#strike brewing co

[auraeseer]

Clouded and backward . . .

[rizsu]

he's married ?! nanami kento.

sum. he's easily the top most handsome guy within his job. his relationship status is unknown, so what happens when his co-workers ship him with a female worker?

nanami is well known within his company. tall, insanely fit, and an attractive voice. it's not uncommon for men and women alike to find themselves thinking about him often. what's not common is knowing about his love life. no one knows anything and he would've kept it that way. but when push comes to shove, and you're shipped with someone who's not your beloved, nanami will make it known that he's not only taken but married.

in the coffee-break room there are three guys. now, there's nothing unusual about this — no, no. they're just three guys that are co-workers... except there's a twist. they aren't your regular co-workers, they're your uncommon trio of male gossipers and nanami just so happened to be their newest victim.

"shh, shh! he's here," guy one, tichi, whispers to the others, raising his eyebrows and pointing his chin to nanami's position.

the other two take a quick glance, nodding their heads when they've seen nanami's back faced towards them. it's a perfect moment to strike up a conversation, especially since it's just four men here.

guy two, tacho, shuffles his feet to the empty space near nanami. he pretends to open a sugar packet, fiddling with it as his eyes peep over nanami's shoulder. his heart skips multiple beats when the man himself turns around.

"morning to you, tacho," nanami greets, nodding his head before he turns his attention back to his cup of coffee.

"y-yeah, morning!" he stutters, awkwardly smiling in return. he turns his head to the other two in the background, mouthing the word 'help' to them. unfortunately, they do not give the aid to their friend. instead, tichi fakes a series of coughs and guy three, toeny, gives him a confident double thumbs up. there's no hope, tacho sighs.

it's a silent moment between the men — only the sounds of coffee brewing and a spoon coming into contact with the mug can be heard. tacho's mouth itches him, he happened to remember his group's recent conversation about nanami. he must ask — even if it costs him a mutual co-worker.

"so, nanami," he begins, waiting for nanami to give him the undivided attention.

nanami doesn't face him, but he hums in response. tacho doesn't mind this as an answer, so he continues, "i was wondering if the rumors of you being with the new worker, yeri, are true?"

there is one big lie in that question: there are no such rumors. it's just a theory the trio has been gossiping about every night. nanami's been helping out yeri for quite some time, one can only think that they have a special connection going on.

"that is bullshit," nanami gives a firm answer. nothing more, nothing less.

tacho's stunned, he blinks a few times to recollect himself. "oh — so you're not with her?"

nanami doesn't answer yet, but the two in the back give their unwanted reactions. tichi clicks his tongue three times, shaking his head in disappointment at tacho's second question. it's obvious dumbass, he thinks. toeny, on the other hand, presses his lips in a thin line, pretending to read a magazine that's been on the counter.

nanami reaches into his pocket, whipping out his phone. the trio's confused until nanami speaks.

"i am married man. this is my wife," he educates, pressing the power button to show you as his lockscreen.

he collects three gasps, internally nodding at their shock. that's right, i'm gladly taken.

"all this time you've been... MARRIED?!" tacho's voice heightens, he drops his spoon in shock. it's unbelievable yet somewhat believable.

nanami breathes out a 'yes', raising his arm to show the wristwatch. "she bought this for our five-years anniversary recently. it's quite expensive, going over four-thousand," he brags, emphasizing on key words.

he's been waiting for the precious day where someone indirectly asks for his relationship status. the day has come and he will spend it bragging about his beloved.

nanami doesn't give them a chance to speak, he carries on with his bragging, "she's a very lovely woman. all my bentos are made by her and she writes little notes for each. some may think it's childish but that's bullshit! they just haven't experienced the love of a woman. matter of fact, her most beautiful moments are when she's freshly awake. the smile she gives me is nothing but angelic."

his speech doesn't stop there, but it did for the trio. his words went in one ear and out the next. nanami's blabbering about his wife immediately set a blank face upon tichi, tacho, and toeny. they're jealous and also surprised.

"the way a woman can change a man will never not be amazing," toeny whispers, blankly gazing at nanami's ongoing speech.

[gilverrwrites]

Meet Cutes Uglies Ft. Bruce, Dick, and Jason

GN!Reader, ≈500 words each

CWs: Mild/nonexplicit threats of violence, slut-shaming (but not really), swearing.

Bruce

The chances of bumping into a celebrity not once, twice, thrice, but four times in one day are low, but not impossible as you’re finding out.

It was kinda cool realising you’re stood behind him in line at the coffee shop, but not spectacularly cool or anything. Almost everyone you knew had a story about meeting Bruce, or another member of the Wayne family out in public so you weren’t overly excited. You just kept your head down, scrolling through your socials and wondering whether his drink was the iced cold brew, the fudge brownie hot chocolate, or the three pump vanilla no foam cappuccino. Your friend Jade was right, he is far ‘hunkier’ than the media gives him credit for, his piercing eyes really are that blue, and he smells good too, like bergamot and cedar.

It became somewhat more exciting when you'd headed to the library on your lunch break to return a book, only for him to already be there, chatting-up the librarians no less. Your friends were not going to believe this. He must sense you staring at him because he turns to look at you, when you make eye contact you smile, wondering if he might recognise you from the morning. He did not smile back.

Upon returning to work, the rest of your shift had been gruelling, job after job being piled onto your shoulders with minimal time to get them all done. You hadn’t even had the chance to tell your co-workers about your unlikely encounters with Gotham’s richest man. By the time you got off for the night, you were exhausted, the thought of having to cook dinner and wash the pots once you got home looming over you like a rain cloud until you decide to grab some take-out on your way home instead.

You’re barely out of the doors of Big Belly Burgers, a handful of fries hanging from your lips when you see him for the 3rd time. Bruce Wayne, on the sidewalk across the street, engrossed in what seemed to be a very intense telephone call. Weird.

You don’t have to wait long for the fourth encounter, it happens just a few blocks from your home. He’s much closer this time, a little too close for comfort maybe. You hadn’t seen it coming, one moment you’re rifling through your bag, looking for your keys, the next you’re suspended a few inches from the ground by a pair of strong hands fisted into the collar of your jacket. Instinctively you paw at him, one hand wrapping around his wrist, the other bunching up in the fabric of his sweater for faux support.  

You think for a moment you’re being mugged, until the familiar smell of wood and citrus hits your senses. Bruce Wayne is pressing you against the cold, damp wall of an alleyway, handsome face marred by its stern expression.

“Who are you?” He demands. “And why are you following me?”

>[Continued]<

Dick

The only thing worse than the feel of the uneven, filth-trodden pavements of Blüdhaven against your bare feet, is the thought of putting the torturous pair of dress shoes you’d worn last night back on. Perhaps you should have asked your hookup for something to wear, but that would almost certainly guarantee your having to see them again in order to return it and you’d happily walk barefoot across Tartarus before you let that happen.

Careful to avoid stepping in anything less than savoury, you keep your eyes glued to the floor, so focused on the things below you, that you don’t notice the things in front of you. The person in front of you, until you plough right into their admittedly firm chest.

The person in question reeks of stale alcohol, his shiny hair is a mess, there’s a shadow forming on his striking jawline, and the half-undone shirt he’s wearing is clearly wrinkled and stained from the night before. A fellow walk-of-shamer.

You stare at each other for a long moment before you realise you had bumped into him, therefore you should be the one to speak first.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” You murmur, voice hoarse.

“No problem.” He replied, far too chipper for his current predicament. His eyes rake up and down your body, and you might be vexed by it if you had not just been doing the same to him. “Why aren’t you wearing your shoes.”

“They hurt my feet.” You shrug, taking a cautious sidestep around him as you speak. “Just want to get home, they were slowing me down.”

That should be the end of it, but the sound of his dress boots tapping against the sidewalk follows you down the street. You can’t be certain, but you were pretty sure he’d been walking in the opposite direction prior to your collision. You cast a glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s just a few steps behind you, offering you a striking smile that almost makes the grey morning feel brighter.

“Proposal?” He asks, and you stop to listen. Possibly because you’re genuinely intrigued, probably because your brain isn’t awake enough to tell your heart that you shouldn’t talk to strangers. “If I can get you home without you having to use your feet, will you go out for breakfast with me?”

“You’re really asking me out during a walk of shame?” You snicker, impressed by his audacity.

“We don’t shame in 2024, I prefer to call it a stride of pride.” He informs you, and he has a point. “Besides, might be fate that we walked into each other this fine morning, gotta give it a chance, right?”

“Right.” You agree, but your raised brow and puckered lips might suggest some scepticism. He doesn’t seem put off however, still beaming that brilliant smile at you. “And how do you plan on getting me home?”

“Easy.” He shakes his head, conveying his confidence as he beckons you closer by curling two fingers towards himself. You follow his direction and before you can comprehend what’s going on he’s crouching before you, threading his body between your legs and lifting you on his back, piggy style.

“So, where do you live?”

Jason

The coffee shop is that perfect level of busy that's not overwhelming but isn't too quiet as to be unsettling. Your drink is the ideal temperature, and the evening sun is seeping through the windows at just the right angle to warm your skin and add a golden glow to the atmosphere. By all accounts, this should be the perfect, relaxing moment, except… this book sucks.

You’d thought after years of recommendations from friends, many critically acclaimed adaptions, and its general status as a must-read classic that it was high time you picked it up, but you were about two-thirds in and thoroughly not enjoying yourself.

“Excuse me.” A low voice draws you from the pages of the book. You hadn’t noticed the 6ft+ mountain of tattooed muscle casting a shadow over your table until you looked into his eyes. Oh wow. You don’t know why he’s approached you, but whatever it is; he can have it. “Are you reading Lady Liatris?”

