nod at him, and try to accept his outstretched hand when someone bumps you from behind and your hand is in favor of stabilizing yourself over the divider instead.

You can barely hear the laugh from Gojo’s position on the raised stage. “Just meet us backstage! We can chat for a bit with proper introductions and all.”

As the crowd begins to dissipate with people moving through the sets of double doors out back, Gojo hops off stage to take you and Mai through a side door that leads into a hallway that lines the back of the stage. You look up into the high ceilings with metal structural poles banding between the walls, and the dim yellow lighting in small bulbs bolted to the walls like a runway remind you of movie theater exit routes.

“So, what’d you guys think of the show?” Gojo asks, his arms raised up and hands interlocked behind his neck in a casual-not-so-casual way as he sends the two of you a lazy look over his shoulder.

“Well, we only made it for one song since miss barista over here was running late from her shift,” she sighs, whacking your arm once with the back of her hand. You glance down and realize you didn’t even have the time to take your frilled and wrinkled apron off. “But, from what we did get to hear, AMAZING! AWESOME! SPECTACULAR!”

Gojo is grinning wide as he turns around to face the two of you, continuing to walk but backwards as he slaps the raised hand that Mai had in the air for him. “I’m so glad, I felt the pressure to please was high since I’ve been hyping up our shows to you for so long.”

“We’ve only known each other for like two weeks.”

“I know. But PSYCH 210 lecture at the ass crack of dawn really brings two people together, y’know.”

Mai and Gojo continue to laugh and talk about random things college-related, and there’s a stirring feeling in your chest that you’re surrounded by people older and much more well-lived than you. You’ve just graduated high school, barely a few months ago, but Mai was a few years older than you, so any time she tries to introduce you to her college friends, you feel the need to perform or be someone that you’re not so they’ll like you, despite the fact that you’re aware of the fallacy in that. And tonight, that responsibility feels much more daunting for some reason.

There are voices heard further down the hall, and as you approach, you notice the drum guy, keyboard guy, and devilishly handsome bass guy are all loitering around in that area, along with a few other people they seemed to have invited backstage.

Gojo walks up to them, grabbing onto the bass man’s hand firmly before patting him on the back, then slings his arms around the other two. “This is Higurama,” he says, rubbing the top of the black-haired guy’s head with the knuckles of his fist, “he does drums for us. And this is Sukuna,” he says, about to repeat the same gesture to the top of his head but his wrist is grabbed and twisted, “ow, fuck, fuck, fuck– sorry.” Sukuna lets go of his wrist, scowl dissipating into sadistic amusement, and Gojo’s holding his wrist, now slightly red from the burn, with a pout on his face. “He does the keyboard. And all the techno sounds. And some other stuff I’ve frankly no fucking clue about.”

The two of them acknowledge you and Mai, along with the few other people who Gojo seems to know as well, and then Gojo’s approaching the bass player again before resting his elbow up on his shoulder, leaning his weight onto him and the man just crosses his arms across his chest, sending Gojo a side-eye. “Mai, I think you two have met before, but this is Choso. Choso Kamo, our bass player. Best bass player I’ve ever known to be honest. Be careful though, he might bite you.”

Choso scowls, rolling his shoulder back once to get rid of Gojo’s resting elbow. His eyes are on yours, boring into you deep, and when he darts his tongue out briefly to wet his bottom lip, you finally notice the silver lip ring near the corner of his mouth. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” he says, hand outstretched and you shake it with a mention of your name to him. The skin on his fingers feel rough from play, a small sacrifice to pay for the talent he’s harnessed over the years from plucking at strings. His eyes sweep down you once. “Why are you dressed like Strawberry Shortcake?”

“I–” you start, glancing down at your attire and feeling the heat pool in your cheeks, “I just got off a work shift. I work at a cafe.”

“Oh,” he responds, and you notice his hand is still holding onto yours, Your eyes trail the patterns on his skin, visible in more detail up close, and you find yourself lost in every line and swirl and scale and skull and cross, the only thing breaking you out of your trance being Mai’s jab of her elbow to your ribcage.

You gasp, snatching your hand away from Choso, and when you look up at his face, there’s a hint of amusement on it.

“Babes, he was asking you a question,” Mai says, looking between you and the man in front of you.

“Huh?” you ask, suddenly flustered and you swipe your palm down your work apron to wipe the sweat that begins to perspire at your palm from the lingering heat of his hand.

“I was asking if you liked the show,” Choso says, tilting his head to the side and now he’s allowing his eyes to travel all across you in any way he wants.

“I loved it,” you respond, almost breathlessly, “it was great. I mean– we only saw, like, one song. But still, really amazing.”

“Only one song?” Choso asks, his eyebrow raising, “that’s a shame. You’ve gotta come to more shows then.”

Before you can respond, there’s a feminine voice heard down the hallway, sounding an awful lot like the one echoing off the speakers inside the concert venue, and then the blond woman who was the lead singer of the band skips right up to the group formulating in this hallway before wrapping her arms around Choso’s neck and pulling him down towards her in a kiss.

You’re standing there stunned, eyes immediately averting from the scene of the two of them in front of you, but in the corner of your eye you can see his arm wrap around her waist briefly before he pulls her away from him, and the release of her lips from his makes a sound that for some reason creates a pit in your stomach.

“Cho, baby, I just had an insane conversation,” she says, still practically hanging from his neck as she stands on tiptoes, “with this record label guy. He’s apparently hot shit in Tokyo, and he wants to offer us this city gig ‘cause he thinks we’re a potential sign-on, and–”

Choso’s hand reaches to the back of his neck, gripping around her wrist to pull it apart from her other one, and then her arms fall to her sides and her heels flatten to the ground as she blinks up at him. “That’s cool, Sana, but can we talk about that later?”

Gojo’s arms cross his chest as he leans forward, glaring at the woman. “Yeah. And as a band, not just with your lover.”

Sana rolls her eyes and scoffs, placing curled hands low on her hips. “He’s not my lover, bitch. Unless he’s my lover like you’re lovers with a blunt on a sunday– sucked off in a car ‘cause you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That’s offensive to both of us,” Gojo grumbles but Choso just sighs, unbothered, as he rubs at the back of his neck. He makes eye contact with you again, and his expression sobers as though he forgot for a second that you were still standing there.

Sana turns to you and Mai. “Hi, I’m Sana, nice to meet you guys. Sorry, I thought you two were some of our other friends, otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed Cho in front of you. I hate PDA, trust me.”

Mai lets out an awkward laugh as she shakes her hand, and you almost don’t want to shake her hand, but you do just to be polite.

“You didn’t hate PDA that one time I was about to bag the girl I’d been talking to for weeks and you decided to grind your sorry excuse of an ass right up against me in front of her,” Gojo grumbles.

She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Whatever, she thought you were gay anyways. Would’ve done yourself a favor if you actually grabbed my ass.”

She ignores the insulted gesture Gojo makes, cutting off whatever words he was about to spew with words of her own. “What are you girls doing after this? We’re having a post-show party, you two should come.” She glances at you. “Uh, love, I’d ditch the apron though. Unless it’s, like, some sort of fetish for you.”

You’re defeated as your arms cross your torso to grip the hem of your apron and pull it up over your head, shaking your head a bit to allow your hair to fall back into place, and then you fold the frilly article of clothing neatly before hanging it over your arm. “It’s not,” you sigh, too exhausted to be subject to the title of your occupation anymore. A small flicker of your eyes to Choso tells you he’s staring at you.

Sana shrugs. “So you pretty ladies wanna come?”

Mai shakes her head. “No, sorry, my baby here,” she says, wrapping her arm around yours tightly, “just graduated high school recently, so she’s too young for a party. I’ve got a responsibility to look after her. And throwing her into a room full of sleazy drunk punk college dudes is the opposite of looking after her.”

Sukuna comes around, leaning his arm against the wall, smirk on his face, as he eyes you like you’re something to steal. “Just graduated high school? So you just turned eighteen, sweetheart?”

Mai glares daggers at him. “Get the fuck away from her, Super Senior. You’re icky. Also, case in point proven.”

Sana whacks the back of Sukuna’s head, and he all but growls at her. “Stop being creepy,” she reprimands him before turning to Mai again. “No, I swear, it’s not like that. It’s chill, minimal alcohol. No drugs. Just a small get-together with a few of our fellow friends, and friends of fellow friends, from the music scene.” She leans against Choso’s arm, wide eyes looking up at him, but he doesn’t lean into her. “Right, Cho? No scary guys for her to worry about?”

His eyes narrow at you, raking down your figure again, and his chest moves a little faster with his breath. “I’m against it. It’s no place for an eighteen-year-old. You’re a fucking idiot for trying to invite a girl who just recently graduated from highschool to a house party. She’s practically a kid.”

Your heart sinks from his words, and you feel juvenile standing in front of him, in a way that makes you angry and embarrassed at the same time, and you can’t bite back the words in time, “Whatever, at least I haven’t been on crack since the day I was born like you probably were.”

Almost all heads in this small hallway snap to you, if they weren’t already there before, wide eyes blinking before Gojo bursts out into a laugh, which dominoes into Mai’s laughter, and you barely register the way Sana looks you up and down once before forcing a smile. Choso’s surprised expression turns into a disgruntled one as he crosses his arms across his chest, and you can’t help but watch the stretch of his inked skin over his muscles as they flex.

“I’ve never done crack, shortcake, and your lame insult only proves my point on your immaturity,” he scowls, leaning his upper body forward towards you, and his gaze briefly drops to your lips.

Sana comes in between the two of you, pressing herself up against him to get him away, and he takes an involuntary step back and now he’s scowling at her too. She turns around to face you, and there’s that forced smile again. “Uh, y’know what, sweets? Cho is sooo totally right, no place at all for a—I’m sorry, how old did you say you were?”

“Eighteen,” you say with a slight grit to your teeth.

“Oh! Yeah, no place for you, sorry,” she says, with a small jut of her bottom lip to signal a pout.

You roll your eyes at her, then glance past her at Choso who’s looking at you like he’s still got a few retaliating words for you on his tongue, but then he’s dropping his gaze to the neckline of your shirt, eyeing the shape of your breasts, even dipping further down your legs and you let out a scoff.

“You sure enjoy checking me out for someone you think is practically a kid,” you spit back.

He’s not angry this time, the corner of his mouth simply tipping up slightly into a smirk. “I meant you’re too young to drink, but you’re old enough to fuck, so spare me the attitude.”

Your cheeks flush at his comment, nonetheless made in front of a group of people who were practically strangers to you, and you’re about to give him a piece of your mind when Mai grabs your forearm and Gojo places himself between you and jerkface.

“Woah! Look at the time,” Gojo chirps, glancing at his wrist that was absent of any time-telling device but he rolls with it anyway, “should probably head out now, since the venue’s closing soon. Y’know, grab our stuff.”

Mai nods her head at you in response to his words, sending a single glare Choso’s way before exchanging some pleasantries with Gojo and then dragging you down the hallway with her towards the exit.

“Hey–” you begin to complain, her grip on you starting to hurt, and you eventually yank your arm away from her before she opens the backdoor exit. “Let’s go to that party.”

Mai sighs, leaning her back against the door and crosses her arms. “No way. Your mom wanted me to get you home before midnight,” she says as she glances at the time on her phone, “and it’s close to midnight.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m an adult now, I don’t have to adhere to a midnight curfew, like I’m fucking Cindarella.”

Mai raises an eyebrow at you from the profanity, recognizing the fact that it’s something you just forced into your vocabulary in a way that doesn’t suit you. “I already said no.”

“Take me or else I’m going to tell your mom about the nipple piercings you got last week.”

Mai hisses a sharp breath through her teeth. “You’re a bitch.”

“Take me,” you deadpan.

She tilts her head back so that it hits the metal of the door, and then she’s pushing her back against it to open it, the rush of cold wind from outside brushing past the two of you as she steps into the night and you follow her. “Oh my god, fine. But only for a little bit, and let’s get the lie straight right now–you had explosive diarrhea at the concert so I couldn’t take you home right away since you were incapacitated in the restrooms.”

“What? Why do I have to be the one with explosive diarrhea?” you ask, frown on your face but there’s a skip to your step as you follow her down the street to where she very poorly parallel parked and you open the passenger side door. She doesn’t bother answering you as she settles into the driver’s seat and her car roars to life with a few struggling turns of the key in ignition.

“No drinking,” Mai says, voice strict with eyes locked on yours, and it’s the last thing she says before she starts driving.

The house is just a few miles from the venue location, and Mai seems to have been there before since she turns the navigation off once she turns onto a street that has her driving switch to from perusal to more casual.

Gojo is the one to greet you two at the door with wide eyes and a drink in his hand. You notice he’s changed out of his stage attire into something more casual, and likely in a rush too since his hair is disheveled, and you figured that you and Mai barely got here after they did. The surprised look on his face is quick to turn into a pleased one at the sight of the two of you. “Oh sweet you two actually came,” he comments, waving a hand for you two to come inside, “figured Kamo would’ve scared you off.”

You roll your eyes, “where is that jerk? I still have a few choice words for him.”

“Babes, let it go,” Mai sighs, “Not worth your time.”

“I concur,” Gojo says, “but, if you really want, he’s upstairs putting some of my stuff he borrowed for tonight’s show back into my room. You can…” he glances down at you once, “uh. Cuss him to death? Or whatever you can manage, I guess. But just don’t fuck on my bed, please. That’s my only rule.”

“Why do you sound like that’s a rule you’ve had to make often?” Mai scoffs, amused, while your cheeks feel hot.

Gojo slumps his shoulders in some type of comical defeat. “I don’t wanna talk about it…” he mumbles, voice trailing off and turning on his heel to walk away while Mai follows him off with more follow-up questions he doesn’t seem receptive to answering.

Your eyes glance over to the staircase, studying for a moment as loud party music fills your ears before making your way over and up the steps. As you head down the hallway leading into bedrooms, the floorboards creak until your sneakers even over soft carpet, and you hear soft sounds of clattering off to the left. There’s a door that’s half ajar leading into a warmly lit room, and you deftly peek your head through the opening.

Choso stands near the foot of the bed inside a messy room, black boxes and cases and wires surrounding him as he fumbles with unplugging some sort of audio station pad from another piece of hardware. His hand grips tightly around the thick black rubber coating of the wire, and you watch the flex of his knuckles that tense the veins running up his arm, sleeve of the shirt he’s worn all night stretching to accommodate the roll of muscle at his upper arm. With a solid yank, the chord releases itself before the wire whacks him straight in the face and he grumbles a fuck under his breath and he rubs the skin of his cheek, to which you can’t help but let out a small laugh at the sight of.

His furrowed and frustrated expression turns into surprise as his eyes flicker to the entrance of the room. He stands up straight, and then there’s that bored expression again. “Oh. Shortcake. I thought I said you’ve got no business being here.”

“Yeah, about that, I’m waiting for you to apologize to me,” you say, leaning sideways against the doorframe as you cross your arms over your chest.

He sighs, eyes moving away from yours to busy himself with the jungle of equipment he’s practically drowning in, as if he couldn’t be bothered by your presence right now. “Apologize for what?”

You make your way inside the room, foot pushing aside anything sprawled on the floor that’s in your way so you can continue to approach him, and you stop just when you’re just a step away. His gaze is still set to the ground as he’s crouched over slightly, but it shifts from the speaker he was toying with to the shape of your shoes instead.

“Apologize to me for being so crass,” you say, “after we had just met.”

He slowly straightens his spine, and you’re a little shocked to find the height that he has on you. His expression is curious, eyes narrowing slightly like he has you all figured out already, and it pisses you off. “Crass is such a prissy word to use, princess. Try ‘apologize to me for being a massive dick’ or something, and I’ll start to take you more seriously.”

“Why are you so rude?” you ask, anger building up inside of you all of a sudden. “I’ve barely met you, I don’t see how I could’ve upset you in any way. Yet you’ve already insulted me in multiple ways tonight, and it’s not a cool look for you. Trust me.”

“You’re the one that basically called me a crackhead,” he counters, but there’s no real offense behind it.

“Yeah, because you called me a kid,” you say, face tightening even further with anger, “even though I’m an adult.”

He sighs, closing his eyes in irritation, and tilts his head up to look at the ceiling briefly as his mouth hangs slightly open, all as if he’s running thin of the capacity to deal with this conversation, and then he looks back down at you again. “Shortcake, I didn’t call you a kid ‘cause of your age. I called you a kid ‘cause you’re just so–” he starts, eyes traveling down your body paired with a vague gesture of his hand towards all of you, and you find yourself shifting on your feet to stand a little more poised, “you just seem so innocent and clueless and, uh, forgive me, naive.”

“You’re the clueless one here if you still think negging a girl will get you anywhere with her,” you say, hands clenched in fists at your side now.

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he tilts his head at you, some of his dark hair falling over his forehead from the motion and a few strands weave with his eyelashes. “I’m not trying to get anywhere with you here, sweetheart, unless you’re wanting that,” he says, voice almost purred at the end as he steps over a guitar case on the floor to get closer to you.

You’re unable to make eye contact with him when he’s close and you can smell the earthy notes of his cologne, mixed with another scent that seems more distinctly him that makes your head spin. Your gaze takes in the sight of his forearm, the one with scattered tattoos trailing up his arm but not yet fully inked in. You wonder what he’s saving the space for, and what he’s willing to let in.

When your gaze flickers up to his face again, you’re a little surprised to see his expression is softer. He suddenly holds his forearm up in front of you. Your eyes signal confusion to him, but he just keeps his arm up the same.

“You’ve been ogling my tattoos since we met,” he says, voice low, “if you’re curious, then just have a closer look.”

Your breath picks up in speed, and you hesitate for a moment but it’s true. You were curious. Your hands shakily hold onto his forearm to keep it still as you study the ink on his skin. You twist his arm as much as his joint allows, and he lets you handle him in any way you want, and you swear the snake tattooed on his skin moves as if it were alive. A dark blossoming rose with highlights of burgundy red catches your eye near his elbow, and you brush the back of your hand against it. Your fingers accidentally find his pulse at his wrist, and you find his heart is beating fast.

You run a flat palm up his arm, the skin to skin contact feeling intimate, and your fingers stop when they tuck under the fabric of his sleeve. You feel the warmth and curve of his bicep, lightly wrapping your hand around it, and you blush at the sight of how small your hand looks on him.

“What does this one mean?” you ask, not meaning for it to come out as a whisper, but you feel like his answer is meant to be kept a secret. Your thumb swipes over small roman numerals permanently etched into him over muscle.

“It’s my dad’s military tag,” he responds, voice quiet like yours.

You tear your gaze away from his skin to look up at him, and you realize he’s closed enough distance between the two of you to where his face is just inches away. From the moment you looked up, his eyes have been on your lips, and his brow furrows as if he’s fighting some voice in his head that’s testing this harmony between the two of you in this moment.

You swear he’s about to kiss you, since there could be no other explanation for the way he was looking at you, but instead he clears his throat and his face is first to distance from you before he pulls his arm back as well, and then a small step backwards. “Sorry,” he says, and he almost sounds awkward. It startles you, because it’s the first time he doesn’t sound cool or calm or collected.

“That-” you start, “...wait, what are you sorry for?”

His eyes widen, and you see the heaviness under them for a moment, “uhh…I’m actually not too sure.”

Your head feels clear now that he’s not close enough to breathe in, and you blink a few times as your annoyance from earlier resurfaces amidst the lingering energy he just broke between you two. “Start with ‘I’m sorry for calling you a kid, and then also just now calling you naive and clueless,’” you say, foot tapping impatiently, “and then, in front of all your bandmates, mocking the fact I’m not old enough to drink, and shamelessly traveling your eyes over me, and then–” your breath catches slightly as the words fail to leave your tongue, cheeks feeling hot, “and then saying–” you try again, but the thought only falls flat, and he’s taking a step closer to you again.

“And then saying that you’re old enough to fuck?” he asks, finishing your sentence for you, but there’s no remorse in his tone at all.

His hand suddenly finds the small of your back and he pushes gently so you take a stumbled step towards him, like he needed to have you close to him again. His lips brush against the top of your head, and the sensation sends a hot feeling through your chest. “Choso,” you reprimand him.

“Fuck,” he exhales, like in cynical disbelief, “my name sounds so sweet coming from you.”

It makes no sense, but you grip his shirt at his chest just to make contact with him, and you brave yourself to look up at him, wondering if he can see the hint of worry in your eyes, because he already feels like something you can’t resist.

His eyes are dark now, different from the tenderness in them before, and he’s freely studying the features of your face. “I don’t want to fuck you, Shortcake, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re a little too good for me to do something like that.”

His words say one thing while his eyes say another, his arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close, and you’re astonished at how little he cares about the clear contradiction in his words from the way he holds you. His gaze slowly travels down from your eyes to your lips.

“What about–” you start, heart beating fast in your chest as you see the glimmer of the silver ring pierced through his lip. You bite back the words.

But he reads your mind, because his head dips down towards yours and he captures your lips in his, slow and sweet at first before pressing more firmly, more decisively with both hands flying to hold your waist. A moan muffles in your throat at the sensation of his bare fingers coyly traveling under the hem of your shirt, and you can’t help but slide your arms up over his shoulders, locking them behind his neck to pull him down closer to you, and he sighs in response as he presses your hips flush against him. The chill metal of his lip ring has the plush of your bottom lip tingling cold, and when his tongue swipes across to warm it for you, your mouth opens with ease. You taste spearmint on his tongue, and his lips curve against yours in what feels like an amused smile, large hands now slid so far up your shirt that his fingers reach the band of your bra.

“Hey, Cho, do you know where–”

The trill of a feminine voice in the air cuts through harshly, and he pulls his lips from yours but not without a moment of reluctance. You two turn your head to the door, and you see Sana standing there, eyes wide and blinking as she takes in the sight of the two of you standing in what feels like a guilty proximity from how her eyes silently curse you.

You can only manage an awkward laugh, fist shoving against Choso’s shoulder but his hands are still placed firmly on the curve over your lower back, dangerously close to the plush of your ass, and your hips are practically pinned to him while you do all you can to lean your upper body away. “Oh–sorry, this…is not what it looks like–”

“I…” Sana starts, and you can see the hurt in her expression, but she quickly corrects it, “Oh! Ah, was just lookin’ for Cho here,” she says, making her way into the room, and a harsh shove of your fist against Choso’s chest finally has him relenting to let you go. Your posture immediately stiffens when she approaches Choso’s side, and she playfully pushes his arm but the effort is weak. “Kissing girls in Satoru’s room is seriously not a good idea, Cho. That freak probably has cameras in here to make sure people don’t bump uglies in his room again after that New Year’s party.”

Choso gives her a pointed look, like he wasn’t caught up on that drama, but you’re just standing there with your eyes flicking between the familiarity of the two people standing in front of you. Why wasn’t Sana jealous? She was looking at you ten seconds ago like she was a whole lot of jealous.

“What are you looking for?” Choso asks her, and she holds her red plastic solo cup with her drink in it out for him to hold as she crouches down to the floor to sift through the equipment now surrounding the three of you.

“My lucky mic,” she says, “Gojo said it’d be here.” There’s a hint of something in her voice, something that mirrors betrayal if you’re perceptive enough.

You watch Choso lick his lips once, eyes darting to you, before he’s crouching down too to help her look. “For something that allegedly means a lot to you, you sure do a shit job at looking out for it,” he comments with a sigh before pulling out a black case from under three other ones and handing it to her. “It’s here.”

“I’m–” you say, taking a step back and almost tripping over a guitar case, “I’m, um, going to head downstairs. Mai is probably looking for me.”

Choso raises an eyebrow at you from where he’s still crouched down next to Sana, and he’s about to speak when Sana cuts him off.

“Okay. Bye,” she says, still rummaging through things mindlessly even though she had already been given what she was looking for.

Choso makes a move to stand up, like he wants to see you out the door, but Sana’s hand grabs him by his forearm, eyes still not meeting his, and there’s a beat of confusion in his eyes as he studies the side of her face. But you know what sort of look she probably has in her eyes right now, and you know only because you’re also a girl, and all girls know what it’s like when a guy you love doesn’t want you in the way that you want him. All you can do at this moment is feel sorry for her.

The atmosphere in the room begins to suffocate, and you head out of the door in a rush.

present day. summer.

“He kissed ya the day he met ya? Hmph! That wouldn’t fly with me,” the man seated beside you says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he shifts slightly in his seat to puff his chest out.

“Hmm,” you hum as you look out the window wistfully, memories that you had locked up for so many years opened like a pandora box that fills your chest with warmth but has your fingers trembling with anxiety because you know how it all ends. “You wouldn’t…let a man kiss you on the first day he met you?”

The driver humors you with a hearty laugh from his chest, at least. “Not talkin’ about it that way, darlin’. I’m talkin’ about my daughters. I’ve got two girls of my own. A man should keep his hands to himself the first time he meets a lady. At least that’s what I’ve taught ‘em.”

There’s a small smile that tugs at your lips at his words, the love he has for his daughters heard clearly through his strict tone. You left out a lot of the details that probably would’ve angered him on your behalf even more, so the fact he still ended up getting worked up about it has you a little amused and reflective at the same time. “How old are your daughters?” you ask, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear, watching the wind-rustled plains of grass that you two have been driving by for a while now.

“They’re a little younger than you,” he comments, his expression now a bit more serious, “one just graduated from college, she’s startin’ more school in the city soon, and the other’s still in highschool. She’s turning sixteen next week.”

“Ah, sixteen,” you muse, “that’s a confusing age.”

“You got that right,” he gruffs, “the other day, she called me on my way home from work to bring some drink called a boba. Fifty-two years of life and I never even knew there was a damn thing called a boba! Why would anyone want swirlin’ stuff in their drink?! Anyways, the shop got her order wrong, and when I brought it home, she refused to drink it, called me the worst dad ever, then stormed upstairs to slam the door on her room. I turn to my wife, and she’s shakin’ her head at me like I’m the one that did something wrong!”

You laugh, then press your lips into a smile. “I’d have to agree with her on that,” you joke, and he lets out another disgruntled noise that has you laughing again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve lived with my wife and those two girls for over two decades,” he sighs. “I’m used to it by now. All three are equally pains in my ass, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your smile drops a little as you look at him more contemplatively. There’s a glimmer in his eyes as he speaks, and you realize it’s familiar, but the answer of where you’ve seen it before fails to arrive.

“My youngest,” he starts again, “she’s been listenin’ to really loud music lately.” He presses one of the buttons underneath the AC vents, static noises coming to life before he changes the output to bluetooth. “My wife says it’s some sort of phase, but I’m not likin’ the music. Always sounding tempered and inappropriate.” He plays a song from his phone paired to the car, speakers flowing with music, and a chill runs down your spine the moment the first few notes fill your ears. A song so painfully familiar, so connected to your soul it’s as if your heart still keeps time with it to this day.

“See what I’m talkin’ about?” the man says, “Lots of words about skin and cigarettes.” With a shake of his head, he lowers the volume. “She’s obsessed with this band, it’s probably a band similar to your old lover’s from the sound of it. She’s got posters of ‘em up on the wall, and she took the picture of us on our first fishing trip together out of the picture frame on her desk and replaced it with this man. This silly-lookin’ white-haired man that always looks like he’s just pretending he knows how to play a guitar. Hmph! She keeps saying ‘dad, I wanna go to their concert!’ There’s no way in hell I’m allowing that.”

You stare down at your lap, brow furrowed from the realization flashing through your head, and your thumb nervously passes over the skin of your other hand. In your periphery, you see him glance over at you once, and he sighs before stopping the music and speaking up again.

“It’s fine,” he says, “my youngest got her sister into the same band, and she likes one of the other ones. Plays bass. He’s too rough-lookin’ for my daughter. Arms covered in tattoos, he’s even got some on his face! She keeps dreamin’ about havin’ him for a boyfriend, but if she brought that home, there’s no way I’d approve. I’d scare him off with my rifle.”

Your heart is beating fast in your chest, and you realize what a small world it is. Or, you realize just how big Choso’s world must be now. So much bigger than he or any of the other members of his band could’ve ever imagined. For once in a lifetime, so rare and pure, are dreams that are fully realized.

“Gosh,” you respond when you realize you’ve been lost in your own revelations for too long, “that’s an…extreme response. You sound like my father, though.”

“Hm,” he responds, “I’m sure. Did your father approve of this lover of yours? The one that’s makin’ moves on you so fast and too soon?”

You lean back in your seat with your head hitting the headrest. It’s been years since you’ve felt like you’re being lectured or reprimanded for anything, but the feeling comes back to you at this moment as if no time had passed at all. No matter how old you get, you’ll never forget how humbling the feeling was when you thought you knew everything at eighteen, just to look back and realize you didn’t have a single clue.

You sigh. “No. He didn’t approve. Far from it.”

seven years ago. autumn.

chapter 2. the juvenile & the delinquent.

[to be continued]

a/n. eeeeeppp thank you very much for reading n supporting my new fic!! i hope you enjoyed :') still a lot more to uncover n unpack hahah i'm so nervous to start a new fic but i'm also very excited!!! i love choso sm but i also love nanami so this is gonna be interesting to write. also TYSM to everyone that wanted to be on taglist for this omg your support means the world to meeee. love you all sm.

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vetteltea · 2 months ago

Text

To Be Free | CL16

Summary: You had always dreamed that your creativity would take you further than you could ever imagine. You never in your wildest dreams imagine it would take you to Monaco [5.8K, A]

Warnings: Implied Smut, Charles Leclerc being a Red Flag

Note: Hi. I’m not dead, far from it. Thank you all for being so patient as I post my first piece in over a year. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to @a-distantdreamer for always being my cheerleader, to @vinvantae for getting my out of the mid-writing funk and @percervall for giving me the balls to post. I love you all.

In order for art to tell a story, it has to be free.

At least, that is what your creative design professor told you the week before your final project was due. It was hard to be creative in a mundane town full of the same people, conversations and routines. Every day you would wake up while your mother told a story about how ‘Jenny at the gym seems to have filled out again!’ Your father would grunt, tell you he would be home late from work, and slip out the door, half-drunk coffee on the table.

Maybe simply being creative was difficult because you were crammed into a squadron of children—three brothers, two sisters. You were never referred to as an individual; it was always ‘She’s one of their kids.’ Your friends at school only became that because of their established relationship with your family. Nothing irritated you more than when a teacher would call you by a sibling's name. You were your own person, or at least, trying to be. It didn’t matter what colour you dyed your hair or how loud the clothes were you wore; your identity was tied to them.

Art was an escape; everybody had insisted you would be the same as everybody else in that town. In the fullness of time, you would fit into a job where you were paid to sit at a desk and answer the same two questions: No, I don’t want a coffee. Yes, I sent that report over. Your story would end traditionally, with a wedding and children.

The thought of being just another figure in suburbia terrified you. It may have been the dream for so many, but it was not yours. Each piece of art you created seemed to come back to the beginning. A frown from your teacher. She had told you once to drive outside of the town, go to the lake behind the Old Manor House, and see how it makes you feel.

Being five miles away from your hometown had created the piece of art that had skyrocketed your grades. You could only wonder what being five thousand miles away from home would feel like. It was the push you needed, the metaphorical map to make you leave.

Overnight, you packed away your life in a suitcase, kissed your mother’s cheek farewell, and set out to be free.

It turns out that being free was a lot more expensive when you didn’t have a degree behind you like the rest of your family.

Something had led to Toulouse, the classified city of art and history. With the money you had saved, you had been able to manage a week in Paris. (It was terribly overrated in your opinion, and the only highlight had been the overpriced pair of ears and waffles at Disneyland, but you couldn’t live like an artist when you couldn’t sell art.)

You have to succumb, moving away from the capital and towards the south, wondering why you didn’t come here in the first place. There was something romantic, peaceful. Neighbours said hello, and something seemed to be happening on every corner, not just middle-aged women doing pilates or another school bake sale. (Bake sales were fine, just not when the one English-speaking cafe you now had a job in seemed to have one every three days.)

There were perks to working there: Tuesday and Sunday off, where you could sit by the Garonne with a set of pastel-half sticks that had been crammed into your suitcase. It was a view you could draw over and over, the deep blue twinkling in the afternoon sun. The contrast of the great greenery on each bank of the river made for a beautiful sight—maybe, in your opinion, a beautiful piece, too. Once or twice the locals had raised their eyebrows at the girl in a fluorescent jacket and mismatched trainers, arched over a sketchbook, but even they had stopped, paused to take in her artworks, and nodded approvingly. One woman had even placed a twenty-euro note at your left-hand side in exchange for one of the copious drawings in your book.

You didn’t understand all of their words, still picking up snatches of French each day (and Duolingo had been a welcome companion on your phone), but their smiles and points between the paper and the view were enough to confirm you of their satisfaction.

On the fourth Tuesday of your arrival, your position had adjusted slightly, setting up shop on the bridge rather than the greenery. You almost drop your pencil into the river when somebody stops behind you, humming in admiration. This piece was different; inspired by Lindsay Fox; softer colours, harsher lines in an almost marble effect.

The man says something in French, but you have to shake your head; it’s way beyond a 34-Day Streak for Duolingo. He smiles, understandingly, changing to speak in English.

“That’s a beautiful piece.” He pauses. “Is it your own style?” His accent is clearly from this area but seems almost more reformed and classier.

“It’s inspired by another artist.” You explain, never bothering to go into further detail; nobody ever understands beyond that. “But it’s my own take. I never get bored of this view.”

“Can I see more?” He asks.

You still find it strange; hearing people around the area speak English isn’t uncommon, but their few words are usually to tell you they like what you’re working on or to order a coffee. There’s a hint of worry in your body language when you pass over the sketchbook, but he’s careful, fingers gently turning the pages, pausing every few moments to take in one piece, gently following his fingers across the sketch lines.

“It’s incredible.” He insists, handing the book back. “Tell me, do you take commissions?”

You have to pause. Commissions had come so few and far between; since being here, you had managed to expand your portfolio. Sometimes, locals would ask you to do a sketch of them or their loved ones, returning later in the day to pick up the piece and marvel at the design. You can’t offer a straightforward answer, so you have to just nod.

For the first time, you look at him properly, too. Dark hair, tousled, and clearly in need of a cut. His eyes are the same colour as the river you draw almost every day, with mismatched dimples on each cheek. He’s beautiful.

“Perfect.” He nods, feeling in the pocket of his loose jeans for a pen. You raise your eyebrows, watching as he holds out his hand, nodding for you to give yours over. Hesitantly, you do, eyes fixed as he scribbles a number down on the back of your palm.

“Do you know how to get to Monaco from here?” He asks casually. You have to pause.

“Is Monaco nearby?” You ask, dumbfounded. It’s worth it, you decide. For the smile on his face that appears.

“A few hours away.” He clarifies. “Can you... do that? I can just show you a photo and come back myself, but... the place. It’s special to me. I’d like to see how you would interpret it in your style.”

A frown appears on his face when you don’t answer immediately.

“I can pay you an advance now.” The man insists. “Eighty? Ninety?”

You have to pause then. Eighty or ninety euros may seem minimal in some precautions, but that could buy your groceries for a week; it was practically a day’s work at the coffee shop for a piece of art.

“That would be perfect.” You smile. “I’m off next Sunday. Would that work for you?” You ask. He’s smiling now, nodding in confirmation.

“It would work for me.” He clarifies. “Text me over your bank details." He nods, watching as I reach for my phone, typing in his phone number. “I’ll send you the advance and we can arrange a meeting time.” He finishes, looking down to his watch; his footsteps draw away from you, giving a final nod, but then holds out his hand.

“Charles.” The man introduces himself with his name. You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, shaking it back, and giving your own name to him. “Nice jacket, by the way.” He adds.

You raise your eyebrows, looking at the deep brown leather jacket around your shoulders. It oddly complimented your black and white plaid dress and deep green boots, or so you thought. A grin appears on your face when you pull off the garment, taking in the prancing horse on the back.

“It's a Ferrari.” You explain. “Pretty unique, but people don’t seem to realise it. Found it in a second-hand store.”

“Honestly.” Charles grins. “Some people wouldn’t recognise a Ferrari if it came and shouted in their face.”

Sometimes you need to clarify details before agreeing to something with a complete stranger.

To begin, he hadn’t told you that he meant Monte Carlo; you were being asked to commission in the most expensive city in one of the most expensive countries in the world. You had taken a train out of Toulouse on Saturday evening after your shift, bustling through the crowded town of people on their way out to enjoy the weekend. Suitcase in hand, you had curled up in the corner of a carriage, watching as the ocean and scenery passed you by, practically falling into bed when you arrived at the last-minute hostal bed you had booked, bypassing the sounds of the noisy couple above you.