“I am.” You confer, lazily tilting the cover to show him, despite your reading choice already being apparent.

“Nice to meet a fellow bibliophile out in the wild. What do you think of it so far?” He smiles at you, reaching out a hand, your heart sinks as his strong fingers wrap around your own for a handshake.

“Well….” Handsome, well-read, confident enough to approach you, and you were about to blow it with your brutal honesty. “I haven’t finished it yet, so I won’t commit, but so far I am not impressed.”

“What?” He actually flinched. “No way. Where are you up to?”

“I just finished the bit where Claude professed his love for Florance at the flower show, which was the drollest thing I’ve ever read, and it went on and on for far too many pages.” It was probably impolite for you to be venting so quickly to this stranger, but you just couldn’t help it, the words just kept coming. “Not to mention its total lack of realistic feminism, you can’t just unveil your fencing champion to secretly be a woman and call it a day, every other woman in this book is either a two-dimensional gossiping villain or a two-dimensional love interest for the male side characters.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The mystery man shakes his head at you in disbelief as he situates himself in the chair across from your own. “First of all, it was a product of its time, and is widely considered to be one of the greatest pieces of feminist literature despite its origins, secondly, did you not read any of Evie’s subplot?”

The conversation continues that way, back and forth. He emphasises his points with big sweeping, passionate movements of his arms. He nods his head and purses his lips when you make arguably good points and grits his teeth when he disagrees with you. Neither of you notice when the sun goes down, or your drinks going cold until the barista informs you both that they’ll be closing in a few minutes.

Shit. You’d been debating classic-lit with this guy for at least 2 hours, and you didn’t even know his name. The sentiment appears to be shared because he offers you a comically confused frown as he puts his jacket back on and offers you a hand standing from your seat.

You exit the café into the cool night air together. You’re not sure if you should ask his name and invite him over, or say goodbye, fortunately, he removes the need to decide by handing you a napkin with his name and number jotted onto it in black marker. Jason.

“Call me when you’ve finished the book.” He instructs, and then he gone.

[forsworned]

JINX! YOU OWE ME A SODA! ft. KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK

Author's note: Because Kyle does not get enough love and I really wanted to write for him and the little interactions between the 141 :)

Tags: Sexual Content, Masturbation, AFAB!Reader, Brainrot convos amongst 141 men, Team Building and Banter w/141

It's breakfast time in the mess hall and Kyle is navigating to the usual spot that the 141 hangs out in. Clandestine, blue rusty bench right against the large panel windows, with a clear view of the crisp evergreens and wildflowers stretching out in the horizon. A peaceful outlook for a proper meal and some banter.

"Brekkie for a champ." Johnny winks up at him, noshing on his breakfast burrito.

Kyle chuckles as he takes his assigned-unassigned seat next to the friendly Scotsman and they start chatting about last night's fútbol game. It is followed by Simon sliding his tray, seating himself opposite Johnny with a quiet clatter as he attempts to slip his large body onto the bench. And then it's Price coming from behind him, jostling the skull-masked behemoth to scare him, but it's lost on Simon because he's just giving him an uninterested stare that causes the table to shake with laughter.

And you? You're sitting there from the outside, munching on your home fries with a pang of envy at their camaraderie. Never really having a taste of it as you sit alone most days unless you're on the go, rushing to a mission and you're sharing a ration bar with whatever squad they stick you in. But let's face it, no one really wants to be around you.

Jinx.

That was your nickname. Luckless, star-crossed with death, always skulking closely in your shadow.

Your reputation presided over you. Seven squads KIA, and you were the only one to survive them every single time.

So, it's no wonder you're a lone wolf in a mess hall full of lively, rowdy soldiers.

"Why don't we sit here?" A new recruit inquires to their Sergeant.

Their superior takes one glance at you before giving you a tight-lipped smile, "Actually, I just remembered Corporal Dunn (s/o to my mans) needs us back in his office, so let's just have lunch there, yeah?"

The rookie's wide, naive eyes peer over at you and they wordlessly nod at their CO and you don't even bother to see if they've glanced over their shoulders, whispering to one another about you.

"...seven...?!"

"Keep your voice down, soldier..."

"...sorry."

But somebody seems to have their sights set on you and your sharp, feline-like eyes are on the Sergeant tables away, tucked away into a corner and he can't help but jump a little as he's downing his morning brew.

And suddenly he's snorting it up and his teammates are throwing jests his way.

"Keep y'er coffee in y'er mouth, dammit!" Johnny bellows as he erupts into laughter, patting his back.

And there's something inaudible said by Kyle and you're studying the way his pretty, plump lips move.

"'s that Sergeant over there."

And suddenly four Brits are shamelessly turning your way and you're not tearing your gaze away from them as you're scoffing down your scrambled eggs.

"Heard she's lost seven squads, only one to make it out alive." Simon speaks in a nonchalant tone, popping a piece of celery into his mouth before his face contorts into something that resembles disgust.

A "Bloody hell, that's disgusting." is drowned out by the continued conversation between the three of them about your unfortunate rep.

"'s not the lass's fault." Price adds, leaning back a little to crack his spine. "Oh, yeah, tha's the stuff." A satisfied groan leaves his lips as he rests his elbows on the table, listening in on the little shred of gossip.

This time, it's between Johnny and Simon as Kyle zones them out and his honey eyes are training back on you. A frisson runs up his spinal column when he realizes your gaze never strayed. Like a cat, you're fixating on him, wagging your tail, not yet ready to strike just simply observing with a piquing interest.

And then the subject changes when Simon decides to make a jab at how Johnny's overgrown mohawk resembles a porcupine and he's chuckling to himself as the Scot gets riled up. Kyle thinks that one last glance won't hurt, but you're gone. Not even a trace of maybe some crumbs left from your English muffin. He's intrigued to say the least.

Kyle is spending his days in search of you. You're like an apparition that only gets spotted on odd days of the week at unsuspecting time frames, nestled snugly into unfrequented areas on base. He's trying hard to remember the way your hair looks, your lips, the curve of your nose but all that's burned into his memory is your pointed gaze burring holes into his vision.

He stays up late when he catches a glimpse of you in the armory as he's passing by it, in deep conversation with his Captain about how Koala bears do indeed have chlamydia. And he's backstepping to gaze through the window, but you're gone and he's starting to think that maybe you are a ghost.

How stealthy and lithe your body must have to be under that black, compression tee and those tight, tight tactical pants...

And he's fisting away at his dick, half frustrated and half aroused by the allure of your mystique. Little black cat, thumping her tail against the concrete with enigmatic, hypnotizing eyes that entrance him.

"Fuck!" And he's spilling all over his sheets, taut, heaving abdomen, and humiliatingly enough, right on his chin. He dabs at the cum that's dripping on his face and then gazes over the opulent arousal, before throwing his head back and groaning.

Why was you being such a quandary turning him into a fucking pillock?

"...Kyle...Kyle!" Price's hasty voice rips into his stupor, slinging him back into reality.

"Goddammit, Kyle, ya missed th' shot..." Price clicks his tongue, shaking his head under his gilly suit as he makes up for his mistake. "Are ya soft in’t head or summat?"

"No, sir." Kyle mumbles, embarrassed at the fact that his Captain is cleaning up after him.

"He's gey glaikit" Johnny pokes over the comms.

"English, MacTavish." Simon presses the Scotsman.

"He's fuckin' dazed." Johnny quips. "Fuckin' cunt."

And then there's a collective laughter amongst the four soldiers and Kyle can breathe again, the memory of you tossed into the backlogs of his mind as he's back in the fray.

But then it's 2am on the base, and he can't sleep so he's in the kitchen trying to whip up some Pinterest drink,

"Angel's milk?" He scrunches his brows at his phone screen as it casts a blue shadow over his flummoxed features.

He shrugs his shoulders as he squeezes the bottle of honey into the bottom of his mug, followed by a generous amount of milk, and then he pops it into the microwave for a minute and a half. He leans against the kitchen island and lets out a sharp exhale.

"You were supposed to add vanilla."

He practically feels his skeleton jump out of his skin at the voice, but he can't lie about the fact that he was more than elated to see who was standing beside him.

Hell's fuckin' bells, as Johnny would say.

She was standing beside him, arms crossed, hair in a cutesy haphazard manner, dark circles carved under your eyes, dressed in a little pink striped VS lounge set. And fuck, you smell so good. Like warm vanilla, candied almonds, and maybe coffee? It is difficult to say because he is too flustered by your abrupt appearance.

Your presence and how striking you were up close as you were far away, breathing, existing right next to him.

"Bloody hell, you scared the shite outta me." He swallows thickly, and for the first time, he sees the corners of your lips gracefully turning up into a smile. And oh man, it's making his dick twitch pretty violently in his blue-white tartan pajama bottoms.

"Did I?" Not bothering to hide the satisfaction in your voice nor your expression.

"Ya did, indeed."

And the tension is so palpable. His eyes are skimming over the exposed skin of your thighs, from the fresh baby pink manicure on your nails to your shiny, lacquered lips. You were a sight for sore eyes.

Thump, thump, thump.

He can practically hear your metaphorical tail thudding against the kitchen tiles right now.

The beeping of the microwave rips through the suspense and he pushes himself off the counter to retrieve his heated mug. Opening the utensil drawer to pull out a spoon to stir the little concoction, but his brows are raising when you reach over to squeeze two drops of vanilla extract into his drink.

"Tryna poison me, are ya?" He teases, peering over at you. You have a mischievous glint in your eye as you put the cap back on and carefully tuck it away into the cabinet for later use.

"Don't need to."

"Why's that?"

But you've already turned away, walking back to wherever you came from, hips swaying in your satin pajama shorts that outline every curve of your sweet body.