Secondly, ninety turned out to be an incredibly misleading number.

You had let out the oddest mix between a scream and a gasp when you checked your bank later on that evening, seeing that ninety-thousand euros had been sent over under C.LECLERC. It not only gave you a heart attack, knowing that money could keep you afloat for a lot longer than it would take saving from working in the cafe, but it also gave you a name.

Typing the name into your Google search later that evening had been like discovering a state secret. Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari. His face was plastered over your home screen, adorned in red fireproofs, atop a podium, in a car with aerodynamics you couldn’t even begin to understand.

Your stomach had twisted. A truly evil part of yourself had the idea of disappearing and never returning, ninety thousand euros richer. That money could lead to your freedom. But in your heart, you knew what you were. An artist, trying to path their way, and how would it look if you had disappeared after taking money from such a well-known being?

The train from Nice to Monte-Carlo is only forty minutes; before you know it, you’re stepping onto the train platform, mismatched converses in red and black complimenting the cherry red clip pinning back your hair. You had shoved the scrap of paper you had scribbled the meeting point on in your dungaree pocket, pulling it out and shuffling to the side of the platform. It’s only a short walk, but it’s made longer by the constant pauses, taking in the sight of the city. Extravagant, classy, old buildings piling up either side of the winding roads, peeks of an overcrowded harbour, boats that were worth more than you would ever make in your life on view. It was like walking around a movie scene; there was no other way to describe it.

The main character of the city is sitting at the bridge on the address, hands in his pockets, lips turning into a grin when he sees your figure, identical from the day back in Toulouse. Immediately, Charles has left his spot, smiling at your presence.

“You made it." He grins, starting to speak before your tone interrupts him.

“And you didn’t tell me who you were!” You exclaim, your moral compass falling over you. “Charles, I can’t accept that much.”

“I’m sorry?” He pauses. “I thought we discussed; that was just a pre-”

“It’s a pre-nothing!” You shake your head. “I’m not a proper artist—I can’t charge that much!”

“Really?” Charles pauses, nonchalantly. “You seem like a...proper artist to me. Your work is incredible.”

He doesn't give you time to argue further, offering his arm out and motioning to follow him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, falling into step alongside him. It suddenly makes sense; why is he keeping his head lower than when you originally met, keeping the sunglasses across his eyes? You want to try and make conversation; you want to feel less awkward than walking alongside a literal billionaire.

You don’t need to; he makes the conversation for you.

“Why Toulouse?” He asks, slowing down his pace, wanting to hear your answer. “Not many artists stay around the South of France for too long.”

“Paris was overrated.” You shrug, giving a completely honest answer. It doesn't hit you until you’ve said it that you had practically insulted the country where you were currently residing and your hand comes over your mouth in realization. “Oh my god, you’re not from Paris, are you?”

Charles is laughing. Something about your expressions made him grin. “You searched me up, but didn’t think to check where I was from?”

“I didn’t get to it.” You quip back. “I was kind of distracted by the fact you’re a multi-race winner in the biggest Motorsport in the world.”

“And you still didn’t recognise me on the bridge.” He pauses. “I’m from Monaco. I’m not French. Just…a lot of drivers live here.”

“A Tax-Haven, right?” Your personality comes through at long last, any sense of awkwardness washing away. “You set up camp here, but you’re not here most of the year, so... more money.” You can tell from the way Charles stays silent you’re banging on, correct in your guess.

“Monaco is my home, too. I am actually from here.”

Our pace slows as we reach a hill. The road is more prominent there, curving in a hairpin. Everything in its surroundings seems to complement it: the high buildings, the shrubbery, the bright red and white stripes outlining the road. Charles has frozen in his spot, and you can tell that this is the spot he was talking about. His commission. You can practically see the memories from track in his vision, almost as if he’s taking in every turn he’s ever made, every time he’s walked along this road since a toddler holding onto his mother's skirts.

“This is it.” You narrate for him. “This is your spot.”

He turns to you, eyes lifted, bright. “What do you think?” He asks, your own eyes still focused on the place.

“It’s beautiful.” You say it with sincerity. It is the way the entirety of Monaco, of its racing pedigree, seems to be captured in one shot. It almost feels too surreal; it almost feels as if you wouldn’t be able to do justice to this place with a mere canvas. “What kind of style?”

“That’s completely up to you.” Charles pauses. “Your creative style. How do you see this place? Because I think you see it the same way that I do, yes?”

“Yes.”

A lot can change in two weeks.

Your bedsit in Toulouse had been the biggest change; in the centre of the room was a large canvas, a curved road in the middle of the page clearly outlined. The sofa is littered with various paints, chalk, and pencils—a collage of rich reds, deep greens, and charcoal black.

The cafe hadn’t been forgotten; you had taken a sabbatical, insisting you needed two weeks—just two weeks—then you would be back to making overpowered coffee and refolding a newspaper four times in twenty minutes to place back on the front table.

Charles stays in contact; it’s a little difficult, within the midst of time zone differences and media releases. Sometimes it’s a text, and other times it's a video sent of where he is, insisting it would be good inspiration for your next portfolio piece. You don’t know how many times you have to explain it’s different; you need to feel it. Understand it further than a picture on the screen of your run-down phone. Sometimes it’s difficult to deny the flutter in your stomach when you receive one of these messages.

You get a FaceTime call on the Saturday night of his current race weekend in Barcelona. The weather is cloudy and there’s already been engine issues on his teammates home turf; Charles was frowning when he originally joined the call. Clearly a weak qualifying was looming in his head.

“Hey.” You’re starting the conversation, a paintbrush tucked behind your ear, a colourful shirt misbuttoned. “Is everything alright?”

“I just wanted to see how it was going.” Charles explains. “I mean, the painting—and well, you obviously. Did you find a chocolate pastry in the end this morning? I know you were craving one.”

A smile falls to your lips; in the midst of a race weekend with no luck, no speed, and no chance of getting into Q3, he has still found time to check in, lying back in the stupidly expensive sheets of his hotel bed, stubble and hair both overgrown, the buttons of his Ferrari Polo discarded, golden chest peeking outwards.

“It’s…going.” You shrug, “I want to do it justice—to find the colours and style that just...” One hand moves in a dramatic gesture. Charles nods understandingly as you continue your rant. “I’ve gone back there three times since the original visit, you know?”

A smirk appears on the driver’s face. “And you didn’t bother to let me know?”

“You were in Canada. You’re also my client; I want to make sure it’s what I promised.” You insist, walking back over to the array of shade pallets on your couch, fingers reaching down to select your third red chalk of the afternoon. Charles is content to watch your eyes focus, the nudge of the camera indicating you were rotating through your next tool.

“Hey.” His tone causes you to turn your attention back to the camera. “Do you want to see something cool?”

“I always want to see something cool.” You grin, watching as Charles sits himself up from his bed, the sound of his bare feet padding against the tiles of his Mediterranean hotel room. There’s telltale signs of his presence in the background: the phone charger by the mirror, the watch he had worn the first time you met him in Toulouse, a bundle of friendship bracelets, lovingly made by the Tifosi.

None of it, however, compares to when he lifts his phone, skin glowing in the soft sun, and flips the camera around to portray his balcony view.

The sight of Barcelona in the deep sun from Charles’ phone makes your heart stop. The sky a deep blue you crayoned as a child, roads twisting into an abstract stroke of tar and coloured dots of various sporting cars. There’s bright greens, specks of colour from the greenery. In the distance, you can still hear the ocean and the lapping of the waves.

You’ve always been clear that before you commit to creating art, you want to see the place and feel the place first. There’s almost certainty in your mind that the rule can be relaxed for the view you’re currently experiencing.

“It’s beautiful.” You finally whisper, after a full five minutes of transfixing through the phone screen.

“I’ll take you here one day.” Charles insists. “Paints and all.”

He doesn't miss the way your eyes flicker to the side, the pink that decorates your cheeks and matches the ribbon tying back your fringe whilst you work.

Monte-Carlo on the Saturday evening before the Monaco Grand Prix is an experience like no other.

Charles had pleaded to send a car to collect you from France, despite the fact the journey would have been faster by train—a whole two hours faster. In the end, the compromise is a ticket that would keep you safe and well-looked after in the First Class carriage. While you reclined in the leather seat, a high-end soda on your table, a canvas wrapped in brown paper, secured with nimble string, was nestled at your side.

You were certain you had spent an entire hour just…staring when it was completed. In your hearts, it was certainly your most intricate and perfect piece. A part of you could have spent the rest of eternity just staring at the landscape, the rest of your bedsit out of focus while you were transported back to that road in Monaco. It helps the mental stimulation that had overpowered you for the weeks; how you had spent an evening comparing your books on Sylvia Hikins’ minute but powerful detail and the reflection work of Dmity Oleyn.

It’s not a huge walk to Charles’ apartment from the train station; what makes it longer is the amount of racing fans, clad in bright red, papaya orange, or deep blue. A cacophony of colours lines the streets of Monte-Carlo, attention diverted to the paddock nestled alongside the arbor. Your heart rate increases as the crowds become thicker, desperately trying to keep your packaged painting away from nudges and knocks.

It’s only when you reach the edge of the city that the crowds loosen a little and there’s a chance for you to slide out your phone, thumb-tapping in the address on Google Maps, a reminder of your first encounter with Charles almost three weeks ago.

There was in fact no need for this in the end. You’re not sure which event takes place first: your map location updating to announce you were less than a one-minute walk from your destination or the shout from above you. Instinctively, your head turns upwards, feeling the long braid of hair fall down your back and locating the source of the noise as a smile beams from your mouth.

There’s two figures on the balcony, both leaning over the glass barriers. One is shorter, a mass of dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses, waving wildly to gain your attention. The other is blessed with brown hair and instantly turns from the balcony when he sees your figure.

A minute later, the door to the complex in front of you is opening, your client grinning as he steps out from the foyer, feet covered in just socks as he hops down the path to you. Maybe it’s the soft sunset, or the way his oversized tee shirt makes the muscles peeking from his arms look even more defined. You’re certain Charles Leclerc could look beautiful by any means necessary.

He doesn't give you time to process these thoughts any further as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, clearly in high spirits from his home race weekend.

“Is that for me?” He grins, eyes widening at the parcel as you shake your head.

“No.” You hum. “I just tend to carry around a giant square wherever I go.” You grin, looking down to your own outfit, then to his own. “Are you sure I’m in the right city? I feel very overdressed compared to the people in sports shirts.”

“You look perfect.” He insists, his arm falling from your shoulder to your bicep. “Come on. Come up and meet everybody.”

“I’m sorry?” You falter. “You want me to come and meet-“

“Please?” His hand falls lower, fingers tracing around your wrist as he slowly connects your palms together. “I want to introduce them to you. Put a name to a face.”

The insistence is good, and you refuse to move your hand away when he entwines your fingers together, praying that you aren’t going to drop the painting or your jaw from the unexpected intimacy.

The smile only grows on this face when you nod, letting him slip your threaded backpack from your shoulder, guiding you into the foyer.

The painting reveal goes…incredibly well.

Four hours ago, you had been led up to his apartment, introduced as ‘The next Van Gogh.’ He gives you a few moments to introduce yourself, noting to you that this wasn’t the entity of his group; you would meet some more faces tomorrow, should they be celebrating. When somebody had opened their mouth to argue that if you were really that good, you should have been nicknamed after Leonardo DaVinchi. Charles only grins when he gives his response.

“But DaVinchi was never a landscape painter like my girl, was he?”

You’re lucky enough to get to watch the reaction of several Monegasques seeing one of the most iconic portraits of their country come to life. There’s applause, cheers, and for the first time in your life, you feel like an artist. Not just somebody who places pencil and pastel to paper, hoping for the best. Your eyes can’t even focus on the work; the colours and strokes entwine into one. No, they fall to Charles; blinking back the tears, he's... overcome. You saw his vision. You got his understanding. You understood him.

He doesn't hold back from walking over to you, arms wrapping and squeezing you oh-so-tightly, applauding and thanking you over and over for your work.

In the remaining three hours and thirty-eight minutes since the reveal, there had been celebrations, soft drinks, and music. Your attention has been completely stolen by a golden dachshund—Leo, somebody tells you—who licks your ankle and insists on being lifted. Do you spend the rest of the gathering with the puppy in your arms? Quite possibly.

When the group dies down, Leo is placed in his sofa spot, chewing on one of his toys, occupied whilst you take the opportunity to look over the lights of the city—lights of buildings twinkling along the shoreline, a clear sky enveloped in black, how the deep blue of the ocean in the harbour is illuminated by the streetlamps.

You’re so engrossed that you jolt when you feel a hand on your back, before a string of apologies and a soft laugh fall from Charles’ lips. A comfortable silence settles for a moment before he speaks again, looking back over the skyline.

“I used to look out over the harbour when I was young.” He explains. “After I had a bad race or lost on something... I knew my home would always welcome me back.”

“It is quite beautiful.” You hum, shuffling from the open-aired area and back into the lounge. Your art piece now hangs in pride on the wall, next to a silver trophy. His first win, one of his friends had told you when they had caught you staring.

Both of you stare at the trophy and then the art piece, and the smile crawls back onto Charles’ face. Before he can fall into an endless spiral of gratitude again, you have to speak.

“Did you always want to be a racing driver?” You ask. Charles nods.

“It’s a part of me, no? Like I believe that being an artist is a part of you.” His expression softens as his vision finally meets the side of your cheek. “I want to know the other parts of you, too.”

It’s enough to make you turn your head from the view, and for the first time all evening, you see Charles. The same one you had seen at the hairpin turn all those weeks ago. Slowly, his hand comes back out, gently circling your wrist. You swear the entirety of Europe could feel your heartbeat, most certainly the man in front of you.

“I want to know about these paintings you love.” He murmurs. “About the necklace you always wear and why your eyes sparkle when you see open water.” His forehead skims across your own, noses bumping, lips dangerously close as his hand moves from your wrist, dancing up your arm, holding your chin.

“Will you come to the race tomorrow?” He asks softly.

Words seem almost incomprehensible until you softly breathe out. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes; the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he surges forward, finally pressing his lips to yours. The world seems almost right; everything finally makes sense; you don’t need to be free to create art; you just need to be found. Found by a man who understood art on the banks of France. Who understood the tri-colour shirts you wore on a phone call? Who understood you?

You had never felt more found then when your lips pressed back into his and he softly guided you back into his bedroom.

Being found washed over you for the next fifteen hours.

You had rolled out of the Navy Blue bed sheets that morning after a deep slumber, wrapped up against Charles’ bare body. Any detailing of his room had been completely bypassed when you had sauntered through his apartment, the top he had been wearing the previous night covering your frame.

Part of you is disappointed to see his golden torso now covered by a scarlet shirt as he bends down to give Leo his water bowl, humming in contentment as his puppy excitedly laps at the water. The happiness only grows further when he reaches back up, arms opening to envelope you into his chest, a hand threading into the back of your head as he tucks you into his neck.

“I didn’t expect you to be up so soon.” He murmurs. “Did I wake you?”

“Leo did.” You grin. “But I could never be mad at that face.” You insist, feeling Charles’ chest vibrate with laughter. Eventually, the hands on your hips have to pull away, a soft kiss being pressed to your hairline.

“Joris is going to be here in a couple of hours to bring you and Leo to the track.” He hums. “I left your Paddock Pass next on top of the mantelpiece. Otherwise the raptor would have chewed it.” He grins, his smile dropping when he sees you look out of the window, towards the track layout. “I’ll… You’re still coming?” He asks curiously.

“I am.” You smile. “I said I would.”

True to your word, you do so. True to his word, Joris appears at Charles’ apartment door one hour and a bit later. He greets you pleasantly enough, asking how you found Monaco and congratulating you again on your art piece. When he goes to collect Leo into his arms, the puppy backs away, sniffing at your legs as he practically demands to nestle back into your arms. You can’t help but laugh, letting him nuzzle into your chest.

Joris says nothing, but when he leads you to his car and you’re reunited with the group of friends who would be attending the race in the Paddock, he makes sure that he takes Leo so that you can enjoy the conversation with the remaining people in the group.

The conversation flows freely and happily, only interrupted when the puppy begins to bark, pulling on his lead towards a figure in front of the group. A beautiful, slender figure dressed in soft pink, dark hair glossy and neat, a smile worth a million stars as she steps in time with Charles.

Joris laughs as he lets go of the lead, and Leo goes bouncing over to the figure, clearly recognising her. When she stands back up, the puppy in her grasp, and steps closer to Charles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, your stomach immediately drops.

Charles’ own eyes flicker to you for a split second. He’ll never erase the look that was washed over your face when the girl nudges him softly, telling the group that her Charles must have slept well the previous night, which he never usually does before a race day.

Part of you—a strong, passionate part of you as deep and as powerful as the paints in your works—wants to scream out and tell this woman that her Charles had been wrapped up in your hot touch less than twenty-something hours ago. That he had whispered in your ear as his hips rolled against yours, that he had told you soft stories of a promised future together as you had found rest in his arms.

In such a short amount of time, you had allowed yourself to be chained, to be latched into a rope of feeling from the beautiful man who had approached you in a city that was almost perfect. If it had been perfect, the man would have walked to you, squeezed your hand, and gently kissed you again. Instead, his hand finds the woman’s hip, walking with the rest of the group whilst you falter behind, barely giving a second glance, slipping away from the gaggle of conversation, unseen.

As Charles climbs into his car that afternoon, you slide the keys to your bedsit into a small envelope, leaving a wad of cash and an apology note for leaving your contract so early.

In order for art to tell its story, it has to be free.

Charles returns to Toulouse on Monday morning, low on the P8 result he had received the afternoon before and the way his girlfriend had kissed his cheek and told him not to worry, that his luck would change. All whilst she whispered praises into his lips, caught in a kiss at the back of some overpriced club, his mind is overpowered by the thoughts of you, as bright as the landscapes in your sketchbook.

He has to explain. He longs to pull you into his arms and tell you he meant what he said. When he arrives, he looks everywhere. In every art shop, every park, every museum. He remembers you mentioning a part-time job in a cafe. On his ninth attempt, he freezes when he steps through the entrance, the chime of a bell hitting the front foot in mid-ring when he sees a landscape displayed proudly on the wall.

He doesn't need to ask. Feet come over to the counter as he looks over. Two girls. Neither of them are you. One of them turns around and smiles nicely enough, asking what the man would like to order.