"Because you'd already be dead by now if it were up to me." You state over your shoulder and then you disappear into the abysmal hallway.

And then he's back in his room again, tightly coiling his hand around his slippery cock that's soaking with his own saliva and maybe a little bit of lube. Same shit, different night, though, this time he was blessed with an addition to his hyperactive imagination.

This time he's thinking about how you would look bouncing on his cock, smiling down at him with your hands around his neck. Pretty, shimmering lips parting as those sharp eyes drift to the back of your head and--

"Shiiiiiiiit."

He's shamelessly cumming all over the hardwood floor of his room, milking out his semen as it comes out in steady ropes and he is heaving. He feels how his cock is convulsing in his hand and he lets out a winded breath before tossing himself against his mattress with heavy eyelids. He goes to bed wondering how worn out he'd be if he ever got his hands on you.

"Oi, Johnny, how many bloody times d'ya need me to tell ya? Pick up y'r fuckin boxers after ya've had y'r shower, ya daft twat!" Simon's roaring echoed through the hallways of the base, shaking up the new recruits but just another day to passing soldiers who had been there for longer.

Price and Kyle merely observe the pair from the sofa in their living room as Johnny's form peeks out to an irate Simon who is standing in the doorway to the shared washroom. Johnny is nonchalantly drying off his mohawk that's now touching the nape of his neck as he peers at the rubber ducky boxers pinched between Simon's fingers.

"Why, ye get frightened over a pair o' kecks?" Johnny is totally poking the bear that is Simon 'Ghost' Riley, and Kyle and Price have to stifle their laughter. But truly this was better than reality TV, so they let it go on.

Simon merely blinks down at the impish grin on Johnny's face.

"You fuckin'..." Simon begins to say.

"No, you are fucking YOU ARE FUCKING!" Johnny boasts out and there is a twinkle in his eye and the two are at it.

"Fuck YOU BLOODY BASTARD BITCH!" Simon plays along as he starts shouting back at Johnny and that just riles him up like the giddy puppy he is, continuing the brainrotting bit. Add that to the laundry list of things that's already on the post-mission 141 routine.

And then there's a rapping at the door that cuts off the laughter and the ridiculous comedy skit that Johnny and Simon are playing out.

"I'll get it." Kyle volunteers getting up from the couch to peer through the peephole, but he feels a lump in his throat at the sight.

"What is it, Kyle?" Price asks in a hushed tone. He must've seen the way the Sergeant visibly stiffened.

"It's her." Kyle emphasizes in a way that lets on a little more than he's willing to admit.

"The lassie from the other day?" Johnny pipes up, suddenly very intrigued.

There's a chorused 'Shh!' at Johnny, who's baby blue eyes widen a bit as a small smile appears on his face.

"A'right, sheesh."

The room is quiet for a brief moment before Kyle just decides to bite the bullet and jingle the door open. And there you are, dressed monochrome as hell, like a second skin in your normal attire. Long-sleeve, slate-grey henley fitting snugly around your upper extremities while the black cargos are hugging tightly around your thighs, but is falling baggy below the knee.

He shifts his weight against the doorframe, supping up your every feature, pretending like he isn't falling apart on the inside at your mere presence.

"Can we help you?" He asks, coolly.

Smooth, Kyle. Smooth.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Actually, yes." You mimic the way he folds his arms across his chest before you take a deep breath.

"Laswell sent me over."

Price enters your line of sight, pressing his palm at the base of the casing, and peers down at you with a cocked brow.

"Laswell, you say?"

You shamelessly size up the Captain, not caring how your eyes are lingering a little longer than they should on him and his Sergeant. The pair cock an amused brow at your behavior before you shift on your other foot.

"Yeah, she said you could use my expertise, I suppose." You shrugged indifferently. Whether they choose to bring you on board wasn't really a huge concern of yours. By now, you were sure that they knew of your reputation, so if they took a chance on you right now, you'd be more than elated to join their elite task force even for just one mission. A huge part of you was itching to get back in the field, and honestly, you had a feeling that these men were a lot more resilient and capable of handling themselves enough to not get killed in the line of duty.

Price turns around to Johnny and Simon who approach from behind and they all share a look before peering down at you

"Let's get to work then, yeah?"

It is laborious work withholding himself from not jumping over the table and biting the flirty Scotsman's head off when he sees the way he was making you giggle. Using his boyish charm to woo you as he puts his arm around the back of the sofa to show you just how easy it is to hack into Russian portal sites to access any organized terrorist emails, threads, or private chats on any relevant intel they could muster up.

Making dirty hacker jokes like, "Ye got an access point fer me?"

To which Price shoots Johnny a knowing 'down boy' look and, of course, he just gives him a coy smile in response. It's infuriating.

So instead of simmering like a twat, he gets up to make himself a cup of coffee. And if it weren't for the smell of candied almonds and vanilla drowning into his senses, he would've never felt your presence standing beside him.

"Ya followin' me or are ya actually after a brew?" His eyes fall on you as he moves to lean against the counter and sip at his coffee.

"Make me one?" You ask with a reticent smile.

He swears he can feel the lump in his throat expanding as his pretty honey eyes flicker to you. He licks his dry lips before casting you a half grin and sets aside his mug. Kyle is a gentleman. He would never deny a lady's request. If the lady wants a coffee, then she will get a coffee.

He wordlessly prepares the machine once again, popping in the K-cup, letting it run until the mug is full and offers it to her. She sweetly thanks him and even her voice is enough to get a little rise out of him, but not long enough before he watches her hand the fucking brew to Johnny. Fingers tighten around the handle of the ceramic, but before it can crack a gloved skeleton hand reaches over his own and puts it down for him.

"Don' let tha' twat get to you." Simon's gruff voice cuts into the Sergeant's head. "He's jus' takin' a piss on ya."

They both glance over at the two who are back to being friendly, kicking their feet up before returning to their respective roles. But Johnny flickers his gaze to the hard stare he's feeling on him and gives them a cheeky wink and grin, toasting his mug to him before sipping at it. Kyle scowls at him.

"A Twat, he is."

The day of the mission is like any other day, but your scent is literally driving him into a maniacal state as he's adjusting the laces on his leather boots. This time it's reminiscent of musky prickly pears, and figs that are infused with your natural scent, and it's making him break a sweat.

But he snaps himself back into his domain. He spurns any invitation from you to sidetrack him when he's prepping. Humiliating himself in front of his Captain the last go around certainly exceeds the threshold of mortification he could handle. Add you into the mix and it's a recipe for disaster.

It was a simple enough objective. They were conducting a training exercise. A sweep and search to detect and disarm IEDs that were at a high risk to civilians inhabiting the south side of London without alarming the public. You were specifically instructed to wear concealed weapons, plain clothes, and a cigarette or two to blend in, but damn. Your ass looks so good in those low-rise jeans and the henley that's unbuttoned a little too far down...

Focus, Kyle.

"Mission like this is elementary for someone like you, innit?" Price breaks the silence, as he adjusts the gun in his holster. His brows raise at you as he chews on some cinnamon gum.

You playfully scoff, "Didn't make it this far to die on a simple sweep and search."

"Awe, don't look too doonfaced that ye haven't been sent on a real mission yet." Johnny ribs winking at you.

That earns a little chuckle from the gentlemen around you except for Simon. He's gazing out the window in a far-flung daze, and you bump your knee into him. His dark eyes flicker to you and he bumps your knee back in acknowledgement. Just black cat things.

Surprisingly that doesn't wrack Kyle's nerves. Instead, it just brings a smile to his face. Being aware of your status within the base made the small interactions you shared with them all the more charming. The skittish black cat in you began to emerge from the alleyway, hesitant to be petted but still willing to brush her tail against their calves.

Cute.

"Mate, if you take any longer, 'm gonna blow myself up for fun."

"Oh, feck off."

Playful banter is exchanged between Simon and Johnny, as they work in pairs to disarm the 'bombs' scattered throughout the city while remaining undercover. Thankfully, the five of you were out of earshot from any residents because you'd all have a field day with that one and something tells you that Price doesn't exactly have the patience for that kind of thing.

"Suprised you're not complaining." Kyle speaks up as he surveys you to cut the last wire to neutralize the threat. The grass is dewy, and there's a hum of cars passing on the slick streets as civilians shuffle past, huddled in coats.

"Nice work, [name]." Price praises, seeing that you completed your task. You cast a smile his way.

"Thanks, Cap."

And he's moving back to Johnny and Simon who are too preoccupied with one another to see that their Captain is a bit disgruntled with their lack of urgency.

"They're such knuckleheads." You chuckle to yourself.

Kyle glances over at the three who are now bickering over something that was now completely unrelated to the task. His smile grows.

"That they are."

"So, do I pass or what?" You stood up straight, glancing over at your Captain. He gives you a good-natured grin.

"Don't get too cocky now. It's still an op, y' know?"

You nod your head. He was right about that. It still was an active operation that could flip at any moment. Intrusive thoughts flood your mind and you feel frozen.

"Hey," You feel a grounding hand on your shoulder. You glance up to see Kyle warmly smiling down at you. "You'll be alright. We'll be alright."

Price feels pride wash over him as he looks at his Sergeant and then back at you as he folds his arms over his chest. "This isn't like any team you've ever been on before."

"I've heard the stories." You mimic your Captain's gesture. "barely hangin' off a heli and still managing to rush the enemy? Impressive."

"Upside down at that." Price claps Kyle's shoulder, causing him to become bashful at his Captain's words.

Your Captain averts his gaze to Johnny and Simon, who are on their last disarming. "Are you lot finished, yet?"

He goes on to berate the two who were taking a wee bit too long for his liking, leaving the both of you alone. Kyle awkwardly shifts his weight as he hovers his hand over his gun.

Your gaze is intense on him, not even bothering to pick up any conversation. He can practically see your tail twirling, feeling at ease with his presence while he feels himself gnawing away at his insides to say anything.

He takes a breath. "You're a lot calmer than I thought."

You shrug. "Well, when you've outlasted seven crews, what's eight?"

"Yeah, about that," You both pause for a moment, observing as a throng of pedestrians treks on the sidewalk just a few yards away, but they disappear behind the buildings unaware of your militant presence. "you wanna tell me why you're the only one who's made it out?"

You narrow your eyes at him. He is right to be suspicious, but you didn't feel like being scrutinized for the nth time. You were proven innocent in every situation, but something lingers in the back of your mind that makes you feel guilty every time. The memories of your missions have gone south, the sharp sting of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you dodge ricocheting bullets. But you shake the thoughts away. "Another time, maybe. Don't wanna jinx it, do we now?"

Kyle grins at that. His honey eyes fixate on you, searching your expression for anything that will give way to what you're really thinking.

Before either of you can say more, Price's voice cuts through the air. "Enough chit-chat. We've got one more to disarm and I want it done before anyone catches wind of what we're up to."

The tension between you dissolves as a new one accumulates in your shoulders as you refocus on the task and approach the final IED. You begin to feel the reality of the situation hit you when you realize everything could go insanely wrong. The public may be unaware, but the consequences of failure are all too real. Your consequences, your failure.

Price gestures for you to take the lead on this one, after all, you're the one he's really examining. You don't realize it, but he has full belief in your abilities. He's read your file and he knows damn well what you're capable of. You're under the scrutiny of your teammates, but one shoulder squeeze from your Cap gives you the morale boost to drop to one knee and begin your work.

Upon investigating the device, you realize it's like the other devices and you feel yourself relax a little. Kyle is at your side, and trepidation seeps into your fingers as they cruise over the wires.

"Blue or red?" he asks.

You don't even skip a beat. "Blue." you reply, trusting your instincts. "On my count."

Kyle readies himself with his wire cutters. "One. Two. Three."

You both carefully snip the wires, and for a moment it feels like the world stops. Your eyes watch as the device powers down, neutralizing the threat.

"That's it." you breathe out, feeling relief wash over you as allow your shoulders to relax.

Price steps forward, and claps you both on the back. "Good work, Wisp, both of you. Civvies are starting to get curious around here."

Wisp?

"Yeah, Wisp! Tha's a good one, Cap!" Johnny cheers, holding out his hands to give you a double high five. You giggle at the unexpected enthusiasm, but you high-five him back and intertwined your fingers together and he does a mini jig.

"Did a fine job." Simon politely nods, respecting your space, unlike his idiotic, cutesy counterpart.

Kyle clicks his tongue but is grinning otherwise at your success. The Scotsman can flirt all day with you, but he knows there is some brimming between you two. It was simply a game of cat and mouse at this point.

Wisp.

As you gather your gear, a lingering sense of impending doom still skulks in the back of your mind. You feel an itch under the skin where your past scars have healed over, but it's duller than usual. Pushing it to the back of your mind, you fall into step with Kyle feeling as though something has shifted in your dynamic with everyone.

In that crucial moment, Kyle trusted you. They all trusted you. It lingers in your mind, a question left unasked.

Kyle nudges, catching your gaze. His smile stretches beautifully across his face. "Guess we make a good team don't we, Wisp?"

Wisp.

You can't help but return the smile, feeling the butterflies settle in your stomach. You feel reborn. "Guess we do."

As you walk away from the site, blending back into the hustle and bustle of the city, you can't help but wonder what your next mission will bring. Whether the tension that is rising between Kyle and you will go unspoken. For now, you'll allow yourself to savor your victory. You've come out of it unscathed. They came out of it unscathed. As awful as it was, that's more than what you could ever say about your last teammates.

And as the rain falls softly around you, you feel like the hell you've endured is somehow worth it.

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Three

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Shit really just went down in this chapter. IM SORRY

Masterlist: Here

The months that followed were a blur of late nights, baby cries, and countless moments of learning how to be something neither of you had ever planned to be—parents. The house was constantly filled with the soft murmur of Willa’s coos, the sound of bottles being washed, and the endless shuffle of trying to make everything fit together.

It wasn’t easy. There were days when you thought you couldn’t keep your eyes open, and nights when you questioned if you were doing anything right at all. But there were moments, too—small victories, fleeting glimpses of joy—that kept you both going.

Moving in with Rafe had been the right decision, you told yourself. The practical side of it made sense, especially as the weeks went on. Rafe was still Rafe: intense, unpredictable, and sometimes impossible to read. But he was trying, and that was something.

Willa had come to see both of you as a constant in her life. She was thriving—growing fast, her chubby cheeks rounding out and her eyes lighting up when either of you walked into the room. You’d become an expert in diaper changes and feeding schedules, and though you hated to admit it, Rafe was actually pretty good with her. He had his moments where he was awkward, unsure, but when it came down to it, he was there. He would hold her when she cried, rock her when she wouldn’t sleep, and talk to her in that soft, almost tender voice you rarely heard from him anywhere else.

You had both fallen into a routine, the rhythm of everyday life settling in like a steady heartbeat. Willa would wake up around 6:30 AM, and by the time Rafe would stumble downstairs with a groggy groan, you’d already had coffee brewing and Willa settled on her blanket. The mornings were quiet—comfortable silence, filled with routine, until Willa started to fuss and everything shifted into motion.

You’d learned how to work together without much communication, both of you picking up on cues. One of you would get the bottle ready while the other soothed Willa, and when she finished, it was time for a nap.

And as much as you hated to admit it, you’d grown used to Rafe’s presence—his heavy footsteps down the hallway, the sound of his voice trying (and sometimes failing) to sing Willa back to sleep at 3 AM.

But there were challenges too. It wasn’t all sweet moments and baby giggles. There were the days where everything felt like it was too much, when you felt overwhelmed by the endless demands of raising a baby, of balancing the practicalities of your life with the unexpected responsibilities of parenting.

There were the mornings when you woke up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all, when you were late for your shifts at the café, and you’d have to rush around to get everything in place. Rafe would always be there, trying to help, but still learning the ropes himself.

The first time you caught him on the phone with his aunt, asking how to properly wash a baby bottle, you had to stifle a laugh. It was the first time you realized that Rafe Cameron—wild, unpredictable Rafe—was just as clueless as you about this whole parenting thing. He might have grown up in a house full of servants, of wealth and privilege, but when it came to taking care of a tiny human, he was as green as they come.

But you didn’t hold it against him. You couldn’t.

The kitchen was where a lot of your moments happened—early mornings when you’d both stand side by side, quietly making coffee, or late nights when you’d settle Willa back into bed, whispering soft words of reassurance to each other. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it was yours.

One night, as you both took a rare moment to sit on the couch after putting Willa to bed, you glanced at Rafe from the corner of your eye, noticing how he rubbed the back of his neck, a tired but satisfied look on his face. You couldn’t help but let a small smile tug at your lips.

"She’s growing so fast," you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I swear she was just a tiny little thing a few weeks ago."

Rafe hummed in agreement, glancing over at you with a small, almost wistful smile. "Yeah. And it feels like every time we get used to something, she changes again."

You nodded, leaning back against the couch. "It’s like we’re constantly playing catch-up."

"Yeah," he said, the word carrying more weight than usual. He ran a hand through his hair. "You ever think about what this is all gonna look like when she gets older? I mean, God, we’re just making it up as we go."

You chuckled, the sound light and almost freeing in the quiet room. "I think that’s kind of the point, right?" You paused, looking over at him, your expression softening. "I never thought I’d be here. With you. Raising a baby. But it doesn’t feel... impossible anymore."

Rafe glanced at you, a small flash of something unguarded in his eyes. "Yeah. Me neither." He paused, looking down at his hands before looking back up. "I guess we’re doing okay, huh?"

You didn’t have an answer at first. Instead, you just let your gaze soften. Maybe you hadn’t figured everything out yet. Maybe you still had a long way to go. But right now? Right now, in this moment, you were okay.

The door creaked from the hallway, and you both turned toward it, the sound of Willa stirring faintly through the door. Without a word, Rafe got up, stretching his arms before walking to the crib. You watched him for a moment, surprised at how natural it had become for him to step in like that.

You followed him, your steps quiet as you watched him gently pick Willa up, rocking her in his arms as he murmured something soft to her. You felt a flutter of something in your chest, a strange mix of relief and warmth.

“Got her?” you whispered, half-expecting him to protest.

He looked at you over his shoulder, his face soft, the exhaustion in his eyes mixing with something else—something more like contentment. “Yeah. Go back to sleep. I got it.”

And in that moment, as you watched him rock Willa back to sleep with ease, you realized something: this—whatever this was—had become a part of you. Not the life you’d planned, but a life that felt strangely right.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It was a few days later, and a crisp morning greeted them when the crying started again. Willa had been particularly fussy the past few days—her sleep patterns erratic, her cries escalating to heart-wrenching wails that neither you nor Rafe could seem to soothe. You'd tried everything: feeding her, changing her, singing to her, rocking her to sleep—but nothing worked.

Rafe was pacing around the living room, his eyes scanning every corner of the room as if the solution to Willa’s crying was hidden under a piece of furniture or buried in a drawer. You sat on the couch, rubbing your eyes, already feeling the exhaustion of another sleepless night pressing in on you. You hadn’t been able to focus at work, and the lack of sleep made everything feel like a blur. But now, there was no ignoring it. The crying was louder, more insistent, and it was like a knife to your heart every time she screamed.

Rafe glanced at you, his frustration mounting. “We’ve tried everything,” he muttered, the words tinged with helplessness. "What else can we do?”