“The woman who painted that.” He nods to the picture of the Garrone. “Where did she go?” It’s clear the girl behind the counter knows something and bites down on her lip to stay silent. It only takes one more pleading look from Charles before the words spill from her lips.

“She’s gone. Left the city on Sunday.” She pauses. “She’s gone to be free. I don’t think she’ll be back."

Charles feels his heart crack as harshly as the damages in Manet sculpture on your phone screen wallpaper. Your story insisted on you being free. After all, you had been the art. The piece where no matter what he saw for the rest of his existence, he would never be able to forget.

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obsessedwithtoomanythings · 1 year ago

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Sweet Tooth (NSFW)

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, he absolutely is all over her, jokes about breeding and pregnancy, talk of oral (f receiving), Leon’s fingers go places, swearing probably.

Words: 530 (v short, I just wanted to get SOMETHING out for you guys)

A/N: So I saw these Eating HCs today for Leon from @ichigo-dream and I was obsessed. I didn’t have a whole lot of time as most of my writing power has been dedicated to 3 fics I am SO excited about; but yeah! A lil something!

Also my requests are open, it may just take some time for me to get to things! ❤️

*gif not mine. Found on Tenor*

Days like these? These are the best kinds of days. Leon’s home, wrapped up in some kind of paperwork on the couch, but he’s home. I pull the tray of cupcakes out of the oven, dreading frosting them for this stupid party my cousin was hosting. Thankfully, I don’t have to stay at said party, but having to make 4 dozen cupcakes all within a few hours is frustrating to say the least.

“Ah no!” I yell as I turn to see Leon eyeballing one of the cupcakes. “Absolutely not!”

“Why? Just one?” He pleads, a slight pout on his gorgeous features and I roll my eyes.

“Sorry babe, but I am only making enough to send with Kim.” It may have been a bit mean to only make enough for what she needs, knowing about the agent’s overwhelming sweet tooth, but it honestly slipped my mind when I started them this morning. I turn to grab the piping bag when I hear a low whistle from Leon. “What’s up, agent?”

“I didn’t know you owned shorts like that.” When I finally look back over my shoulder, his blue eyes are locked on my ass, the bottoms of my cheeks spilling out of the bottom.

“They’re just at-home-shorts. Not like I wear them anywhere.” Do not tell him what your best friend dubbed these shorts. I begin piping green frosting onto the soft cake, but as soon as I lift the tool away, a hand slaps quickly over my ass and I gasp. Leon’s strong arms wrap around my waist, tugging me against what I can tell is a speedily rising erection.

“You gotta change outta those shorts, Princess, or they’ll be around your ankles by lunch.” His husky tone sends a chill down my spine as my back arches on it’s own accord, his hot breath tickling my ear.

“Don’t you have work to do?” I tease, trying to draw his attention elsewhere.

“I did. But then I smelt something sweet in here that I’m apparently not allowed to have.” Soft lips pepper kisses along the column of my throat before his teeth lightly sink into the flesh. “So I need to find another snack.”

“Leon, baby, I only have a couple more hours to finish these,” I argue, but it’s no use, his fingers sliding into the elastic band of the shorts and pushing them to the ground. Wrapped around my ankles.

“Well, maybe my girl should have thought about that before she went teasing me with these sexy little shorts.” He presses his hand down to cup my sex through my panties before he clearly has a realization. “Wait, are these the shorts your friend called the ‘get me pregnant’ shorts?” My cheeks heat up as two of his fingers rub teasing circles over my clit through my panties.

“It was a joke, babe,” I mutter, head dropping back to rest on his shoulder at the stimulation.

“Well, joke or not, now you have a choice.” Oh god, what is this little shit planning? “You can let me ‘get you pregnant’ or you can let me get my sugar fill by letting me eat this sweet little pussy.”

Fuck. Tough choices.

*****

Tags: (tag list is open)

Leon: @house-of-kolchek @bonnibuckets @athanasia-day @muffimtv

Everything: @chaosandbubbles @kassiekolchek22

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy smut

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imaginecolby · 10 months ago

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a tiny scare || c.b.

summary: while on an investigation with sam and colby, you decide to play a harmless prank on them requested by anonymous. imagine this taking place during the video snc did at celina's home.

“alright, that was the main house. i’m gonna take you guess to the guest house now.” celina said. kris followed closely behind her, then sam, and you and colby were bringing up the rear.

“you doing okay?” colby asked you, draping his arm over your shoulder.

“yeah! i think being with such a big group has settled my nerves.” you said, leaning into his side. this was your first investigation trip you’d taken with sam and colby in a good while, so you’d been a bit nervous.

“good. i don’t want to put you you in anything that may make you uncomfortable.” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

you arrived at celina’s guest house, after a bit of a trek through the woods.

“alright, one of us has to explore the woods alone tonight.” sam blurred out, camera flipping towards the dark expanse of woods. silently, everyone placed their fingers on the tips of their nose. unfortunately, you didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.

“aw, dammit.” you sighed, stomping your food. “i need to just start leaving my hand on my face for times like this.” you joked.

you walked around celina’s guest house for a bit while she showed you around, and telling you about experiences she’d heard her friends tell her about. you had a bit of an uneasy feeling while you walked around, but it subsided.

once you were done in the house, the five of your stepped out onto the porch. you all stared silently out into the woods.

“you don’t actually have to go, if you don’t want to.” sam said, putting down the camera.

“no, it’s okay. i came on this trip to have the experience, and this is part of it.” you said, taking the extra camera from colby. you turned it on, along with the light, and made your way into the forest.

as you walked deeper and deeper into the trees, your group getting smaller and quieter the more you walked. you were scared at first, mainly due to you being alone in the woods. but after a while, you started to feel a bit more comfortable. there was really no paranormal reasons for you to be scared, and you were felling a bit of comfort being able to talk to the camera in front of you. you were no longer vulnerable, and actually feeling quite good.

so good, in fact, you decided you were going to play a little prank on your friends. by this time, you were already far enough out of ear shot that they wouldn’t hear you talking to the camera.

“yeah, like i said. i don’t really think anything is out here. or, at least not anything that wants to talk to me.” you said to the camera. “that being said, im in a silly goofy mood, and i want to get everyone back for making me do this.” you laughed into the lens. you took a few more steps before stopping you took a deep breath, entirely filling your lungs before letting out the loudest scream you could muster up. you stood there for a bit before you started to make your way out of the woods. the closer you got to the clearing where the guest house was, you heard your name being called. you put on your best “scared” expression before you were met with colby’s face. his face was pale white, and his eyes were as wide as golf balls.

“oh no, now i fell bad.” you thought to yourself as he pulled you into his arms.

“oh, im so glad you’re okay! we heard this scream, and we didn’t know if that was you.” he said, peppering kisses along your cheeks and forehead. “did you hear it?” he asked, hands still flush against your cheeks. you swallowed hard before answering.

“no? it was dead silent the whole time i was out there.” you lied through your teeth.

“seriously? you didn’t hear anything? it was the loudest scream ever.” sam said to you, the camera pointing in your direction. you just shook your head, committing to your lie.

the rest of the night everyone was on edge. you for a different reason from the rest of the group, but still.

a few weeks passed, and you were sitting in the living room of sam and colby’s house, a book in your lap while the boys were editing. they were editing the video you filmed at celina’s home. you were startled out of the chapter you were reading when you heard colby calling out for you upstairs.

“down here!” you called back, setting your book down. “what’s up?” you asked as he sat on the couch with you. he handed you his phone, pressing play on the video that was on his screen. you stared down at your face smiling back at you, the clip of your scream beginning to play. colby looked at you without saying anything, swiping to the next video on his phone. it was a clip from sam’s camera, footage taken at the same time as yours. he pressed play, the same scream heard in the background. you avoided his gaze, knowing that you would fold as soon as you opened your mouth.

“you wanna tell me what this is?” he asked, and you just shook your head.

“i think you already know.” you said quietly, suppressing a laugh.

“why would you do this to me? i've been worried about you the whole time since we been back, thinking that something happened to you that you’ve been avoiding talking about.”

“i’m sorry.” you spilled. “i felt guilty as soon as you came up to me that night, but i didn’t want to admit to it at the time.” you laughed uncomfortably. “but that’s what you get when you play nose goes without calling nose goes!”

colby just laughed and rolled it eyes. “you've been with me long enough to expect that from us.”

“yeah, but it’s still not fair when you don’t actually call nose goes.”

“okay, but we told you that you didn’t have to do it if you didn’t want to.”

“but then i wouldn’t have been able to plan my devious prank.” you laughed.

“oh, okay.” he said sarcastically.

“i didn’t mean to worry you.” you said, taking his hand in yours. “i really just meant for it to be a harmless little jokey joke.”

“it’s okay. i just felt like i need to protect you. i know you don’t need my protection, but i always want to be there for you. especially when you may have been going through something that happened while i was around, or during an investigation. i’d feel responsible, and so guilty.” he said.

“i know, and i hear you. i will always appreciate that you’re always quick to want to protect me.”

“i love you.” he said, lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“i love you.” you repeated, flashing him a smile. he leaned over and pressing a few kisses to your lips before getting up from the couch and leaving you back to your book.

#colby brock #colby brock imagine #colby brock fanfic #colby brock fanfiction #colby brock imagines #colby brock x reader

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bunnivez · 5 months ago

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Modern! Zoya…

Her first job was as a tattoo artist. Most of her costumers were women, they would specifically ask for her to do their tattoos; both because of her amazing work and the other… to get a close look at her. Whats better? Zoya is aware of the many women she is pulling (๑>؂•̀๑)

Imagine you two meet randomly bumping against each other and turns out you work at the shop right next to the one she works at!

Or you got recomendad by your friend to go to a certain shop to get your tattoo done, telling you to specifically ask for a woman named Zoya since her work is more professional and she is more trusted to give you great results.

She used to live in an apartment until she got a husky… I mean she it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford an average house but damn, she now has to pay more…

Has a love-hate relationship with her dog TRUST. Often complains of their sudden howling and the amount of hair they shed.

“It’s 1:30AM why the fuck are you howling like that!? You sound like you’re dying!” “Oh my f… You know i’m tempted in leaving you bald so I don’t have to deal with having your hair on the couch.”

At the same time however, they are also her best buddy and friend. There are times where she even lets them sleep with her on bed… For at least an hour before Zoya falls asleep and accidentally pushes s them off the bed in the middle of the night.

Yes she is a messy sleeper, god knows how the heck she ends up with on leg on the headboard and the other hanging on the bed. She snores like a dad…

Like even her huskey got scared for a second and kept barking until she woke up.

Listen, when going out she has this whole badass outfit, rings on her fingers, chains, unbuttoned blouse, a whole ass fit that screams “DADDY”

And then there are times where she just pulls up to the grocery store with an “Idgaf” outfit… Yet somehow she still looks hot. Jorts, a black baggy shirt, socks with the damn sandals or crocs combo (ಠ_ಠ)

Has a tongue piercing and you cannot tell me otherwise. If not, it is definitely her nipples.

Dark or alcohol filled chocolates girly. She isn’t a fan of overly sweet stuff.

Once choked on boba balls.

Honestly she can be romantic at times. She takes you to dates often— if not she plans something you two can do at home. Like cook, watch movies, play games or something.

Motorcycle rides with her are very common, more so with the fact that she doesn’t really own a car… Which she did confess that she may or may not be the best at driving.

Who knows how the heck she managed to stay alive with the many incidents she’s had while driving.. I guess she’s immortal.

Has an electric guitar, she posts videos on TikTok playing it and they get pretty high views! Like 406.1k views or something.

Her reposts mainly contain of two things; brain rots, lesbian.

Takes the most silly pictures of you and posts them on her story.

Source ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

HAHAHSGSBSGAVAWHABE, IMAGINE HER LAYING DOWN WHILE YOU SIT ON TOP OF HER TO DO HER MAKEUP.

Holds you like a stuffed animal when sleeping. It’s actually so cute but it’s kinda hard to break free from her hold.

YOU GUYS PLAY ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS, AND WHOEVER LOSES IS IN CHARGE OF COOKING.

Her cooking is actually pretty damn good! I feel like she is especially a specialist when it comes to cooking meat.

If you are too shy to order your food whenever you two are out, or pay, DO NOT WORRY, SHE LITERALLY IS YOUR SAVIOR, NO KIDDING. This woman gives no fucks at all, too shy to order? She’ll do it, hot your order wrong? She’ll go up and tell them.

Have I mentioned she gets up at 5AM just to do pushups?…

The type to randomly smack or grab your ass, she doesn’t care about the size.

I don’t recommend watching romance movies with her… she will cringe at any kissing scenes acting like she wouldn’t or doesn’t do that with you 24/7.

Not the best at dancing… Girl is STIFF.

I have the feeling she is the type to not admit that she is in pain during her period. She will act all tough and all until she can’t anymore.

(We need more comforting the ptn women on their period instead of the other way around, they also need comfort 😔)

Oh yeah did I also mention she was close to breaking your phone once? It all happened when you were scrolling through TikTok and saw a thirst trap (*cough* Rhea Ripley *cough*) and when I tell you grabbed your phone and threw it… IT HAPPENED.

Says she hates kids but has a soft spot for them actually. They remind her of Horo when she was wayyy younger.

Randomly sends you weird TikToks…. Like it’s so random and she says nothing about it.

She isn’t a fan of dresses, but she once tried it for you and it was a sight. It hugged her curves right and she kept flexing her muscles. If you take any pictures she seriously will kill you. (Especially if you send them to her friends).

If you are out she WILL text and call you every 36 minutes if she can’t come with you. And if she is too busy to pick you up she will face time you on your way home.

Has like so many posters of her favorite bands, korn, kiss, Deftones, ect.

Randomly gives you kisses when you least expect it. They are so random, you could be distracted and she will kiss your cheek, or your forehead, or the top of your head.

If she sees anyone eyeing you while in public she will pull you close and give the person a nasty look.

#path to nowhere #ptn #ptn x reader #path to nowhere x reader #ptn zoya #path to nowhere zoya #zoya path to nowhere #zoya ptn #zoya x reader #ptn zoya x reader #zoya

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hazelsmirrorball · 1 year ago

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Undercover Spider-Woman | Hazel Callahan

Spider-woman! Hazel Callahan x fem! Reader, loser! Hazel x Fem! Reader Summary: PJ decides to do a Fight Club Halloween Party and Hazel has no choice but to wear her superhero costume. Warnings: english isn’t my main language, not proof-read,fighting, spicy? a/n: first bottoms imagine! Hope you guys like it, I’ll probably do more parts and I might do more Hazel one shots! I really hope I’m not shadow banned! Thank you

part two

October 31s, Halloween. A perfect excuse for teenagers to get drunk out of their minds while dressing up without being judged. Couples would go in matching costumes or go to haunted houses. Little kids would go trick or treating and the fight club, well they were making this halloween one to remember. Usually people would hang out, go to parties but since this year October 31st came around a week day, those plans were out of the picture. Plus adding to the fact that none of them were that popular to be invited to a party , excluding Brittney, Isabel and Y/n. The fight club, specifically PJ, made it their mission to make this halloween one for the books.

Hazel could hear the faint music playing from inside the gym as she paced back and forth debating if it even was a good idea to stumble in these conditions. She could risk everything she had been hiding so well since sophomore year for a party. Hazel took a deep breath taking her mask off and pushing it inside her bag as she felt her bangs covering her face. She anxiously licked her lips feeling the metallic flavor overpowering her tongue as she hesitated to push open the big gym doors. Her glove covered hands hovered against the door as she thought if it was a good idea to go inside in the first place.

What was PJ’s wonderful idea of making Halloween one for the books, you may ask? Fight Club with costumes. She made it her mission to sell the idea really well, but who wouldn’t like to have girls fighting in slutty costumes, heaven on earth,or at least that’s what PJ said.

Hazel didn’t have anything against the party, she loved the idea of hanging out with her friends on halloween. She finally clicked with a group of friends good enough to celebrate a holiday together. Hazel was ecstatic, she had made it her mission to make the perfect Anakin Skywaker costume, which she had succeeded perfectly. She had slept the night before with her costume freshly dry cleaned next to her. But her plans got destroyed when Green Goblin decided to show up and ruin her day by turning the city into his playground. Who would’ve known that Halloween was going to be a crime filled day. Hazel had managed to leave everything in perfect conditions with ease leaving just in time for the party. But just not in time for her to change out of her suit into her Anakin costume.

So that’s how she found herself waiting outside of the gym doors in her spider woman suit. Her face was covered in bruises from the fight before and her hair was sweaty and messy due to it being stuck in her suit for a long time. It wasn’t that she looked bad in her suit, it gave her power, made her unrecognizable. She wasn’t that nerdy little girl that people would stomp over. She was a badass that saved the world. She was a good superhero and she looked good doing her job. The red and blue suit would drive people crazy. She had even caught PJ and Josie gushing over her on a daily basis, but what if it slipped?

The suit wasn’t one of those cheap costumes you could find in a store for under 30 dollars. It was a high tech suit that could kill someone in an instant and wearing that suit for a fight club meeting drove her insane. She worried on a daily basis that she could easily murder a girl with a blink of an eye, but now, with her suit on, it just made things even more difficult. Wall crawling, superhuman strength, speed, reflexes, spider senses, spiderwebs and healing factors, all open for everyone to see.

Hazel took one last breath while pushing the doors open. She let out a cough as smoke filled her nostrils, taking her by surprise. As she looked around, she noticed the usual bright lights of the gym were now red while smoke came from a smoke machine not far away from the door. Hazel chuckled, feeling the nerves quickly ease off, as she looked at her friends standing near a makeshift snack table. PJ did outdid herself.

“Well look who decided to finally show up... Wait, is that the costume you made? Dude I actually thought you were going to do a crappy Anakin costume like last year. You have improved so much, this shit is so fucking cool, way better than the store one’s” PJ said as she pushed down her sunglasses to take a better look. Hazel let out a nervous chuckle thinking of what words to say, but nothing came out. She looked at PJ taking in her costume, noticing the familiar men and black, lanyard hanging from her black suit pocket.

“It makes you look super hot, Hazel! You even have an ass!” Sylvie exclaimed, taking off her scream mask while biting onto her fake knife. Hazel blushed, hiding her face behind her hands. If she had one more comment directed her way she was going to lose it.

“No, but like PJ is right. This looks really good. How did you even make this look so good? It looks like the real thing.” Josie added as she circled Hazel around taking in her costume. Hazel's eyes wandered as she shook her head, scoffing.

“Please, how would you even know what it looks like, if you haven’t seen the real one.” Hazel said as she took a cup of punch gulping it down to ease her nerves. She wasn’t going to outlive this night.

“Because Y/n bought a Spider-Woman costume and it looks like shit compared to yours. No offense, Y/n. Your ass still looks good though. ” PJ yelled, pointing at Y/n, who was standing a few feet away from her.

Her body was adorned with a tight low quality version of the suit Hazel was wearing. But Hazel found herself staring in awe, not being able to move one bit. Hazel scanned every inch of Y/n Osborn's body taking a mental picture of her to remember in the future.

Y/n Osborn had been Hazel’s crush ever since she understood what liking someone more than friends meant. She was Hazel’s everything, yet she wasn’t aware of that. They shared countless classes together but Hazel couldn’t even address her without turning into a nervous wreck. Fight Club had changed Hazel’s opportunities, when she had seen Y/n walk through those gym doors, she knew that at least a friendship would come out and she wasn’t completely wrong. Y/n did talk to Hazel, but Hazel didn’t talk back. She managed to mumble responses but that was about it. When it came to Y/n, Hazel felt like she was never bitten by a radioactive spider and that she was the same loser she had been all her life.

But now seeing her in that outfit, wearing her iconic colors. Her hair moved softly because of the wind that came from the smoke machine. The red light outlining her body made Hazel go insane, she really was not surviving October 31st but if she didn’t she was going to leave with that image of Y/n engraved in the back of her head.

“Shut up, PJ! It’s not my fault that this was the only thing that they were selling.I didn’t know that Hazel was going to show up in a better quality looking costume. I thought it looked good in the costume” Y/n muttered as she placed down a bag full of candy on the table. Brittany tapped her back for support as the rest of the girls looked back and forth between the two Spider-woman costumes.

“You know what! Since we are all here, let’s get to business” Josie said as she walked towards the makeshift fighting mat that was in the middle of the gym. The girls followed close behind leaving Y/n and Hazel near the table. Y/n leaned down as searched for something in her bag which didn’t go unnoticed by Hazel. She took a deep breath quickly biting her lip before she could say something that could worsen the situation. As she looked for a notebook and a pen for notes, her eyes never left Y/n’s body. She took all the strength in her body to walk towards her and place her hand on Y/n’s lower back leaning with her. Hazel lips lightly grazed on her ear as she felt Y/n’s body tensed as she gripped harder on the thing she was searching for in her tote bag.

“I think you look fucking hot in that costume.” Hazel responded by tapping her back and moving away towards the group of girls like nothing. Y/n gulped, taken aback by Hazel’s actions not used to this side of her. She cleared her throat jogging towards the girls sitting in between Josie and Sylvie, avoiding the hungry look Hazel was giving her. If Hazel knew that wearing the suit with Y/n was going to change the way she acted with her, she would’ve worn it to school years ago.

“Well, let’s make this fun. Spider-Woman vs. Cheap Spider-girl” PJ exclaimed pushing Hazel out of her thoughts as she noticed Y/n groan and get up glaring at her. Hazel followed standing in front of her, but different from the other times she fought with her, she didn’t break eye contact with her sending her a cocky smile.

"Could you please drop it already, PJ? I get it, it's a shitty costume" Y/n muttered, as she sent a glare towards PJ, trying to avoid Hazel's haunting gaze.

PJ shook her off, wiggling her eyebrows while pointing towards Hazel. Y/n quickly adverted her eyes towards her noticing how Hazel slipped her mask on up to her nose making it possible for her to see her pearly whites. Y/n raised an eyebrow, confused by the sudden change in Hazel’s actions, used to the girl being deadly afraid of looking her in the eye. The girl that was used to being a blushing mes with her stood tall smirking down at her. Before Y/n could even process what was going let alone swing a punch, she felt her body smash against the floor, her body being pinned down by Hazel.

Hazel's thighs pinched her into place making it impossible for her to move. Hazel hands pushed Y/n's hands on top of her head as she leaned towards her. Hazel’s chain slowly moved up and down Y/n’s face as she struggled to get Hazel's body off hers, she had done it before, why was it so hard now? Seeing Hazel in this new angle made her nervous. Her once sweet eyes were full of something Y/n couldn’t describe, Hazel’s agitated breaths made her loose concentration as her masked eyes scanned her face with a proud grin on her face. She wanted to punch that cocky grin out of her face.

“Oh, see, the cheap costume is losing. Punch her already, Hazel! End her.” PJ exclaimed, clapping, making Hazel chuckle. The other girls yelled at Hazel encouraging her to finish the job. Maybe it was the sudden glory she felt, the suit, the hollers and Y/n being under her in her suit, made Hazel feel like one of her dreams was finally coming through. The things she kept hidden in her bedroom was finally happening.

Y/n noticed how Hazel was far gone taking advantage off this already pissed out of her mind. Y/n wrapped her leg around Hazel’s waist taking her by surprise. She quickly took over turning them around making Hazel face the floor while Y/n straddled her. She leaned towards her, her lips grazing softly over her cheek.

“I think I like this position better.” She said softly into Hazel's ear, making her warm inside. Hazel wasn’t going to lie and say that she didn’t like this position, but she felt powerful with the suit. She was going to be on top. Hazel with ease pushed Y/n off her straddling her once again, smiling at her.

“I guess a little change doesn’t hurt once in a while.” She responded by making Y/n roll her eyes.

“Hey! Stop with the porno and hit each other already” Sylvie yelled making Hazel punch Y/n straight in the nose.

“Fuck!” Y/n yelled, holding onto her nose as blood started trailing out like a water stream. Hazel quickly got off her, her once confident persona slipping away. As she slipped the mask off she could see how Y/n stood up coughing the blood out of her lips.

“Shit, Hazel! We didn’t tell you to kill her” Josie exclaimed, helping Y/n up. She shakes her shrugging it off.

“It’s okay! I’m usually the one that beats Hazel. I guess tonight was her comeback” Y/n said laughing softly as she stopped the blood flowing with a piece of Isabel shirt she had managed to rip off. Hazel knew it wasn’t fine and that she could’ve killed Y/n if she hit her just a little bit harder.

“I’ll take her to the bathroom. Help her clean up while you guys continue. Keep the party going” Hazel managed to get out as she took Y/n away from Josie’s grasp leading her to the bathroom.

Y/n stayed quiet as she sat on the sink whilst Hazel nervously cleaned her probably broken nose. A smile adorned her lips when she noticed that Hazel wouldn’t dare to look at her, her Hazel was back.

“Why are you smiling?” Hazel asked, dropping the tissues of the trash can watching the bloody mouth smiling towards her.

“I was worried that my nervous little Hazel was gone, but I guess she’s back. Got worried for a second. ” She replied as she inspected Hazel. Hazel turned away blushing as she leaned against the door behind her, nearly falling back.

“I’m really sorry about your nose. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard” Hazel replied quickly while gaining her balance. Y/n shook her off while getting down from the sink.

“It’s no problem, finally you stopped being soft with me. I was starting to believe you didn’t want to hit my pretty little face” She replied sarcastically as she headed towards Hazel. Her hand pushed off the bangs from her face making her see Hazel’s features better. Y/n slowly moved closer to her but stopped dead in her tracks when both her and Hazel's phone vibrated. She quickly moved away looking at her phone while Hazel cleared her throat looking at hers, seeing the notification that Green Goblin was on the loose.

“I really need to go! But please text me if you are feeling better! I really am sorry” She said quickly as she noticed Y/n also running towards the door.

“Yeah, it’s no problem! I also have to go, my dad wants me to help him with work” Y/n said as she followed Hazel outside. Both of the girls looked at each other parting ways not knowing that in a few minutes they were going to face each other once again but this time to battle against death.

part two

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cameronspecial · 7 months ago

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A New Kind Of Normal (Part 4)

Pairing: Dad!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Being Arrested

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: Stella is now four years old and Rafe gets to celebrate that first milestone with her.

Masterlist

Four years old. His little girl is four years old and Rafe finally gets to be there for one of Stella’s special days. He was quick to say yes when Y/N asked him to help plan the birthday party. She can swear he is more excited about the celebration than Stella as he pitches big and wild ideas. By the time May 17th comes around, she is able to talk him down from hiring someone to bring in safari animals to a Halloween-themed party with family members and daycare friends. With his excitement, the party also brings in the nerves of meeting Y/N’s family. He knows she told them the truth about him, but she said she explained how much he has changed for Stella. So he is a little on edge about what they are going to think about him and vows to himself to be on his best behaviour.

Rafe finds himself setting up cauldrons filled with candies on a fold-out table in a black cat costume. Witch Y/N comes out to the backyard with a black cat-shaped piñata and a wooden broom. “If I was really being a bad boy, then you could’ve just told me. You don’t need to beat it out of me,” he jokes. Y/N giggles, heading over to the tree, “I don’t think any amount of spanking could turn you good.” His cheeks redden and he walks over to help her tie the piñata string around the tree branch when he notices her struggle.

His breath falls on the back of his neck and his chest is flushed against her back. It takes everything in her not to take a peek at his abs that are on display thanks to his shirt lifting up. She looks up to watch him dangle the cardboard cat. He finishes up and looks down at her. They smile once their eyes meet. The moment is interrupted by Benedict coming outside with Stella in his arms. Her older brother notices their body language, “I hope we aren’t interrupting anything.” “Mommy, Uncle Benny said he and me can throw paint at his walls tomorrow. Can I go, please?” Stella begs, not noticing the position her parents are in. Y/N and Rafe pull apart. Rafe holds his hand out to shake, “I’m Rafe, Stella’s dad. It’s nice to meet you.” Benedict shifts Stella to one arm and takes Rafe’s hand. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Y/N’s older brother, Benedict.” Rafe isn’t too sure what to say next, but luckily Y/N is able to break the silence. “Benny, can you help Rafe finish setting up? I have to get Stells changed into her costume,” she directs, leaving Rafe and Benedict alone with Stella’s pleas to go over to her uncle’s house tomorrow fading in the distance.

Unlucky for him, she says exactly what he doesn’t want her to, but he nods anyway. Rafe and Benedict keep working on the decorations. A few minutes later, a man, a woman and a teenager come out back; they all look like Y/N in various ways. The woman exclaims, “I can’t believe my grandbaby is already four.” The trio notices Rafe and freezes. Benedict is the one to rescue him, “Mom, Dad, Josh. This is Rafe, Stella’s dad.” Her mother and father give an unpleased look at him and he feels his heart deflate. He paints a smile on his face and holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N, Mr. Y/L/N, and Joshua,” he introduces, shaking all their hands. When her parents don’t say he can call them by their first names, he feels he didn’t make a good impression on them.

Joshua gives him a smile that helps give him some hope, “It’s good to meet you. Stella has told me some great things about you.” At least, Y/N’s brothers seem to be okay with him. Y/N returns before the conversation can continue and everyone finishes putting up the decorations.

——

The party is just beginning. Stella is running around the backyard with her friends while the adults talk to each other. None of the parents want to talk to Rafe because all they know is he was Stella’s absentee father up until recently and none of them are keen to learn more about him. Benedict is busy playing with the kids and Josh is talking to some of the parents. “Hi, sorry we are a little late. The ferry wasn’t on time,” Rose apologizes, placing a gift on the presents table. Wheezie and Sarah follow her actions and they all go looking for Stella. She spots the three Camerons arriving, running toward them. “Grammie, Auntie Wheezie, Auntie Sarah,” she screams. The little girl throws herself into the Cameron women's arms, giving them each a kiss on the cheek.

Ever since Stella met her grandmother and aunts, she has been hooked on being exactly like them. She wants to be as determined as Rose, as kind to the environment as Sarah and as funny as Wheezie. While watching the scene, Y/N heads over to her parents. “You guys need to start talking to Rafe. I can see you guys are making him nervous,” she demands, giving them the disapproving mother look she mastered thanks to Stella. Her father gives her a questioning look, “How can we let him into our lives when we don’t know if he is here to stay? When we don’t know if he is going to break your and Stella’s hearts?” She understands her parents' fear. They were so supportive of her pregnancy and continuing school. They knew how much she struggled with the decision not to tell Rafe because of the rumours of who he was and with being a single mother in general. And it’s understandable that they don’t want to go through that all over again. However, Y/N has seen the effort Rafe has put into changing and her parents need to give him a chance to prove that to them. “Yes, he may have needed to get sober before he met Stella. But he worked hard to do so and I’m proud of him. Watch how great he is with Stella. It will show you how great of a father he is,” she promises.

They take their daughter’s word into consideration and watch as Rafe approaches his step-mom, sisters and daughter. Stella jumps into her father’s arms, “Daddy, can I open my present from you, please? It looks so pretty.” Rafe hates to tell her no, but he knows what Y/N would want him to say. “Little witch, if it was just me and you today, then of course you can,” he begins to explain. “But we are at your birthday party and it would be rude to open just one gift at the beginning. Before we played the games, had dinner and cut the cake. I promise when Mommy says it is time to open presents, you can open my gift first.” The little girl takes a second to consider what her dad said. She nods her head and runs off to play with her friends.

Y/N’s parents are impressed by how Rafe handled the situation. They can’t deny he was great with their granddaughter and decide they should apologize for how they were treating him. They approach him with a timid smile. “Mrs. and Mr. Y/L/N, is there anything I can help you with?” he asks, looking excited because he may or may not have overheard their conversation with Y/N. Mallory gives an apologetic look, “Please, call us Mallory and Winston. We are here to say sorry for how we’ve been treating you. We couldn’t see that you changed before. You really are amazing with Stella.” “You are and we’d like to get to know you more in a more suitable environment. How about you come over for dinner tomorrow?” Winston offers. Rafe is overjoyed with their sudden change, “I would love that. If it is not too much trouble for you guys, then I would love to make your family dinner at my place in the Outer Banks.” “Winston and I would love that.”

——

Stella sits with her presents surrounding her. Her excitement to open them all warms everyone’s hearts. “Which one do you want to open first, Baby?” Y/N inquiries, looking at all the bigger boxes Stella will probably want to open. Stella picks a more medium-sized box, “This one is Daddy’s. He said I can open it first.” She looks at her mother to confirm she is allowed to open the gift and immediately rips the dark purple paper apart when she gets the confirmation. The paper beneath shows a lavender cardboard box closed with packing tape. She struggles with pulling the flaps of the box open and looks up at her dad with pleading eyes. “Please, Daddy, help me open it.” Rafe jogs over to his little witch and pulls it open for her.

He wraps his arms around her waist to lift her up, so she can see into the box. She pulls the tissue paper out of the box and pulls out the fluffy black stuffed cat. Her squeal is deafening, but her eyes widen at the pretty Taurus constellation necklace the cat is wearing as a collar. Each star is a small diamond. Y/N’s eyes bulge at the sight as well, knowing the necklace is expensive. She wants to demand that he takes it back, but she doesn’t want to ruin this bonding moment between the father and daughter. “Daddy, can you put it on for me, please?” she questions, holding it up to him. He gives her a kiss on the temple, “Of course. I want you to remember how much I love you every time you wear it. And know that whenever I look up to the stars, I’m thinking about you, little witch.”

——

“Thank you so much for watching her. Benny got into a little trouble and uhh… he definitely isn’t in a place that I should take Stells. And my parents can’t get him because they are doing some college tours with Joshua,” Y/N thanks, getting ready to leave. She looks over her shoulder to see Rafe holding Stella in his arms, “Are you guys going to be okay? I know that this is the first time you are going to be watching her.” “We are going to be great! I promise I got this and if I need you, then I got your number,” Rafe guarantees, looking at Stella for backup. She gives him a grin, “Yeah. Now, go help Uncle Benny so I can spend time with Daddy.” Y/N shakes her head at her daughter chasing her out of her own house. “Okay, I’m going. Bye, I love you,” Y/N says, running out of the door. Rafe stops himself from returning her words when Stella cries out, “I love you too, Mommy.” He remembers that Y/N doesn’t love him, she loves her daughter.

Once Y/N is out of sight, he closes the door and looks at his daughter. “So what do you want to do, little witch?” She gives it a thought before answering, “Let’s make popcorn and then watch a movie!” Rafe laughs at her excitement and brings them to the kitchen. He places her on the counter, so he can go looking for the popcorn. Y/N doesn’t have microwave popcorn, instead, she has just the kernels in a glass jar. He looks around for a popcorn machine, but it goes unfound. “Where does Mommy keep the popcorn machine?” he inquires, opening up a different cabinet to check. Stella gives him an inquisitive look, “Popcorn machine? Mommy makes it on the stove.” This makes Rafe pause because he has never made popcorn on the stove. “Do we really need popcorn? We can have chips instead,” he suggests. She shakes her tiny head, “We always have popcorn when we watch a movie.” “Okay, but you are going to have to help Daddy,” he gives in, taking the kernel jar and bringing her closer to the stove. He gets a pot, holding it up to his daughter, “Is this big enough?”

“Yes, that’s the one Mommy uses. She uses the oil in that bottle and uses the blue spoon to put some oil in the pan.” Under her guidance, Rafe gets the olive oil and finds the blue spoon, which is a tablespoon measuring cup. He has to sneak a look at a recipe on his phone to check how many tablespoons of oils he needs, so Stella doesn’t think she is doing a bad job at explaining to him. She continues to instruct him on how to make it and when it starts popping he jumps a little. Stella giggles at her father’s fear, “Daddy, you got scared!” He exaggerates his surprise to keep her laughing. “I did. Can you cuddle Daddy to make him less scared?” he begs, moving closer so she can wrap her arms around his neck.

The popcorn finishes popping and he lets her put as much white cheddar topping as she wants. Rafe goes to examine their DVD collection and an unmarked box catches his attention. He pulls it off of the shelf, opening it up to reveal: The Love I Used To Have, starring Y/N Y/L/N. His mouth turns into a grin and he holds the box up to his daughter. “Do you want to watch this? Your mommy is in it,” he suggests to the toddler. Her excitement shines through and she jumps up and down while clapping. “Yes, yes. I want to see Mommy in a movie.” They get settled on the couch with her nestled under his arm. Stella pops some of the popcorn into his mouth and he has to stop himself from cringing at the amount of white cheddar in his mouth. “Hmm, this is really good, little witch. Good job,” he praises, giving her a smile. She grins at his words and eats some herself. He turns on the movie and they begin to watch.