You shook your head, feeling that same helplessness clawing at you. “I don’t know... We’ve been through the list a hundred times.”

You both sat there for a moment, staring at the baby monitor as Willa's cries grew even more frantic. You were about to stand up, about to try the rocking chair again, when Rafe's voice broke through the tension.

“I might know something.”

You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Rafe shifted, his brow furrowing slightly as he leaned against the wall. “Sarah used to do this when she was little. It’s crazy, but it worked every time. She had this blanket... a childhood blanket. I don’t know, it just always calmed her down.”

Your eyes widened as you processed his words. "Wait... Sarah had a blanket? Here?"

Rafe nodded. “Yeah. I think it's still in the attic. I’ll go get it.”

You watched as Rafe turned to leave, the sound of his boots echoing on the stairs. There was a strange, almost surreal feeling in the pit of your stomach as he disappeared from view. Sarah’s blanket. You hadn’t known about it—had no idea it was even still here, tucked away in the attic, a piece of her childhood still lingering in the house after everything that had happened.

A few moments later, Rafe returned, a slightly worn but soft-looking blanket in his hands. He didn’t say anything as he made his way over to the crib where Willa was still crying, her little face scrunched up in distress.

“Here goes nothing,” Rafe muttered, more to himself than to you.

He gently wrapped the blanket around Willa, smoothing it over her tiny body. It was faded in spots, the fabric soft with age, but it carried a strange comfort to it—a piece of Sarah that had been forgotten until now. You stood quietly, watching the scene unfold, unsure of what to expect.

And then, in what felt like an instant, Willa’s cries started to fade. Her tiny hands grasped at the blanket for a moment, and then she let out a soft sigh. Her body, tense from the crying, relaxed in Rafe’s arms, and her big brown eyes blinked up at him, almost like she was seeing him for the first time.

You could hardly believe it. The moment felt like magic.

Rafe, looking just as surprised as you, stood there for a moment, his hands still holding Willa as she cooed softly, her eyelids fluttering. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “It actually worked.”

You couldn’t move. The sight of Willa—now calm and almost content—was like a weight lifted from your chest. You had been so focused on solving this crisis, on trying to manage everything, that you hadn’t considered that something so simple, so deeply tied to the past, might be the key.

As Rafe gently placed Willa back in her crib, you stood still, unable to shake the strange sensation that had crept into your heart. Watching him with the blanket, watching him soothe Willa, a feeling washed over you—an unfamiliar tightness in your chest that was both comforting and unnerving. It was as if, in that moment, a piece of Sarah had crossed into your life in a way that felt too intimate. Too real.

Rafe glanced over at you, his face soft, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t think it would actually work,” he admitted quietly, still gazing at Willa, who was now sleeping soundly, wrapped in the faded childhood blanket.

You swallowed, trying to shake the sudden lump in your throat. “I didn’t know she had it,” you whispered, your voice quiet. “It’s... it’s kind of strange, isn’t it? To think that something so simple could bring her comfort.”

Rafe nodded, walking slowly back toward the living room as he sat down on the couch. He looked at you, his gaze slightly distant but full of that same raw honesty you’d come to expect from him. “Yeah, it’s weird. But it makes sense, right? Sarah had that damn thing with her everywhere. Maybe she passed it on to Willa somehow. Who knows? Maybe it’s something about the smell, or just the familiarity of it. But I guess that’s the thing with kids—they find comfort in things that we can’t even explain.”

You didn’t answer immediately. The room felt thick with something unspoken. There was a soft, melancholic weight in the air, and your chest ached. You hadn’t expected to feel this—this weird pull in your heart. The thought of Sarah, the reminder of her presence in this house, in your life, and now, with Willa... it was all too much to process.

You sat down beside Rafe, your body heavy with the unspoken thoughts crowding your mind. Neither of you said anything for a while. There wasn’t anything to say, really. But the silence between you two didn’t feel uncomfortable this time. It felt... shared.

Finally, after a few moments, you spoke, your voice soft but steady. “It’s... strange to think that Sarah’s still here. In some way. For Willa.” You looked at Rafe, trying to read his face, but his expression was guarded. “It’s like... she’s still looking out for her, even now.”

Rafe didn’t meet your gaze immediately. He just stared at the floor, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I hope so.”

You glanced down at Willa, her tiny form tucked into the blanket, her face peaceful now. The weight in your chest felt a little lighter. “I hope so, too.”

It wasn’t easy. None of this was. But at that moment, with Sarah's blanket wrapped around Willa, you both realized something—it wasn’t just about the past anymore. It was about the present. And the future.

You didn’t have all the answers, but maybe you didn’t need to. Maybe you just needed to trust that you were doing your best, that you were doing this for Willa, for Sarah, for each other. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The day had shifted into something quieter, something more grounded. The house felt a little warmer, a little fuller, with Sarah’s memory lingering in the most unexpected of ways.

And as you sat there next to Rafe, silently watching over Willa, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace—the first you’d felt in a while.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A few hours later, the night had settled into a rare quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house the only sounds in the otherwise still air. Willa had finally fallen asleep—her tiny body now wrapped snugly in her crib, her peaceful face illuminated by the moonlight that spilled through the window. You and Rafe were sitting in the living room, a bottle of wine between you both, the remnants of the evening slipping by in a slow, comfortable haze.

It wasn’t something either of you had planned, but tonight felt different. The weight of the past few months, the stress of adjusting to this new life together, had somehow slipped away after dinner. There was no rush to get up, no urgent task that needed to be done. The wine flowed freely, and for a brief moment, it felt like you were allowed to just breathe.

You poured the second glass of wine, the conversation light, a mix of joking about how neither of you had ever really handled a bottle opener right and how neither of you knew much about wine, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. The normal world felt far away, and this small moment of calm was something you both desperately needed.

“I swear,” Rafe said with a half-grin, swirling his glass and leaning back into the couch, “I think I might be a natural at this wine thing.”

You laughed, lifting your own glass to your lips. “Oh yeah? That’s what I was thinking too. A whole new world of sophistication has opened up for you.” You clinked your glass against him, the light chimes almost too loud in the silence.

There was a quiet ease to the night. The tension of the past few months, the uncertainty of your situation, seemed far away. You both talked about random things—life before Willa, stupid high school memories, the occasional dig at the ridiculousness of the Kooks’ high-society antics. And somehow, in this soft glow of laughter, you both began to forget the weight of your new reality.

But as the night wore on, something in the air between you shifted.

The conversation had died down, and now the silence felt heavier, different. You caught Rafe’s gaze as he looked at you over the rim of his glass, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the space between you seemed charged. It was almost as if, after everything, this moment was too... easy. Too comfortable.

You shifted on the couch, the wine starting to cloud your mind in the way it did when it wasn’t just about a drink anymore. Your heart beat a little faster, a strange heat blooming in your chest.

Rafe’s eyes never left you, and you could feel the sudden awareness of his presence—his usual confidence now laced with something more raw. You tried to brush it off, to laugh it away, but your throat felt tight.

“I think we might’ve had a little too much,” you said, your voice a little unsteady, more than you’d intended. You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the sudden tension or maybe something else entirely.

He nodded, his gaze now focused entirely on you. “Yeah, probably. But... you know, it’s been a while since I’ve had a night like this. With someone.”

You felt the words sit heavy between you both, something unspoken hanging there, and for a brief moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes—something that mirrored what you had felt earlier, that strange warmth in your chest.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could find the right words, Rafe shifted closer.

It was subtle, a slight movement, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could even process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was gentle, and slow, like neither of you wanted to let go. For a moment, it felt like everything had shifted, like time had paused and all that mattered was the contact, the connection, the warmth of his mouth against yours.

But as quickly as it started, it was over. The distance between you two was almost immediate, both of you pulling away with wide eyes and labored breaths.

You both sat there, frozen, the weight of what had just happened sinking in like a heavy stone.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, your chest tight as your heart raced, “That... that was a mistake.”

Rafe’s face was flushed, his hands running through his hair nervously. He looked just as stunned as you felt. “Yeah. A big mistake,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with something like disbelief.

The air around you both thickened, heavy with the tension of what had just happened. Neither of you knew how to fix it, how to go back to the way things had been just minutes before, when everything felt... simple. When you both were just two people trying to figure things out.

“I—” You cut yourself off, unable to find the words. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say, what you were supposed to feel. The kiss had been... unexpected, yet somehow, it had felt too natural to ignore.

Rafe was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on his hands, his voice quiet when he finally spoke. “We can’t—this can’t happen again, [Y/N].” His words were final, but there was something underneath them—a hesitation, like he wasn’t entirely sure that was what he wanted to say. “I mean, we’re... we’re doing this for Willa, right? We can’t let this mess things up.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. You’re right.” But as you said the words, you felt a strange tug in your chest—something that didn’t align with the logic of what you knew was right. You didn’t know what to do with that feeling, how to even begin to unpack it.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You and Rafe were guardians to Willa. That was it. It had to be that way. This... this wasn’t supposed to complicate things.

But the air between you both remained heavy. Every word that followed felt like an attempt to fill the silence, to erase the awkwardness, but nothing worked.

You sighed, your hands pressing against your eyes. “This is just so messed up. We’ve already got enough going on, and now...” you trailed off, unsure of what to even say next. You felt disoriented, your emotions tangled.

Rafe glanced over at you, his expression shifting from shock to something softer. “I don’t know what to say either. But... we need to focus on Willa. We’re doing this for her. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded again, trying to pull yourself together, but the air between you two was thick, and no amount of words could erase the kiss, the connection that had flickered between you both.