The title of the short film fades onto the screen, disappearing to reveal the close-up of an eye crying. Rafe instantly recognizes it. How could he not when the image of those eyes rolling while he goes down on her is what haunts his dreams? Y/N’s eyes blink and the shot changes to a wide shot of her at a cemetery. “That’s Mommy,” Stella identifies with her finger pointed toward the screen. He kisses her head, “It is.”

As the short film progresses, Rafe is blown away by Y/N’s acting talents. She is able to evoke the feeling of loss from him so easily and he truly feels like he is experiencing falling in love with her co-star and then losing her. He may not have lost Y/N in the same way as her character, but the emotion she displays makes it easy for him to match his loss with hers. It makes him want to ask her if she did have someone she loves die and if that is the feeling she is tapping into for this project. The movie comes to an end and he brushes his tears away to hide them from Stella. “Mommy is good at acting,” she whispers, looking up at her father, who can only nod in agreement.

——

The rest of the afternoon turned into a Halloweentown marathon and halfway through movie number three, they had to pause for a second to wait for the food they ordered. Stella is held in his arms, playing with the gold chain around her father’s neck. “Daddy,” she catches his attention. He hums to show that he is listening. “Do you love me?” Rafe’s eyes stop looking out the open door to look at her, “Of course I love you.”

“Forever?”

“Little witch, I love you forever and always.”

The elation in her eyes makes him happy and she rests her head on his chest with a sigh, “I love you forever and always too.”

——

Y/N comes home to find Stella asleep in Rafe’s hold while his focus is completely on the TV. He is so invested in Return to Halloweentown that he doesn’t notice Y/N walk in. “How is Marnie going to get herself out of this pickle?” he whispers to himself. Y/N joins him on the couch, “Don’t worry, she will.” Rafe, for the second time today, jumps out of his seat, but a little softer with Stella in his arms. “I did not see you come in. Is Benedict okay?” he leans in to ask so as to not wake up the sleeping girl.

“Yeah, he got off with a warning this time. The police just wanted someone to pick him up so he wouldn't do it again. The paperwork was a nightmare though.”

“That’s bureaucracy, Buttercup. Let me just help you get her to bed and I’ll head out.”

Rafe lifts himself off the couch and at the movement, Stella wakes up. “Mommy, you’re home,” she mutters in a tired voice. Y/N smoothes the girl’s muddy hair down, “I am, Baby. Why don’t we go to bed and say goodbye to Daddy?” Stella hasn’t forgotten her plan to help her father out with her mother and decides this is the perfect time to put it into motion. “But I want Daddy to sleep over. Mommy, it’s so late,” she draws out the last vowel. Y/N gives her a tight-lipped shake of the head, “I know, but Daddy has to go home, Stells.”

“NO! I want Daddy to stay.”

“Stella Rachel Y/L/N. I said Daddy can’t. Now, go get ready for bed.”

Stella disobeys her mother and continues to cry her head off. Y/N starts biting her nails, trying to think of how to handle this situation. Rafe can see how tired Y/N is and wants to help. “I can sleep over if you want. I don’t mind taking the couch,” he offers. At her father’s words, Stella’s cries continued, “No, I want Daddy to sleep with me in Mommy’s room with Mommy.” He doesn’t know how to help Y/N with that. Y/N is too tired to argue at this point and gives in to her daughter’s wants, “Okay, he can stay with us.” Stella’s screams immediately stop. She gets off of the couch and goes to get ready for bed. “Did I just get tricked by my four-year-old?” Y/N ponders, turning toward Rafe. He gives her a shrug, “If it makes you feel better, I thought she was having a real tantrum.”

——

Y/N and Rafe stare at each other awkwardly from over Stella’s head. She had insisted that she sleep sandwiched between the pair and that they hugged each other while they slept. Rafe never thought he would be in Y/N’s bed; he doesn’t really know what to make of it, but he isn’t complaining. “I’m sorry she threw a tantrum and now you have to sleep here,” Y/N murmurs, smoothing down Stella’s hair. He gives her a smile, “It’s okay. I have nowhere to be tomorrow. Plus, I like being here for our daughter.” “That’s great. I know she loves it when you are here,” she confesses. His eyes find the ones that were on the TV screen a few hours ago, “How come you never tried to get your big break at acting? I know you couldn’t move out to LA or New York because of the diner, but you could’ve still sent out self-tapes.” “It wouldn’t have been practical with Stella. I needed a steady income and acting couldn’t provide me with the stability I needed for her,” she explains, fidgeting with her nails under the blanket.

“But you are such a good actress. It is your dream.”

“It was my dream, Rafe. But I was going to have a baby and she became my priority.”

Rafe wishes that he could’ve been there when Stella was born, then maybe Y/N wouldn’t have had to leave her dream behind. He promises to himself that he will help bring stability to his little family so that Y/N can chase after what she genuinely wants in life. He goes to express that feeling but finds Y/N’s eyes closed. Her soft snores are an indication he isn’t going to get an answer. “I love you both. Forever and always,” he vows, kissing them both on the cheek.

——

The next morning, Rafe is the first to wake up and he decides to make breakfast for his girls. He wants to help alleviate some of Y/N’s stress because that’s what one does for the people one loves. It may be a little early to say he loves her, but just being with her makes him happy and he has never felt his way before. He should ask her out on a date. Stella and Y/N find Rafe cooking waffles for everyone. Their little girl goes running to him and wraps herself in his legs. “Good morning, Daddy! Can I have some waffles too, please?” He moves away from the waffle maker, kneeling to return her hug, “Of course, little witch. I’m making food for everyone. Why don’t you go sit at the table? There is some bacon already there. This is the last waffle that I need to make.” “Okay. Thank you, Daddy! Forever and always,” she yells. She runs back to the table and Y/N gives him a confused look. “Forever and always? What does she mean by that?” she probes, coming closer to him. He looks over at her with a smile, “She asked me yesterday if I loved her. And I said forever and always. I guess that’s how she is saying I love you now.”

“Oh, that’s cute. You didn’t have to make breakfast, Button. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Buttercup. This may not be my house, but Stella is my responsibility too. Making sure she is fed is a part of my duties.”

The family eats breakfast in harmony with each other like they have always been together since Stella was born. She would do adorable things that would warm her parents’ hearts and they would do piney things that would give her hope. Y/N is washing the dishes while Rafe and Stella hang out at the table. “Daddy, you should ask Mommy out on a date,” Stella advises in a hushed tone. His eyebrow darts at his daughter’s words, “And what do you know about dates, little witch?”

“Mommy and I watch lots of Hallmark movies. You look at each other like they do in the movies.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, and you smile whenever you see her. And try to touch her hand.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

Little does she know that her dad has already thought about it and is planning on doing it once her hearing ears are out of the room.

——

Stella is in the bathroom, pooping as she announced to her parents. This leaves Y/N and Rafe alone in the living room waiting to see if she is going to need any help. Rafe finds the chain of his watch, playing with the link of the golden band, “I was thinking… maybe we could go mini golfing sometime and then we could go to dinner.” “Oh, that’d be great. Stella loves mini golfing. She says it’s like a tiny world perfect for kids,” she informs, giving him a smile.

“Actually, I was thinking it could be a date.”

Her smile falls and Rafe feels as though his world stopped turning. “Rafe, I like you. I really do, but I don’t think we should date,” she breaks his heart with those words. “Some people suggest that you shouldn’t date when you are just getting sober. It’s not that I don’t believe you will stay sober. It’s that I think it would be better to focus on your sobriety and Stella.” He quickly nods his head, wanting to move past this awkward moment, “Right, I understand.” “Yeah, you are such a great dad to Stella and I really appreciate the effort you put into being with her. I hope you know that.” Their daughter’s call for help with wiping her butt causes Y/N to leave him alone in the room. He knows what she said makes sense and he probably shouldn’t jump head-first into another new commitment. But it still doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in his stomach at her no.

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @drewstarkeyswifehoe @kisstaya @magicalyoura @mp-littlebit @loverfu55ii @dark1paradise @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @alyisdead @emeloyy @js-a-writer @kisstaya

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lodeddiperactivate · 4 months ago

Text

How to survive a horror movie / OBX x Scream Crossover

Word count: 2k

Warnings: drugs, alcoholism

Summary: You're the new kid in town, and simply trying to adapt to your new life in the Outer Banks when serial killer Ghostface starts their murder spree. Now, you can't really trust anyone, right?

Author’s note: I've had this idea in my head for so long now but I was just really lazy up until I started reading Ghostface smuts, and now, here we are! Depending on how well this goes, I might do several chapters of this where the reader has encounters with Ghostface but she also suspects a lot of people to be Ghostface. Idk I'll make it up as I go along. Also, I haven't decided what pairing to do. I'll make it up as I go along (but probably Barry or Rafe, maybe JJ?)

Your parents could not have chosen the worst time to move to this new town called the Outer Banks. The weather was definitely not something you were used to. You would do anything to trade this humidity for a nice crisp autumn weather back in New York. You groaned at the idea of having to leave the best city in the world to live here. Your parents were both in real estate, and you were an only child, which for them, means having the freedom to travel wherever their jobs take them because that would mean they only have one child to worry about. Once you've arrived at your new home, you think at least you'll have a nice big house with a huge garden and front yard, something you're not quite used to back in New York. As soon as you all stepped out of the car, it was business, business, business! You had moved in next to the Camerons who were also in real estate, and you quickly became friends with Sarah who was about the same age as you are. And for the next couple of months, you will find yourself adapting to the OBX lifestyle. You'd learn all about the kooks and the pogues, and John B and his friends. John B whose Sarah is so in love with, it was so obvious, you smirked whenever she would claim there's nothing between them. And then, there's Topper who scares the shit out of you, not to mention Rafe. That boy is bad news and you try to stay away from them as much as possible. During family gatherings or events at the country club, you'd stick with Sarah or Wheezie. There's an awful lot of stuff going on as well as if moving to the OBX was like getting sucked into some action-filled story with treasure maps and gold and all of that. Hearing Sarah tell you all kinds of stuff makes you wonder how long before you'll get roped into all of this. The truth is that you still miss New York, even after spending a few months in OBX. But you couldn't quite deny that there's something very exciting about being here.

That Friday was the first Friday both your parents and Ward and Rose Cameron were out of town, most likely sealing a business deal of some kind. And so naturally, Sarah wanted to throw a pool party. It was a couple of friends, no big deal. Rafe, on the other hand, wanted it to be a full-blown party with enough alcohol to make you go into a coma and of course, drugs. You like to think of yourself as someone who has lived a balanced life, you know how to have fun but you also know when it's too much. Whatever the hell Rafe is planning was definitely too much. You shared your concerns with Sarah just as people were starting to arrive but after seeing John B arrive, all she said was that you worry too much and that whatever Rafe plans on doing, it'll be on him.

"What if someone gets hurt?" You asked, worry is evident in your voice.

"No one is going to get hurt," Sarah replied. Wheezie was in the other room, looking at you and Sarah. She can tell you were not used to Rafe's antics. She added, "Even though it may not look like it, there is some common sense left in Rafe."

You looked at Wheezie then back at Sarah then back at Wheezie before letting out an exasperated "Okay. Fine!"

"Good! Now if you will excuse me, ladies," Sarah trails off to wherever she and John B would meet up. Wheezie rolled her eyes, you asked, "Does Topper know about this, do you think?"

"Nope. That dude is blindly in love with Sarah. Although, I assume it would not go well if he finds out," she said and shrugged before closing her bedroom door behind her.

You made your way down as more and more people arrived. You recognized some of them from school and said a few Hi's and Hello's here and there before you wandered into the kitchen where Topper and Rafe were laying out some food and drinks.

"Hey Y/N, have you seen Sarah?" Topper asked.

"Uhmm no, I haven't actually," you lied. Rafe grinned. He knew his sister well enough and so he knew you were lying.

"It's fine, man," Rafe said to Topper. "She's probably just getting ready for the party."

"Yeah, I should go look for her," and with that, Topper dropped the can of beers at the kitchen island and stormed out without looking back.

"Toph! You said you'd help me with this!" Rafe called out but Topper could no longer hear him. Rafe lets out a sigh, both his hands were on the counter as he gazed at the can of beers Topper had left. You always knew that Rafe had a temper, and having hanged out with the Camerons, you can almost always tell when he's about to lose it. You find it ridiculous how short his temper was.

"I'll help you. What do I need to do?"

Rafe snapped out of it and looked at you blinking before responding, "Uh yeah, sure. You can maybe start spreading out the snacks on the table outside?"

"Sure!"

"Okay then," Rafe said as you moved past him to grab the snacks he just brought in from the car. "Thanks, Y/N."

You looked back at him as you walked out of the kitchen, giving him a soft smile.

Outside, you started laying out the snacks as instructed. You came back to the kitchen and Rafe was nowhere to be found. He's probably unloading the car with the rest of the booze and snacks, you thought. You noticed that there were a few more snacks so you decided to spread them out on the kitchen island so it's a lot easier to grab when the ones outside were gone.

You started placing the bag of chips when all of a sudden, you noticed a presence with you in the kitchen. When did he arrive? Was he here the whole time? This man, probably a few years older than the rest of you, sat quietly on a stool near the sink by the window. He was dressed differently than the kooks so you thought maybe he isn't? He was watching you, and it appears he was waiting for someone. Probably Rafe? But you didn't think Rafe was someone who'd be friends with a pogue. You thought, what weirdo goes to a house party and sits all by himself in the kitchen. You thought that you were hallucinating. You know he already saw you but he wasn't speaking.

"Don't stop on my account, dollface," he said when he noticed you had stopped placing the chips on the island. "I'm just waiting for Rafe," he continued.

"Oh, I think Rafe's unloading the car for more drinks and snacks," you said trying to sound friendly. He looked serious, and scary, but you were intrigued.

"Nah, he ain't there," was all he said.

You placed the last bag of chips on the island, and opened one of the can of beers. Then, after some thought, you grabbed another one.

"Want one?" You make an attempt to start a conversation with this person. He looked at you and at the beer you're holding, you can tell he was getting agitated waiting for Rafe for whatever reason so maybe a cold one will take his mind off of it for awhile.

"Yeah, sure," he finally replied. He stood up from where he was sitting and walked towards you, grabbing the can from your hand. You noticed he smells really nice.

After both of you took a few sips, you asked him why he's waiting for Rafe. You were standing side by side, perched on the edge of the table. He looked at you from the corners of his eye as he took another sip and smirked.

"A pretty face like you don't need to worry about that."

You felt something flutter inside your stomach whenever he would call you "dollface" or "pretty face", you definitely were intrigued by this person. You leaned a bit towards him trying to smell him or achieve some kind of physical contact when you heard Rafe's voice.

"Barry, my man. Sorry for making you wait," he said.

"No worries, country club," he said eyeing me, "she was just keeping me company."

"Oh, I see you've met Y/N," Rafe said and looked at you. Actually, both of them were looking at you and it took awhile for it to register that they probably needed the room to themselves to talk about whatever Barry (you flushed at the thought of his name) and Rafe needs to talk about. So you excused yourself and quickly made your way upstairs.

As you make your way upstairs, you sneak a quick peek at both of them in the kitchen, and saw that Barry was eyeing you. You feel something flutter again in your stomach, butterflies?

Upstairs, Sarah was nowhere to be found so you knocked on Wheezie's room. She opened the door and waited for you to walk in but you stayed where you were, contemplating on how you're gonna ask Wheezie a question.

"What happened?" She asked.

"Oh no nothing happened, I was just wondering..."

"About what?"

"About...this guy named Barry.." you trailed off.

"Why are you asking about Rafe's drug dealer?

Your heart sank at the words "drug dealer", is he really? You asked the question in your head. Wheezie saw your expression changed and she's caught on quickly.

"Don't tell me you like him? You like Barry?"

"What?! No way!" Your response was too much, she can tell you wreak of lies.

"Yes, you do! You like him!" Wheezie said.

"Who likes who?" Sarah, who came from downstairs, asked as she walked towards you and Wheezie.

"Y/N has a little crush on Rafe's drug dealer," Wheezie said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Nooooo?" Sarah was shocked and looked at you with utter disbelief but she was also laughing.

"What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing! Who knew that Barry was your type?" Sarah said and her and Wheezie started laughing.

You rolled your eyes at them and walked away, "You guys are bullies!" You said but you couldn't help but laugh as well as you bury your face in your hands.

"Awww no no, come here, it's okay!" Sarah said trying to comfort you. "Hey hey, Barry's a businessman so that's good, right?" You laughed alongside Sarah and Wheezie, and thought that yeah, maybe it was for the best that you do not fall in love with a drug dealer.

Besides, even if you didn't mean it then, you sure would've meant it in the coming weeks when news of a couple of teenagers were stabbed to death within your neighborhood. Luckily, there were a few Friday night parties at the time and the Cameron residence was not a target. You thought, the last thing you need was to start seeing someone who could be the Ghostface killer.

The Ghostface killer was the name given to the serial killer responsible for murdering 3 teenagers last Friday night.

"This Ghostface routine started in Woodsboro, California," JJ said to Pope and Kie as he shared a bunch of photos on his phone. You overheard them talking on the street as you were on your way to the country club.

"Yeah but what is that dude doing here?" Kie asked.

"Maybe he's looking for his next victims, wooooooh," JJ tried his best attempt at a ghost sound which was rewarded with a slap on his shoulder by Pope.

"Maybe it's a different guy," John B replied. "Or maybe it's some crazy guy in a mask who will soon be caught and apprehended so let's not worry too much about this?"

You couldn't have agreed more with John B.

part 2

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blucactus112 · 5 days ago

Text

May never come to reality but im planning out a Animatic to AJR's 'Maybe Man' (sue me) and need some help filling in some of the parts.

(Its probably going to be about all the life series in general not specifically Wild life. but feel free to try it fit it all in one series)

!!!long post incoming!!!

General plan so far:

First Half(ish) will be calmly looking at hermits in their peaceful habitats talking about their insecurities.

Finishing the first half when we get to the god part it will be Grian before life series started pleading to watchers and becoming one himself then cutting to him and all the other lifers standing around in a circle (like the start of each series) (much wow)

ONE. TWO. PANDEMONIUM.

murder, just all of the scenes of people dying biggest polt twist, betrayals, and Amount of kills.

Also specifically a close up of grain seeing the server burning in the reflection of his eyes.

ending with another shot of the beginning of a server but we see grains eyes which are weathered and worn out and maybe has some watcher purple

Specific Lines:

Wish I was a stone, so I couldn't feel You'd yell in my face, it'd be no big deal But I'd miss the way we make up and smile Don't want to be stone, I changed my mind

Im thinking scar and Grian Desert Duo? also could be

I wish I had eyes in the back of my head Then I could see the places I've been But then I would know that you're talkin' shit I don't wanna know what my friends think

This im Deff thinking cleo bigb scott and lizzie from the Boogeyman series (i forgor wich one that is)

but open to other ideas

Wish I were my dog out on the lawn I'd be so glad when I hear you come home But if I were my dog, I wouldn't live long I'm sure gonna miss her when she's gone

This is pearl playing with a dog, you cannot fucking make me change my mind

I wish I could act in a show on TV 'Cause then I could practice not bein' me I'll practice my cry, put it into my reel But you won't believe me when I cry for real

im either thinking like Ren or Martyn because of the acting thing or one of the scenes usually portrayed as lots of crying (ie Scott at the end of double life)

I wish that my brain would triple in size I'd nail every joke, I'd win every fight But I'd get too deep with that kind of mind I don't wanna know the point of life

ive been thinking of this as jimmy in general but also i dont want to be mean so other ideas would be great

In some other life I would be rich I'd travel in style, I'd cover the bill But couldn't complain 'bout anything small Nobody'd feel bad for me at all

havent given much thought for ones after this but im thinking Scar on Magic mountain trying to scam everyone?

If I was cocaine or a bottle of Jack I'd get invited to every frat But when you get old and your good days have passed You'll only want me when you're sad

have there been any people that bounce between alliances during one series?

Wish I was a song, your favorite one You'd follow the dance to me at your prom I would be there when your baby is born For two or three minutes, then I'm gone

there was at least one dande floor that was a trap, right??

I wish I was big, as big as my house I'd sleep on the trees, I'd skip every crowd But I wouldn't fit on my therapist's couch God, I could really use him now

probably ep1 of WildLife

I wish I was God, I'd never trip up And if I did, well, so fuckin' what? I could be cruel and break all your stuff Yeah, I'd be loved no matter what

pov grain angst

grain is on super windy mountain top surrounded by watchers crying, pleading to them

But if I was God, it'd get kinda weird 'Cause you would only say what I wanna hear And then you would die, you'd love me to death I never know who the hell I am

grian is surrounded by purple light wings and eyes becoming at least in part, a watcher

I wish I was me, whoever that is I could just be and not give a shit Hey, I'll be whatever makes you a fan 'Cause I don't know who the hell I am

cut to peaceful tranquil plains, all of them jn a circle at beginning of life series laughing joking shaking hands hugging (set em up for emotional damage)

One, two, pandemonium

black, black, PAN DE MONIUM

cut to destruction of server only using reds browns and blacks showing carnage this series has brought (and yes ofc player has died messages will appear in the corner as if in chat)

One, two, pandemonium

im thinking each line will be each of the series in chronological order

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

One, two-

Here I go again

cut to beginning of ?wild life? they all have scars when their final kills have been, some look tired some look determined

if you end up making this animatic if you want to put me in the credits as like 'inspired by' :3 but honestly idc that much. but you HAVE to tell me if you post one bc i will watch the hell out of that

#god i need more tags

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seoulmatez · 4 months ago

Text

— 𝒾 𝓂𝑒𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇 ౨ৎ

sero hanta x reader. 7.8k wc. ﾉ sfw ( w/ some suggestive bits ) ﾉ fluff accompanied by a teensy bit of angst ﾉ summer romance ﾉ college au ﾉ swearing ﾉ mentions of alcohol & food ﾉ denki appearance ﾉ multiple tenses used ﾉ repost!

a/n: i recommend listening to never not by lauv before or after reading :3 ++ i edited this and read it through once so i apologize for any mistakes u may find!

this party fucking sucks.

you can’t put your finger on why it’s such a drag—maybe you’d grown out of your partying phase, gotten enough of it the past two years of university. had the scene at the kappa xi sigma house become bland? or maybe it has to do with the fact that the beer pong and blaring music that was meant to serve as a distraction is proving to be more annoying than a useful diversion.

the answer that is staring you in the face, the one you know is the most obvious, is the last one you want to consider.

the excitement of returning to campus with your friends feels dull this year. the transition from summer break to the fall semester has left a foreign void in your life. the annual welcome party hosted by greek life seemed like the perfect way to fill that void—they’d been fun in the past, anyway. but now that you’re here, sitting on the fourth step of the staircase with a concoction of who knows what in your red solo cup, it’s obvious that your intentions are backfiring. because instead of providing you any consolation, the party is only reminding you of what you were trying to force yourself to forget—your time with him.

you met him in the summer at a party similar to the one you’re currently miserable at, but the frat house was traded in for a sandy beach and cozy bonfire. instead of staying in your big city apartment for the seasonal break, you decided to take a trip to the town you’d been born in. it had been far too long since you’d visited your hometown and of course, your aunt was more than happy to have you for a few months. your cousin, too—you’d barely finished unpacking in the guest room when she barged in, insisting that you accompany her to a gathering.

MAY

“people come here all the time but it’ll be especially packed tonight since everyone is done with their classes. and you’ll get to meet a bunch of my friends!” your arms are linked and she tugs you in closer, resting her head on your shoulder.

“sounds like fun.” you smile and squeeze her arm. you missed that while you were away—the transparency people offered here. it’s not like that back home. the same people who will smile and wave at you would wait until you were out of earshot before finding some reason to talk shit about you. it’s exhausting, not knowing what people truly think. but it’s different here. no one ever feels the need to hide behind a mask. even if someone hates your guts, at least you’ll be sure of it. and as odd as it might sound, it’s comforting in its own strange way.

“we’re here!”

you’d visited this beach more times than you could count in your childhood but the sight before you is one you’ve never witnessed before. as the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the blue of the sky melts away into shades of pink and purple—both signs that the day is nearing its end—the beach comes to life. you’ve never seen the area after sunset, maybe because you hadn’t reached the double digits in age before you left, but after sundown, the atmosphere completely shifts. family fun during the day quickly turned to the escapades of students after dark. the set-up isn’t too formal—fairy lights are wrapped around any posts in the sand and bamboo torches fill the gaps that may have ended up too dark without them. there’s no stand for a bar—any drinks are kept cold in the coolers filled with ice. and to top it all off, a large fire sits in a dug-out hole of sand, the flames following the course of the soft breeze.

“wow,” you draw out the vowel, “you guys know how to throw a party.”

the town is small and the biggest school it harbors is a community college but you would be willing to bet money that most of the students who attend it are here tonight. even though summer still hasn’t technically started, there are plenty of people dressed in swimsuits and other summer apparel. you almost feel undressed in your tank top and shorts.

“be impressed later, we have rounds to make.” before you can gawk any longer, your cousin grabs your hand and leads you away. the two of you go from group to group so that you can introduce yourself to everyone. the task takes longer than you expect. it feels like the girl knows every face on the beach. you aren’t complaining though—her connections are sure to land you a few friends of your own. you aren’t sure how long it’s been since you started, but you’re relieved when, instead of hopping from one crowd to the next, you come to a standstill. you don’t think you can remember any more names even if you tried. though, your relief is short-lived.

“there’s one more person i want you to meet.” the girl’s eyes scan the beach in search of a particular someone as you sigh at the thought of having to give the same short “about me” spiel once more. “oh, there he is!”

just like she had all night, your cousin takes your hand and hers and guides you, seemingly to the figure sitting on the ground with their knees pulled up, one hand resting behind them in the sand, the other holding a brown bottle.

“sero! this is my cousin.” she gives him your name.

the man—sero—is quite a sight. a metal bar with a ball on each end sits on the arch of his right eyebrow, a small ring hugging his lip on the opposite side. the top half of his hair is pulled back into a loose bun that is having trouble keeping all the dark strands contained—a few pieces have escaped to frame his face. all three buttons on the chest of his white, long-sleeved shirt are undone, revealing a fair amount of tanned skin and just a sliver of something else. you can’t see exactly where it leads, but the ink on display due to his rolled up sleeves gives you an idea of what it is—a tattoo that stretches from his pec nearly down to his wrist. the dark lines warp and wind around his arm to paint a precise and beautiful image. vibrant pops of red on the petals of lotus flowers and scales of koi fish catch your eye as you inspect it. you will yourself to look away and back up to his face. if there wasn’t such a friendly smile gracing his lips, you would have found him intimidating.

“it’s nice to meet you.” you clear your throat and smile, sending him a polite wave.

“the pleasure is mine. wanna sit?” he holds your eye, jerking his head to the empty spot in the sand beside him.

“oh i should probably...” you were going to say stick with your cousin but when you turn your head to where she was standing, the girl was nowhere to be found. it doesn’t take long to find her, though, a familiar obnoxious laugh drifting through the air, the source of it several feet away. she’s a ways away now, but not so far that you can’t see her. you don’t see the harm in spending time with sero if she has found company elsewhere. “i guess i’ll take you up on that offer.”

crossing your ankles, you lower yourself into a sitting position beside sero, being sure to leave a reasonable space between you. you hug your knees to your chest. your head turns to face him, lips turning up into a slightly awkward smile. he was the first of many who didn’t follow up and ask the basic questions; what school you go to, where you’re visiting from, and whatnot. you have to admit, without the casual conversation starter, you’re at a loss for words.

“want something from the cooler?” maybe the silence was becoming too awkward for him and he decided to put you out of your misery, but you’re thankful for his words—even knowing you’ll have to find a new topic in a couple of seconds.

“if you have water, that’d be great.” sero seems nice enough but you don’t trust yourself to drink anything alcoholic in the presence of a stranger.

he nods, reaching over to open the cooler. he digs through the ice for a bit before pulling out a bottle of water. he holds the beverage out to you, fat drops of the melted ice dripping down onto the sand below. you stick your hand out to accept it.

“nice tattoo,” he comments upon seeing the mid-size piece on your extended forearm.

“oh this?” you turn your arm up so the ink on your skin is completely visible. the butterfly on your forearm was an impulsive decision that you made at the ripe age of eighteen. just looking at it brings back memories of the day you and your friends excitedly entered the tattoo shop. all of you had gotten some sort of symbol or pattern marked on you. they were something of a rite of passage into adulthood, or at least that’s what you told yourselves. you don’t hate it, but you don’t think much of it nowadays. “it’s nothing compared to yours.”

“it’s a little flashy, huh?” he chuckles as he twists his arm from side to side, examining the extravagant piece.

“no. well, maybe, but i like it.” your gaze finds its way back to his tattoo. it’s so much different than your own and you wonder what compelled him to get it. it must have been painful considering it takes up so much space, but even if his pain tolerance is high, you imagine the piece required multiple sessions in the chair. the dedication must mean the tattoo holds some sort of significance to him. “is there a story behind it?”

“nothing deep; i wanted it, so i got it.” the bottle in his hand meets his lips and he takes a swig of the beer.

“really?” his answer surprises you. while you can understand it—his reasoning is practically identical to yours—you weren’t expecting it. something made you think there would be a more grand explanation. “that’s all?”

he nods. “that’s all.”

sero is strange. not in a way that makes you uncomfortable or wary of him, but he’s certainly different. sure, you’ve only spent less than half an hour with him but from what you’ve gathered in that time, your conclusion is that he’s best compared to a puzzle. from his appearance to the way he speaks to the mysterious air that floats around him—you’re intrigued. you want to put the pieces together.

“my legs are getting cramped.” he stretches the limbs out with a dramatic groan before boosting himself up off the ground. his fingers brush the sand off from his khaki-colored palazzo pants. now that he’s standing at his full height, you can see how truly tall he is—over six feet for sure. despite his loose-fitting clothes, you can tell he is on the thinner side; his muscles more lean than bulky. he looks down at your sitting figure, holding a hand out, presumably for you to take it. “care to join me for a walk, butterfly?”

“butterfly?” you question with raised brows. there’s a glint of playfulness in his obsidian eyes.

he shrugs, a smile finding its way to his lips. “i thought it was fitting. so, are you going to leave me by my lonesome or hang out a little longer?”

you look at his outstretched hand. “well, can’t have you feeling lonely, now can we?”

you take his hand in yours and sero pulls you up to your feet. you struggle to find your footing in the sand, but sero doesn’t let go until you regain your balance. before the two of you set off, your companion helps you find your cousin so that you can inform her of where you are heading. the voices and music of the party become hushed the further you both makes your way down the shore.

the rush of waves laps at the sand of the beach as you walk beside them. the sound was soothing, a far cry from the atmosphere you’d just left behind. another wave rushes toward you and sero. you’re nervous that it will reach his sandal-clad feet but it stops just short of them. even if the water had hit him, you don’t think he would mind.

“so...” he breaks the comfortable silence, sticking his hands away in his pockets. you turn to face him upon hearing his voice, but he’s looking up to the sky. the sun was setting when you had arrived but it’s long gone now, the night sky illuminated by sparkling stars. “you’re only here until you go back to school?”

you nod even though he isn’t looking at you. “i wanted a change of scenery and my family used to live here, so this was the first place i thought of.”

he hums in understanding.

“how about you?” your mission of putting the puzzle that is sero together will remain unaccomplished if you don’t make an effort at getting to know him. “you probably go to UA if my cousin knows you from school.”

“yeah, i do. well, i guess i did. i’m transferring so this’ll be my last summer in town.”

“i guess we’ll both be gone in a few months then.” you point out.

“all the more reason to make those months unforgettably exciting, right?”

he has a point; without assignments or essays or presentations to worry about, you’re free to have as much fun as you’d like. living carelessly and creating memories before going your separate ways is a lot like the coming-of-age movies you watched in high school. what sero is proposing sounds similar, but instead of making those memories with people you’d known your entire life, you’d be doing it with some guy you had just met. and, honestly, the thought is exhilarating. maybe the change of scenery you sought would come in the form of a person, not a place.

“what do you say?” he gently nudges your shoulder, looking down at you with eyes full of promise. “want to be my partner in crime for the summer?”

JUNE

it’s been a month since that night. of those thirty days, nearly all of them were spent with sero. you were able to get his phone number before you went home with your cousin and were pleasantly surprised to wake up to a text from him asking to hang out. that’s how it usually went—he either messaged you in the early hours of the morning or super late at night to take you to his favorite spots in town. you could recall a few of them from childhood but others were entirely new to you. one thing remained the same across all the places you visited together, that being with each stop you made, you grew closer and closer to sero.

today is no different—well, just a little. sero’s texts are usually accompanied by a location where you’d meet him. this time around, he asks for your address so that he can pick you up. you gave it to him without a second thought. when you get the text that he’s on his way, you grab your phone and keys and sit outside on one of the steps of the front porch to wait for him. despite expecting him, you’re caught off guard when he pulls into your aunt’s driveway.

“hey, butterfly.” he rarely ever calls you by your name, opting to use the nickname he had coined instead. you don’t mind it. “what’s with the face?”

“nothing, nothing. it’s just, when you said you were picking me up, i thought it would be in a car.” or a truck. maybe even a van. something with four doors; hell, even something with two doors would be on par with your expectations. the two-wheeled, one-seat scooter before you doesn’t even have doors. you aren’t even sure if you’ll be able to sit behind him on the cushioned leather.

“are you telling me you don’t like my vespa? you wound me.” sero dramatically holds a hand to his heart. you shake your head, your feet taking you to stand beside his unconventional mode of transport. upon further surveillance, the white scooter looks cute, charming. it even has a ledge where you could set a bag or basket in the back. still, in the month you’ve spent getting to know him, you never imagined that sero would own a ride that so drastically juxtaposed his image.

“no, no. it’s cool but... i guess i figured if you were driving something with two wheels, it’d be a motorcycle. or, you know, something edgier than a scooter.”

“it’s a vespa.” he corrects you, shoving his spare helmet in your direction. you snort as you take it, placing it on your head and clipping the strap under your chin. “and it’s plenty edgy.”

“whatever helps you sleep at night. so, where do i go on this situation?” you gesture. now that you’re closer, it looks even less likely that there’s enough space left on the seat for you to squeeze on.

“hop on the back.” sero reaches behind him to pat the brown leather.

you give him a doubtful look and he returns it with one of challenging amusement. you can tell when you were beat. with a sigh, you toss one leg over and shimmy forward until your chest is pressed firmly against sero’s back. if you lean back the slightest bit, you’re sure you’ll hit the ground. “i’m not going to fall off, am i?”

you can feel the laughter ripple through sero’s body as the vespa roars to life. he nudges the kickstand back, balancing the both of you on the scooter effortlessly. his head turns to look over his shoulder. the playfully mischievous look that seems to linger in his dark eyes is present—tenfold. “not if you hold on.”

your arms tightly wrap around his midsection as he reverses out of your driveway and speeds down the street. most of your hair is tucked away in the helmet settled on your head, but any of the strands that happened to escape are blown in the direction of the wind. the warm breeze tickles your face. each time sero curves into a turn, your heart feels as though it is floating up toward your throat. it’s nerve-wracking at first, but as you grow more confident that sero isn’t going to skid off the road, fear is traded in for enthusiasm whenever you see his lithe fingers reach for the turn signal. the ride ends up being much more pleasant than you imagined. so much so that you’re slightly disappointed when sero pulls into a parking lot and situates the vespa in an empty spot.

you follow his lead and remove your helmet, taking his hand when he offers it to help you off the scooter. you take the time sero spends making sure the vehicle won’t fall over to survey where he had taken you. he claimed that he was treating you to lunch and the sign spelling out “hamburgers” in bold letters cements his word.

the building is only large enough to house a kitchen—there’s no indoor seating, but a few picnic tables take up space on either side of the establishment. the lack of an indoor dining room doesn’t deter the townspeople from enjoying the food, though. a number of families and groups of friends lounge outside, conversing and laughing over their meals. the environment is friendly.

“mind if i order for us both?” sero bumps his shoulder against yours.

from the start, sero told you he’d never lead you astray. he made a habit of rubbing it in your face and saying “i told you so” during the times when your skepticism at his suggestions turned into you begrudgingly admitting defeat. as a result, you quickly learned to trust his judgement. you shake your head in response to his question, “go for it.”

“i’ll be back.”

you watch as sero makes his way toward the stand to place the order. he greets the employee with a smile and they return it. you’re too far away to hear their exchange but something tells you that it had shifted from food to something else, if the fact that sero was shoving his wallet back into his pocket is any evidence. his comfortability makes you wonder if he is familiar with the worker. if that’s the case, sero has ties with almost everyone in town. it’s possible that he is just charismatic enough to make it seem as though he knows everyone he chats with, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he really did. it made you think about how difficult it would be for him to move away.