And in the quiet that followed, you realized something: things were already complicated. Whether you admitted it or not, the line between what was necessary and what felt right was already blurred. And neither of you knew how to unblur it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The days dragged on, each one more awkward than the last. After the kiss, Rafe had retreated into himself, throwing up walls so high you could barely see over them. He was colder now—shorter with his words, sharper with his tone. The rare moments of understanding and teamwork you’d managed to build in the past months seemed to vanish overnight.

It was suffocating.

You found yourself juggling too much at once: your shifts at the café, the endless demands of parenting, and now, the tension that lingered between you and Rafe like a storm cloud. You couldn’t escape it. Every glance, every clipped response from him was a reminder of the kiss—a reminder of how things had gone wrong and how neither of you knew how to fix it.

Willa was your only reprieve. Despite the chaos, she was growing brighter by the day. Her giggles were your anchor, her tiny hands reaching for yours a reminder of why you were enduring this storm. But even she wasn’t enough to distract you from the weight of everything else.

“Rafe, can you grab her bottle from the kitchen?” you called one afternoon, cradling Willa in your arms as she fussed.

He didn’t look up from his phone. “You’ve got two legs, don’t you?” he muttered, the words slicing through the air.

You froze, biting back the sting of his tone. “I’m holding her, Rafe,” you said as evenly as you could manage.

With an exaggerated sigh, he got up and stomped into the kitchen. The bottle landed on the coffee table a moment later, the sound of it hitting the wood sharper than it needed to be.

“Thanks,” you said, though your gratitude felt hollow. He didn’t respond, disappearing into his office without another word.

This was how it was now—barbed comments, cold silences, and the ever-present feeling that you were walking on eggshells.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

One evening, after another particularly tense exchange, you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The exhaustion was bone-deep. You felt like you were failing on all fronts—your job, your relationship with Rafe (if you could even call it that), and even Willa.

You couldn’t help but wonder how much longer this could go on. How long you could juggle everything without dropping one of the pieces.

But before you could dwell on it too long, there was a knock at the door.

Rafe stood there, his face unreadable. For a moment, you thought maybe he was going to apologize, maybe he was going to acknowledge how hard this had been for both of you.

Instead, he said, “We need to talk.”

You braced yourself. “About?”

His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t place—nervousness, maybe, or anger. “Ward.”

Your stomach dropped. “What about him?”

Rafe stepped into the room, his posture tense. “He’s... he’s trying to get custody of Willa.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“He’s claiming we’re unfit,” Rafe said, his jaw tightening. “Says we don’t have the resources, that we’re too young. He’s filing a petition.”

Your heart raced as you tried to process the information. Ward Cameron, the man who had emotionally scarred his children, who had driven a wedge into their family with his manipulations, was trying to take Willa away?

“He can’t—he can’t do this,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “He’s not fit to take care of her! What about everything he did to you? To Sarah?”

Rafe’s expression hardened, a mixture of fear and fury flashing across his face. “None of that matters to him. He doesn’t care about her—he just wants control.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. You couldn’t lose Willa. Not to Ward. Not after everything you’d fought for, everything Sarah and John B. had wanted for her.

“What do we do?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Rafe looked at you, and for the first time in weeks, the coldness in his eyes melted away, replaced by something raw and real. “We fight him,” he said firmly. “We don’t let him win.”

But as he said the words, the doubt in his voice betrayed him. Because deep down, you both knew that Ward Cameron wasn’t a man who fought fair. And the thought of what he might do to get his way sent a chill down your spine.

The battle for Willa had just begun, and it was about to shake everything you thought you knew.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[hynzsn]

★ CHAPTER ONE: BERRY BEST BEGINNING ★

chapter one of ₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕STRAWBERRY KISSES ꒱ ˚₊

☆ choi soobin x male reader

-> sunshine baker!soobin x grumpy (secretly soft) farmer!reader

꩜ .ᐟ fluff

contents: loosely inspired by strawberry shortcake (tv show), opposites attract, m/m, strawberries, romance, slice of life, slight enemies to lovers (at least grumpy x sunshine potential), humor, bakery, farm, forced proximity, small town setting, mutual pining (brewing already!), summer, summer vibes, lighthearted & sweet, slow burn, feel good, height difference, summer berry festival, awkward encounters, did someone say strawberries?

wc: 2.3k

summary: meet soobin, the sunshine baker known for his award-winning pastries and infectious laugh. his bakery, "crumbs & co.," is the heart of shortcake springs, especially during the annual summer berry festival. but disaster strikes – he's out of strawberries, his star ingredient! enter you, the gruff but handsome owner of "sun-kissed berries," known for your organic, mouthwatering produce. soobin, desperate and flustered, begs you for help. you, initially hesitant due to the last-minute request and your own demanding schedule, is charmed by soobin’s passion and agrees to help, setting the stage for a week of unexpected collaboration.

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welcome to shortcake springs, a place where life was as sweet and satisfying as a perfectly crafted strawberry shortcake. nestled amidst rolling hills and fields bursting with color, the town was a patchwork of charm and rustic elegance. the air, always tinted with the sweetness of ripening berries, carried the laughter of children playing in the town square, a space as inviting and comforting as a fluffy biscuit base. quaint brick buildings, their faces adorned with overflowing flower boxes, lined main street, each shop a treasure trove of local delights, much like the hidden pockets of juicy strawberries within a well-made shortcake.

and just like the crowning dollop of whipped cream, the annual summer berry festival was the pinnacle of the town's year, a celebration of all things fruity and joyful. it was a time for neighbors to come together, for traditions to be shared, and for the air to be filled with the irresistible aroma of freshly baked dreams.

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the aroma of baking bread and simmering fruit usually heralded the dawn in this quaint corner of the world. but today, a different kind of energy crackled through the air - a blend of rising panic and the sweet, sharp scent of desperation. it clung to choi soobin like a fine dusting of flour as he frantically rummaged through his walk-in refrigerator.

"no, no, no!" the word escaped him, a low groan that echoed off the stainless steel shelves, starkly contrasting with his usually disposition. his bakery, "crumbs & co," was a symphony of warmth and light, the kind of place where worries melted away with the first bite of a blueberry muffin. but right now, the only thing melting was soobin's composure.

he was out of strawberries. completely, utterly, devastatingly out. and not just any strawberries - these were the plump, ruby-red jewels destined for his legendary strawberry shortcake, the crown jewel of the annual summer berry festival, just a week away.

"okay, soobin, think," he muttered, pushing a hand through his already-tousled hair. he looked like a classic storybook baker, flour-dusted apron slightly askew, a smudge of strawberry jam on his cheek, and eyes wide with a mixture of distress and determination. "who has the best damn strawberries within a fifty-mile radius?"

the answer, as clear and bright as the summer sky outside, slammed into him like a runaway pie cart. it was a name whispered with reverence by townsfolk and pastry enthusiasts alike: y/n, the enigmatic owner of "sun-kissed berries."

y/n. even your name sounded like something out of a folk song, rough around the edges yet undeniably alluring. soobin had only caught glimpses of you at the local farmer's market, and there was always one thing that stood out to him the most - your eyes. your eyes which could probably melt glaciers with a single glance. you had a reputation for being a bit gruff, a man of few words and even fewer smiles. but damn, could you grow some strawberries.

soobin glanced at the calendar on the wall, each day marked with a reminder of the rapidly approaching festival. it was a long shot, a desperate plea. but desperation, as they say, was the mother of all questionable life choices. and right now, soobin was ready to adopt that questionable life choice and call it his own.

"alright y/n," soobin muttered, grabbing his keys and mentally preparing himself for potential rejection. "time to see if those rumours about your heart being as soft as your strawberries are actually true."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the drive to "sun-kissed berries," was a blur of verdant fields and soobin's increasingly frantic internal monologue. he'd rehearsed his plea at least a dozen times, each iteration more desperate than the last. he just had to convince you to part with your precious strawberries. his reputation, his sanity, and possibly the entire happiness index of the town depended on it.

he pulled up to the farm, a charmingly rustic spread with a weathered wooden sign that read "sun-kissed berries - taste the difference." soobin's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that rivaled the beat of a hummingbird's wings. he took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of freshly turned earth, and, yes, the unmistakable sweetness of ripe strawberries. it was like walking into a goddamn fruit-themed fairytale.

he spotted you immediately. you were bent over a row of strawberry plants, a straw hat shading your eyes as you inspected the fruit with a focus that bordered on reverence. even from a distance, soobin could see the way the sun glinted off your hair, the way your shoulders moved with an easy strength that made his stomach do a weird little flip.

"okay, soobin," he whispered to himself, "play it cool. be charming. channel your inner pastry god."

he strode towards you, each step a symphony of squeaking sneakers and mounting anxiety. as he got closer, he could hear you humming a low tune, a melody as warm and comforting as a summer breeze. you still hadn't noticed him, too engrossed in the world of your berries.

"um, hello?" soobin called out, his voice a little higher-pitched than intended.

you straightened up, turning to face him with a slow deliberateness that sent a shiver down soobin's spine. your eyes, sharp and startingly intense, met his, and for a moment, soobin forgot how to breathe.

"can i help you?" you asked, your voice a low rumble that resonated deep within soobin's chest. it was the kind of voice that could narrate audiobooks and make grocery lists sound like poetry.

"i, uh..." soobin stammered, his carefully rehearsed speech dissolving like sugar in rainwater. he felt like an idiot, standing there with his mouth flapping like a landed fish.

you raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes. "cat got your tongue?"

"more like strawberry stole my vocabulary," soobin blurted out, mentally kicking himself for the lame joke.

to his surprise, a low chuckle rumbled from your chest. "that's a new one." you leaned back against a weathered fence post, crossing your arms over your chest. "so, what brings the town baker to my humble berry patch?"

soobin took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to slow down to something resembling a normal rhythm. "right, well, you see, y/n," he began, trying to inject his voice with a confidence he definitely didn't feel, "i'm in a bit of a predicament."

"predicament?" you echoed, tilting your head slightly. the sunlight caught the side of your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the faintest hint of stubble. soobin briefly wandered what it would be like to trace those lines with his fingertips, then mentally scolded himself for having inappropriate thoughts about a guy who could probably bench-press a tractor.

"yes, a predicament of epic, pastry-related proportions," soobin said, wincing internally at his own rambling. "you see, the summer berry festival is in a week..."

"i'm aware," you interrupted, a hint of amusement in your voice. "it's kind of hard to miss all the posters plastered around town with that giant strawberry mascot on them."

soobin blushed, realizing he was stating the obvious. "right, of course," he mumbled. "well, the thing is, my strawberry shortcakes are, like, a huge thing at the festival. people line up for hours. there are even rumours of a black market for the last few boxes."

you chuckled, a deep throaty sound that sent a pleasant shiver down soobin's spine. "sounds serious."

"it is!" soobin exclaimed, his desperation finally breaking through. "and the thing is, i, uh, i may have...miscalculated...the amount of strawberries i needed."

"miscalculated?' you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

soobin cringed. "okay, fine, i completely forgot to order more and now i'm completely out and the festival is in a week and..." he trailed off, realizing that he was starting to hyperventilate.

you studied him for a moment, your gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive. soobin felt like you could see right through his flour-dusted apron, into the depths of his slightly panicked soul.

"so," you said slowly, "you're asking me..."

"for your strawberries?" soobin blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "please. y/n, you're my only hope! your strawberries are legendary! they're like little drops of sunshine kissed by angels!"

okay maybe he went a tad overboard with the description, but he was desperate!

you didn't reply right away. you just stood there, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on your face as you surveyed soobin with those intense eyes. soobin resisted the urge to fidget, reminding himself that he was a pastry god, a master of dough and sugar, and he could handle a little bit of awkward silence.

"you know," you finally said, your voice deceptively casual, "most people place orders in advance."

soobin winced. "yes, i’m aware of how business transactions usually work," he said, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "but this is... a unique situation. a perfect storm of baking enthusiasm and forgetfulness."

you let out a low chuckle, the sound unexpectedly pleasant. "let me guess, you were up all night perfecting a new glaze, lost track of time, and by the time you remembered the strawberries, it was too late?"

soobin stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. "how...how did you know that?"

you shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. "lucky guess. plus, you've got a bit of flour in your hair."

soobin's hand flew to his head, self-consciously brushing away the stray but of baking evidence. he was mortified. he prided himself on his usually impeccable appearance, but clearly, his strawberry-induced meltdown had taken it's toll.

"look," you said, your voice softening slightly, "i appreciate the...enthusiasm. and your shortcakes do sound legendary."

"they are!" soobin interjected. clutching at the compliment like a lifeline.

you held up a hand, silencing him. "but," you continued, "my strawberries are spoken for. i've got contracts with half the restaurants in town, not to mention the farmer's market this weekend."

soobin's heart plummeted. he knew it was a long shot, but hearing you confirm it felt like a punch to the gut. his festival dreams, his reputation, his very existence as a baker flashed before his eyes.

"but..." you added, and soobin dared to hope again.

you pushed away from the fence post, tilting your head back slightly to meet soobin's eyes. even with the height difference, your gaze held steady, those same intense eyes studying him with an unnerving perceptiveness. soobin was really fighting the urge to fidget under your scrutiny, but he also couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the way you had to look up at him.

"i might," you said slowly, your voice low and a touch of conspiratorial, "have a small surplus."

soobin's head tilted in response, hope surging through him like a shot of espresso. "you do?"

"maybe," you said, a playful glint in your eyes, "but it'll cost you."

soobin would have empties his bakery fund, his savings account, and possibly sold his prized collection of vintage rolling pins at that moment. "anything," he blurted out. "name your price."

you let out a deep an rich chuckle, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you. "relax, baker boy. i'm not going to bankrupt you. at least, not today." you paused, tapping a finger against your chin thoughtfully. "tell you what. you help me around the farm this week, leading up to the festival - i’m harvesting the last of the season's - and those surplus berries are all yours."

soobin blinked, momentarily distracted by how close you were now. he could practically smell the fresh earth and sunshine clinging to your clothes. "help you...on the farm?"he echoed, trying to focus on the conversation ad not the way your presence seemed to fill his senses. he couldn't help but picture himself, covered in dirt and probably a few insects, fumbling his way through a field of strawberries. it wasn't exactly the image he usually projected.

you seemed to find his hesitation amusing. "don't worry, i won't put you to work on any heavy machinery," you said, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "unless you're secretly a tractor enthusiast in disguise."

soobin laughed, a wave of relief washing over him. "i think i'll stick to my ovens for now," he said. "but a deal's a deal. you've got yourself a farmhand, y/n."

you extended your hand, your grip firm and surprisingly warm against soobin's. "welcome aboard, soobin," you said, a genuine smile finally spreading across your face. it transformed younfrom gruff owner to someone....well, someone soobin could definitely see himself spending a lot lf time with, both in the strawberry fields and maybe, just maybe, somewhere a little more...private. he quickly shoved that thought aside. focus, soobin. strawberries. festival. right.

"so," you continued, your voice snapping soobin out of his daydreams, "be here bright and early tomorrow, and wear clothes you don't mind getting dirty. and soobin?"

"yeah?"

"leave the fancy pastries at home. we'll have our work cut out for us, and i prefer my sugar rush in the form of freshly picked strawberries."

soobin grinned, his heart feeling lighter than it had in days. "deal." he gave you a little wave, unable to contain his happy energy. "i should probably let you get back to it. i’ll be here bright and early tomorrow, ready to work...and maybe sample a few strawberries." he added the last part with a playful wink, earning himself another chuckle from you.

turning to leave, soobin felt a lightness in his step that hadn't bee there before. as he walked back to his vespa, the setting sun casting long shadows across the farm, he couldn't shake the feeling that this unexpected turn of events might just be the sweetest thing. he'd stumbled upon all year.

he slid onto his vespa, the scent of strawberries clinging to his clothes, his apron, and pulled away from "sun-kissed berries," his heart full of anticipation for the week ahead. he had a feeling that it was going to be a berry good one.

[buzzcutlip]

Hiiii... For your dialogue prompts could you do 'can't sleep?' or 'don't look at me like that' please?

You choose the character, whoever you think fits best.

Much love <3

Hi Amy, thank you for sending the prompt, here's one for you :) It exist in the Obsession universe (because I'm obsessed with it).

Prompt: "Don't look at me like that" Richie Jerimovich x Fem!Reader 1000+ words (happens in this universe, and after this - but I don't think you need to read it, however, it can be a bit vague)

Through the gaps between the guests' bodies, their shoulders and arms, you spot Richie. He’s shoving canapés into his mouth, the delicate, bite-sized bruschettas and caviar blini looking especially small in his long, thick fingers. It’s obvious he hasn’t eaten, which is typical Richie—he’s the “only coffee and cigarettes until midday, at least” guy, then grabs something quick, just to stuff himself with greasy fast food later in the evening.

You hate how well you know him, how hard it is not to notice his presence in Nat and Pete’s living room, crowded with close and extended family members, Pete’s co-workers, and of course, The Bear crew. Richie’s dressed in an unusual outfit—not a suit, but not his typical sweatsuit either. He’s wearing washed Levi’s and a dark gray henley.

You’d be lying if you said he doesn’t look good. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t still a little heartbroken over what he told you two weeks ago. This can’t happen again.

Petulantly, you don’t go over to greet him. Instead, you talk to Marcus, then catch Pete to congratulate him on the baby, handing him a card in a nice, expensive envelope. In the kitchen, you pour some fresh orange juice, bypass the alcohol, and cram as many ice cubes as you can into the glass. You don’t watch Richie directly, but you’re aware of his every movement.

Donna’s trying to shush everyone because Natalie’s putting the baby down in the nursery, which strikes you as funny—funny and ironic. You have little patience for parents who messed up their kids’ lives, whether it’s your own parents, Donna Berzatto, or the countless irresponsible people who should never have had children.

By the large window overlooking the garden, Richie finally approaches you. Small victories.

“What’re you doing?” His voice, once soothing, now grates on you.

That catches you off guard—it’s not what you were expecting.

“Celebrating the baby,” you reply, raising your half-empty glass of juice.

Richie scoffs, glancing up at the ceiling. It takes you a moment to catch up. He’s so simple, yet so complicated.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Richie warns, and you realize he’s noticed your constant awareness of him.

“Like what?” you play dumb.

“Like it’s all my fault,” Richie snaps, his voice rising slightly. One of the uncles turns to look.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you decide not to react. With so many people around, you don’t want to cause a scene. Under Richie’s heavy gaze, you leave the room and head upstairs in search of a bathroom.

Once you’ve freshened up, wiping the black mascara marks from under your eyes and reapplying your lipstick, you feel a bit better. But as soon as you open the door, Richie is right there, hooking his arm through yours and leading you into the nearest room—a guest room, from the look of it.

“What?” you snap, shaking him off and turning to face him.

“I wanna know what’s going on with you,” Richie growls, leaning down until your faces are mere inches apart.

The tension between you is thick, a mix of unresolved emotions and an undeniable physical pull. You both stand there, breathing heavily, caught between the chaos of the party downstairs and the storm brewing in this quiet room.

You can’t believe him. “What’s going on with me? You said things couldn’t happen again, but they did—once, twice. And it was you who initiated it.”

The weight of unspoken words and unsaid truths hangs heavily between you.