“i’m back and bearing food.” sero approaches with a bright red tray carrying all the menu items he had ordered. “let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

you nod and fall into step beside him, walking past parked cars to find the seating area. he jerks his head toward an empty table, silently asking whether or not that one was okay. it is clean and unoccupied which checks the two boxes on the short list of what you consider a suitable table. you sit down on the bench and sero takes a seat beside you, setting the tray down on the table. you finally get a good look at its contents. two burgers, a large serving of french fries, and a paper cup filled to the brim with a strawberry milkshake, two red straws sticking out of the frozen beverage.

“a milkshake with two straws? and you continue to deny that you’re a romantic.” you waste no time popping a fry into your mouth. the whole “sero the romantic” thing started as a joke. he was gentlemanly whenever the two of you hung out, always offering to pay, guiding you with a hand on the small of your back, and never failing to open a door for you. you took every opportunity to point out his kind gestures, even going as far as calling him boyfriend material. he’d always laugh and brush it off, but his behavior never changed.

“because i’m not. this,” he gestures to the paper cup, “was a frugal choice.”

you smile at his excuse.

“stop looking at me like that and taste your food.”

you laugh and raise your hands in mock surrender before unwrapping the burger from its parchment paper. sero had been raving about this restaurant that supposedly had the best burger in town. the one in your hold looks plainly average but you figure that this must be the place he was talking about—you can feel his stare burning into the side of your face, waiting for your reaction. you would’ve messed with him for a little longer if you weren’t so hungry. so, you turn to face him and take a bite.

he raises his eyebrows in curiosity as you chew. you nod your head and give him a thumbs up so you wouldn’t speak with your mouth full.

“mm, i think it’s more than a head nod and thumbs up if it’s all over your face,” sero comments. while you’re sure that he was exaggerating, you can admit that the first bite usually is messy. your eyes scan the table for a napkin so that you can wipe off whatever is staining your face. luckily, a small pile of white rectangles sit on the tray. before you can grab one, sero softly presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, his tongue poking out to clean off the lingering sauce. your frown brings a smirk to his lips as he pulls away.

you can’t say exactly when that started—the kissing, not licking. maybe a couple weeks into the summer? it was nighttime, you remembered that much, and it was spontaneous. neither of you initiated the kiss, it just happened, almost as though there was a magnet between the both of you drawing you together. and it felt good. too good. sero knew as much, which was why the first words out of his mouth were ones explaining that it would be easier if the two of you didn’t label your relationship. it was strange to you—the concept of being intimate with someone and not calling them your partner, but you understood that it was better this way. you’d have to say goodbye eventually and dissolving ties would come as a less painful task if you didn’t think of sero as your boyfriend.

“i could have done that myself, you know.” you hold up your free hand to flick his forehead but he catches it before you are able. instead, he kisses the pulse located at your wrist, smiling against your skin.

“where’s the fun in that?” he asks through a laugh after you swatted him away.

“ugh,” you groan theatrically, “just eat.”

even though you’re here at sero’s suggestion, he has a more enjoyable time playing around than eating. he spends practically the rest of the outing trying to see if he can land small, torn up pieces of the food in your open mouth and dipping french fries into the strawberry-flavored shake despite you fighting him on it, claiming that the saltiness would throw off the taste. before the two of you clean up to leave, sero pulls out his phone to document the moment. it had become a sort of tradition—taking a photo every time you hung out. he said that this way, the both of you could look at the image and relive the day.

the picture taken to highlight the day is one of you and sero happily drinking your shared milkshake.

JULY

“why couldn’t we ride your stupid vespa here?”

ever since sero introduced you to his vespa last month, he started taking you everywhere on the moped you insulted as if to spite you. so when he came to pick you up tonight, you were surprised to see him on foot. you don’t mind it much, but it’s a little odd strolling down the sidewalk—arm in arm with sero—in your swimsuit after dark.

“first of all, fuck you—it’s not stupid.” he tries to shake you off of him but you only hold on tighter, grinning at his reaction. he never lets any of your sly comments about his vespa go unnoticed. god, he loves that dumb little scooter. “second of all, it might have drawn some unwanted attention.”

“now what is that supposed to mean? you’re not going to get me arrested, are you?” of course you don’t really think sero would take you to do anything illegal, but his wording warrants cause for concern.

he tries once more to escape your grasp, but this time around, you let him go. his now free arm wraps around your shoulder to pull you into his chest. you stumble at the unexpected motion, but he makes sure to keep you on your feet. a pair of soft lips meet your forehead in an obnoxiously messy kiss. “have some faith in me, butterfly. i promise we won’t have any run-ins with the law.”

“so you’re still not going to tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“nope,” he pops the p, “wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

sero promised you a summer full of excitement and he has yet to disappoint. no matter how vague he is in regard to what adventure you’re taking next, you trust him.

so when he asks you to close your eyes, you do so without hesitation.

one of his hands covers the upper half of your face to ensure you won’t peek while the other guides you. his touch grounds you but your fingers restlessly tap at your thighs in anticipation. maybe it’s because you gave up one of your senses, but it feels like you’ve been walking blindly forever.

“i feel like people usually do the whole ‘close your eyes’ thing when they’re closer to their destination.”

“so impatient.” his hand moves from your back to tickle your side in a weak gesture of scolding you. you giggle and flinch, but there isn’t much you can do to get him to stop without your eyesight. his fingers don’t continue for long, though, as teasing tickles turn into a comforting squeeze. “we’re here, but keep your eyes shut.”

the warmth that had spread across your face is replaced by a brisk breeze when sero pulls his hand away. even with your eyes closed, the street lights make the darkness within your eyelids a tad bit brighter. you aren’t sure how far away he is, maybe a couple of feet, but you can hear sero fiddling with something—something metal that clacks against more metal. finally, a creaking sound. his sandals scrape against the sidewalk as he moves to stand beside you.

“you can open them in three, two, one.” as soon as his countdown comes to an end, your eyelids flutter open. beyond the gate that sero just made work of unlocking is a sparkling blue pool. the light breeze creates soft ripples throughout the water that is illuminated by circular lights. “ta-da.”

“wow, i didn’t know you had a pool.” a while ago—you can’t say when—you had told sero that you thought swimming in the sea under the stars was something you always wanted to do when you were a kid. you knew that it was pretty much impossible considering how dangerous it might be, so the thought only lived in your head as an unattainable fantasy. this is a little different but the premise is still there—swimming in the blue under the night sky. and you can’t believe that sero had remembered the little piece of information you shared with him.

“i don’t.” sero nonchalantly replies, pulling his crew neck over his head and tossing it onto one of the chairs. the lack of sleeves reveals the tattoo you’d easily grown to love. he lets his hair loose from the hair tie that binds it, smoothing a hand over the dark strands to tame any flyaways. you stare at him incredulously. didn’t he just tell you that you didn’t have to worry about getting into any trouble?

“whose house are we at then?” you question. your feet are anchored to the ground. as much as you want to live out this modified version of what you often imagined, you aren’t entirely comfortable with the thought of trespassing on someone’s property to do so.

“a friend’s. and don’t worry, no one’s home. his family is away on vacation.” it seems plausible enough. the silver key that sits on top of his jacket shines under the moonlight. that’s proof that he hadn’t picked the lock. so unless he stole the key, maybe you two really are in the clear.

“hey, relax.” sero can sense your reluctance and moves to stand behind you. his hands reach around you to unzip the hoodie that served as a coverup. once he’s pulled it off your arms, he flings the article of fabric and it joins his in a pile on the pool chair. with your shoulders now exposed, he presses a light kiss to each of them before wrapping his arms around your waist. “i wouldn’t lie to you.”

“yeah, yeah.” he’s right, though. it isn’t like him to lie, not in a situation like this, anyway. you’ve spent enough time worrying and the walk here wasn’t a particularly short one. all things considered, you’re wasting valuable time. “let’s get—”

you aren’t able to finish your sentence before sero’s hold on you tightens and your feet are pulled up and out of your flip-flops. your eyes widen in shock at the sudden motion. there isn’t time to question his actions as sero begins walking you to the edge of the pool. he swings you back to gain momentum before hurling you forward. you’re already mid-air and above the water when a scream rips from your throat.

under the water, everything around you sounds muffled. the cold temperature is jarring enough to shake you from your state of surprise and urge you to swim up. when you emerge at the surface, the first thing you can hear is sero’s irksome laughter. your hands move to push the wet hair sticking to your forehead off of your face. the sight of sero recovering from his fit of chuckles has you narrowing your eyes. “hanta, you asshole!”

you don’t mean to scream—your plan was to keep your volume down in hopes of not disturbing any of the neighbors, but you can’t help it considering what the man had just done. and he has no remorse as he wipes a tear from his eye at your reaction to his antics. to make things worse, you can’t even get him back by splashing the chilly water at his dry figure because he’s jumping in to join you before you have the chance.

the water splatters with his weight, leaving the drops that had escaped to decorate the pool patio in dark little specks. you shield your face with an arm to keep yourself from becoming a victim of his cannonball. he surfaces not long after, shaking his hair out as if he’s a dog getting out of the bath. he meets your gaze with a bright smile.

“i can’t believe you.” you kick your feet to take you away, not wanting to be pulled in by his charm. the waves tickle your face as you float to the other end of the pool. now that you have been in it for a while, the water doesn’t feel as cold.

loud splashes and a new set of waves alert you of sero’s presence. he’s beside you in an instant, still wearing that very same smile. “you can’t?”

you aren’t mad—you don’t think it’s possible for you to truly be upset with him. and despite the little stunt he pulled catching you off guard, you have to admit that it was on-brand for him. all of your lingering annoyance with him disappears as he juts his lip out in a pout. you huff out a laugh at his childish expression.

upon seeing your relaxed countenance, he swathes you in his arms, pulling you close so that the tips of your noses are touching. the blue of the water accompanies your reflection in his dark irises. “i know a pool doesn’t really compare to the open expanse of the sea, but i hope you’re having fun.”

“this is more than enough for me. thank you.” your hands tangle in his wet strands of raven hair to draw him in impossibly closer. your lips brush against his softly in what can barely be considered a kiss. the unintentional teasing has more of an effect on sero than you expect, his lips chasing yours the moment you drag them away.

the cool metal of the jewelry that hangs from his lip presses against your skin as he deepens this kiss. your legs unconsciously wrap around his waist as you suck in a breath through your nose. his tongue swipes across your lower lip and you part the two without hesitation. though, you aren’t granted the opportunity to continue on much further without interruption.

“sero, what the fuck?” an unfamiliar voice rings out in the air causing you to hastily pull away. you search for the source of the noise, following sero’s gaze as he turns around to address the person calling for him. you tilt your head up to the second story of the house you’d barely paid any mind to and are met with a head of yellow hair that is strikingly bright in comparison to the darkness surrounding it. this must be the friend that sero was talking about.

“hey, kami.” he’s considerably calm for having just been caught in such a promiscuous position. does he not find this the slightest bit embarrassing? “i thought you were out of town until tomorrow.”

“yeah, well, obviously plans changed.” the guy’s—kami’s—eyes finally fall on you. the burning in your cheeks tempts you to hide behind sero, but there’s nothing malicious behind his stare. there is only fatigue and a little alarm swimming in his golden eyes. they dart back to sero. “i hate to cut whatever you’re doing short, but you need to get out of here. my parents are going to kill me if they find out you have a spare key.”

“we’ll be out of your hair, man.” sero sends him a two-finger salute. his friend shakes his head and closes his window, presumably to go back to bed.

sero rotates to face you.

“on vacation, huh?” you shoot him a questioning look.

“you heard him,” he shrugs with a smile, “plans changed.”

AUGUST

aside from the chirping of crickets and the gentle wind rustling the lush leaves, it’s silent. your head rests comfortably on sero’s shoulder, his arm folded around your waist. he’s brought you to a hill that overlooks what seems like the entire town. it would have been nice—his company and the view—if the silence wasn’t so suffocating.

even your first night together wasn’t this quiet.

you try to ignore the stillness by turning your focus to the scenery before you. somewhere down below is denki’s pool that you swam in last month, the burger place you’d eaten at the month before, and the beach where you met sero the month before that one. you can only pick out the beach now. just like that mid-may night, it’s lit up by string lights and contained flames, and the stretch of sand is occupied by the very same people you became acquainted with three months ago. there’s a party going on—some end of the summer get together that your cousin invited you to just out of courtesy. she knew you wanted to spend your last night here with sero.

“it’s really our last night together...” his voice cuts through the silence. you normally love hearing him talk; it usually brings a smile to your face. but just like the rest of this night, his voice has a different effect on you—one you can’t claim to be fond of.

“yeah.” your voice breaks. there it is—the reason, or part of the reason, you can’t will yourself to break the silence, will yourself to speak. you don’t know what to say and you figure any words you can string together into a coherent sentence will only end up cracking in your throat.

your cheeks are wet—you’re crying. the tears slip from their ducts, sliding down your cheeks and slipping past the corners of your mouth, leaving a taste as bitter as this moment on your tongue. an instinctive sniffle makes you wrinkle your nose. you don’t even realize that the sleeve of sero’s shirt is soaking up half of your tears.

“hey, no tears, butterfly.” you can feel the vibrations of his voice on the side of your face. he squeezes your side in hopes of comforting you. and it does, a little, but part of it hurts. not physically, but knowing that these few touches from him will be your last is painful. “didn’t we have fun?”

you think back to one of your first conversations with sero—the one when he asked you to join him in making the summer unforgettably exciting. you had no way of knowing just how much fun you’d have and how many memories you’d make along the way. at some point, sero had wedged his way into your heart and made a room for himself. all the memorable moments you had lived with him over the summer would reside in that room.

you nod weakly, as best you could in your current position. “yeah, we did.”

from the start, you knew that this was bound to end eventually, that this world you were living in would only last the summer. what you couldn’t have predicted was the bond you’d make with sero. you knew that the closer you got to him, the more difficult it would be for you to say goodbye in the end. still, even facing the hardship now, you wouldn’t change anything given the chance.

"thank you.” his utterance is barely a whisper, as though the words were meant for you and you only—as if you’re in a bubble secluded from everyone and everything else.

“hm?” you snuggle into the crook of his neck, taking in the familiar fragrance of his cologne—just another thing you’ll miss. “for what?”

“being my partner in crime.” his head comes to rest on your own and your eyes drift shut at the contact. he breathes in a heavy sigh against your hairline. you can feel his lips curl up into a smile. “i can’t imagine giving the position to anyone else.”

a smile of your own makes its way to your lips. “same here.”

sero is much better at hiding the emotion in his voice, but if you were able to get a look at him, you’d be able to see his eyes glossed over with unshed tears.

—

it’s been almost two weeks since you’d last seen him. as happy as you are to be back in your element, you’d be lying if you said things had bounced back to the way they were before you met sero. something about life now feels off. it isn’t that you aren’t yourself, rather, that a newly discovered piece of you has gone missing. you’ve been driving yourself crazy trying to figure out how parting ways with someone after only four months of knowing them could leave you feeling so hollow.

all you are sure of is that you want to get out of here.

you throw back the pink liquid in your cup, the sting causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. no point in letting a perfectly good drink go to waste, right? you stand up and wipe the condensation that had transferred from the cup to your hand on the front of your pants. your feet carry you to the nearest trash can and you crumple the plastic, tossing it in the bin. you attempt to recall where your roommate said she had wandered off to—you can’t remember if she said beer pong or king’s cup. either way, you need to find her to see if she planns on staying much longer.

process of elimination; beer pong up first.

the scent of liquor and sweat invades your nostrils as you near the room where the long, black table is situated. it’s nauseating but you push on, determined to find the person you’re searching for. unfortunately, your roommate is nowhere to be found in the crowd of people packed within the four walls. you scan each room left on the first floor of the frat house and there is still no sign of them.

it isn’t like her to go somewhere without a word and she definitely wouldn’t leave without telling you. you have yet to pull out your phone but it’s becoming clear that you’ll require the aide. you just hope she has her phone somewhere on her person.

your eyes are glued to the screen in your hand, fingers tapping out a message while you make your way to the back door. you’re just about to hit send on the text when you collide with something hard. the impact draws an “oof” out of the barrier you had just run into. that much tells you that it isn’t a wall, but a person. you rush to apologize for your fault.

“shit, sorry.” you rub your forehead at the site that had bumped into what must have been a chest. everything inside your skull feels jumbled.

“no worries—butterfly?”

your ears perk up at the nickname. only one person calls you that and as far as you know, he isn’t anywhere near here. but there is no mistaking that voice—it sounds exactly like him. your eyes drag up from the floor to face the figure. you must have put back that alcohol too fast or hit your head harder than you thought because you swear that sero is standing in front of you.

“don’t tell me you forgot about me already. or are you just drunk off your ass?”

you almost, almost, can’t believe it’s him, but everything about the guy from his daring piercings to his hypnotizing dark eyes to the stunning tattoo on his arm screams sero. it is him. it has to be.

“sero?”

“the one and only.”

you blink at his confirmation. all he can do is smile at your confusion.

“wh-what are you doing here?” you ask—not that you aren’t unhappy to see him—it was quite the opposite, but you’re still trying to wrap your head around him being here.

“this happens to be my new campus. thought i’d try to make some friends before classes started. but i can’t say i expected to see you here—what a pleasant surprise.”

he told you that he was planning on transferring schools but you figured there was no point in asking what or where that school might be. and what was the likelihood of him ending up on the very campus you called your own? apparently, the odds were greater than you thought.

the awkwardness of your encounter is melting away into the comfortability you’d come to associate with sero due to the newfound information. you don’t know if it’ll be possible to jump back in where the two of you left off, but having him back in your life is more than you could ever ask for.

you nod, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back the wide smile that threatens to stretch across your lips. “how’s that going for you?”

he shrugs. “eh, doesn’t matter. i just ran into an old one.”

“oh yeah?” you raise an eyebrow in question.

“yeah.” he shoots you a knowing look. the sparkle in his eye serves as a signal that something playfully entertaining is brewing behind them. and, more than any time during the summer, you can’t wait to find out what he might be scheming. “hey, do you wanna get out of here?”

you don’t have to think about your answer. “i’d love that.”

thank u for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤︎

#₊˚ପ⊹ signed: my hero academia #sero hanta #sero x reader #hanta x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #sero fluff #mha fluff #bnha fluff

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