Richie steps back, half-turning as he groans loudly, covering his eyes with his large palm.

“Now you wanna pretend nothing ever happened?” you accuse, your voice sounding weaker than you intended.

Richie looks at you with an intensity that both excites and terrifies you. “Because it has to be that way. Fuck—I could be your dad. Jesus.” His hand flexes at his side, like he’s trying to hold himself back.

“But you’re not!” you shout. Richie steps back into your space, gripping your bare arm with one hand while covering your mouth with the other.

“There are people,” Richie hisses, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes.

For a second, you freeze, then you shake him off and step away. You don’t know this side of him—serious, cold, holding on to his façade as tightly as he can.

“I’m tired of never talking about it,” you say, shaking your head, glowering. You still call it “it,” avoiding the truth.

Richie frowns at you, his deep blue eyes searching for something. The noise from downstairs is loud—laughter, clinking glasses, doors opening and closing. It’s a wild new baby celebration, Berzatto-style. Better laughter than screaming.

A hollow feeling grows in your chest with each passing second. You’re afraid to speak up, so you wait for Richie to make a move.

“What if I said I wanted it?”

“Wanted what?” you ask, trying to mask the tremble in your voice, scared to hope that he means what you think he does. Would a man like Richie really give in? It’s never simple with him—his demons, his baggage, all the walls he’s built.

“If I wanted—this,” Richie waves between the two of you, avoiding your eyes.

Your stomach tightens. It’s not what you’d hoped for deep down, and a pang of disappointment hits you, but you knew this was coming. You step closer to him, your chest brushing against his. The magnetic pull between you is undeniable, and you know if you give in, it’ll consume you both. Maybe that’s exactly what you want. Friends with benefits never ends happily.

In the end, it’s Richie who reaches for you, kissing you with Earth-shattering force. His fingers, smelling faintly of olives, chives, and cigarettes, cradle your face, and you weakly cup his cheeks, feeling his beard under your palms.

You hear yourself whimper as your tongues meet, your eyebrows knitting together as your face crumples. You’re on the verge of tears. Maybe you are crying—Richie doesn’t understand anything, he’s so fucking stupid, and you can’t tell him, because then he’ll leave you and never come back.

The thoughts spur you on. You lead the kiss, desperately pressing closer, standing on your tiptoes, licking into his mouth, biting his lip. He grabs your wrists, as if he wants to say something, but you don’t let him.

Then a loud cracking noise from downstairs jolts you both, and you pull apart, fear of getting caught overtaking the need within you.

Your eyes are heavy with want, arousal pulsing through your body. Richie doesn’t look any better.

“Okay,” you say, though your heart flutters with a mix of anticipation and caution. “But if we’re doing this, it has to be clear—no more mixed signals. No denial.”

Richie’s eyes darken as he steps closer again, his hand trailing down your arm. “Deal,” he says, his voice low, filled with that familiar, irresistible edge. He leans in, his breath brushing against your lips. “We stick to what we know.”

[miguelhugger2099]

Dr. Miguel O'Hara Everyone knows about the pretty boy at the lab, Miguel O'Hara. He's confident, intelligent and maybe not the friendliest. Also might be the loneliest. So, you decide to shoot your shot on a whim. No Warnings. First post, kinda nervous. Not proofread at all. Just something to get out my system. Word Count: 1,805

Breathe in and breathe out.

That’s what you told yourself as you clutched a stack of papers to your chest. You squeezed your way through a pack of people in the hallway, murmuring your excuses as your mind was somewhere else. While bumping into your boss, he requested your help on sending out documents as he was busy with other pressing matters. To keep your job, you smiled and accepted it with outstretched hands. The stack was heavy enough to make you huff and lug it against you for a more comfortable position.

The slight burn in your arms made you switch between the two sides of yourself and you became nosy to peep through the names on the documents. You noted that the papers came stapled together in packets along with names at the top left corner. Some names were recognizable and some were not.

Dr. Octavius

Dr. Connors

Dr. O’ Hara–

O’Hara.

Ah.

You stopped in your tracks as you stared at the name. O’Hara was no stranger by any means. Women and men alike would either fawn or scowl at the mere mention of his name. It was weird how popularity and gossip thrived even in the workforce but you quickly shrugged it off eventually. You'd' only been working at Alchemax for a few months now after moving to Nueva York from your hometown. Despite all that, you’ve gained the pleasure of eavesdropping on your female co-workers shamelessly talking hot gossip between themselves during lab hours about Dr. O’Hara. He was incredibly handsome, no doubt– you’ve seen him yourself. You two have passed by each other since your lunch breaks were fairly close to one another.

It was an uncommon hour, done at an earlier time than most so usually you’d be the only one in the breakroom to collect your lunch. He’d pop in the breakroom with a deep frown on his face, and his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. His large frame would swiftly move to the coffee machine and his broad shoulders would essentially cover the entire counter while the buzz of the brewing began. He seemed to be in his own world, staring intently as the brew dripped into his mug. When the machine notified him it had finished, he’d sniff his nose and push his glasses back up on his nose bridge before coughing slightly, taking his mug and exiting the room without another word. He was rarely ever around people and rarely ever smiling– always focused on his job.

His attractiveness was undeniable but he wasn’t much of a talker. You didn’t mind though. You weren’t much one either. So, even though there was a leap in your chest whenever your eyes landed on him, you never really did much outside of it. You’ve thought to yourself many times to maybe strike up a “hello” but even that felt too much. But today, in this moment, with his name plastered on the documents in your hand, you gained an impulsive urge to maybe, possibly talk to him.

There was a huge chance he’d reject you but the adrenaline of the idea was already seeping through your veins and nothing could stop you in this moment. So, you made your way doing your job to deliver these papers as you had a vague idea of where these scientists offices were with the help of a few people you asked along the way. The stack eventually became much lighter as you went through them and soon enough you got to O’Hara’s office.

You faced the door with his name engraved at the top. It was shut closed and you could vaguely hear the click-clacking of the keyboard. With a deep breath and a small pep talk to yourself, you gently knocked on the door with your knuckles. You heard a pause on the other end before the typing continued.

“Come in.” A gruff voice was muffled. You took that as your sign to enter inside, opening the door with a careful squeak on the hinges. Inside was a fairly large room, occupied with various beakers, labels and notes stuck on pin boards around the walls. It was best described as an organized mess evident when he stood up and plucked a clipboard from his other desk under the rubble of scientific clutter before sitting back down at his computer desk. If you hadn’t literally just heard him give access to enter the room, you would’ve thought you trespassed with the way he barely acknowledged your existence.

You craned your neck around to take in his space and ultimately settled your eyes on him. He glanced at both his clipboard and computer screen, probably typing up one of his written reports. You walked over to his side and neither of you spoke. In your mind, a part of you was wondering if this was a good idea and the other part of you realized that he is much much more handsome than the rumors let on. Sure, you’ve seen him but only at a glance. Up close, you noticed he had small wrinkles above his forehead that became prominent when he raised his eyebrows to fix the glasses sliding down his nose. His plump lips pursed slightly when he made a mistake on his computer, furiously pressing backspace. His hair was brown with a tinge of a red hue in them and a bit of stress gray strands of hair. Accompanying it was a small face with a sharp jawline and equally strong cheekbones. It was clear he took care of himself. He really was pretty.

He obviously felt you staring. The silence became unbearable when it was awkward so he coughed that sounded like a grunt. “Did you…need something?” He asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. His voice had a soft rumble to it, you noted.

You flinched softly, blinking as he popped you out of your thinking. You fumbled with the papers in your hands, quickly flipping through the files to hand him the one with his name on it. “Dr. Stone informed me to give you these copies of the recent results from the data collected earlier this week,” You offered it to him with one hand while your other hand held the rest of the stack against your hip.

He accepted the papers with a hesitant small nod, taking them carefully and placing it beside him by moving a few knick knacks away. He pushed his glasses back up with his index finger and gave you another neutral look. “Now if there isn’t anything else…” His eyes darted towards the door and back at you, his body prepared to turn back to his work.

“Well, there is this one thing…” You fiddled with the other papers in your hand nervously. “I was thinking maybe, if you'd like to have lunch with me one of these days.” You didn’t look at him, opting out for the colorful sticky notes stuck to the side of his monitor. You wondered what ‘call him’ was about.

He raised an eyebrow at you, his brown eyes studying your face carefully before speaking again. “Lunch?” He repeated, his tone was still on guard. “I don’t remember wanting to have lunch with anyone.”

You knew he was blunt so you didn’t take it too personally, but couldn’t he have been a little nicer? The confidence you had built up was slowly falling apart by the second. You stammered over yourself as you tried to explain with a crack in your self-esteem. “I didn’t mean to assume that you wanted to, just that maybe you’d like to. Although, I guess it would be presumptuous of me to think you’d agree to have lunch with someone you’ve never met before. But I thought it’d be a nice change of pace because I don’t have anyone to have lunch with either,” You realized how that came out and began panicking to explain your explanation. “Not to say you’re like me or anything! You probably have friends. Not probably, you do!” You rambled on and on, tripping over words and realizing that you should’ve never let that random impulse drive your decision making.

O’Hara stared at you for longer than necessary, his eyes looking at your face with a plain look but he was considering your offer. He turned back to face his monitor in his swivel chair, beginning to type again. Without looking at you, he spoke, “Alright. I’ll humor you,” He said. “We can go out for lunch tomorrow. For some fresh air and whatnot.”

A spark of hope bloomed in your chest. Despite the caution in his voice, a smile grew on your face. “Tomorrow? Yeha, great! I-I know this place–a cafe spot. You like coffee, right? They also have tea. They have loads of stuff–I can show you the menu!” Your voice got a bit loud from excitement.

He raised an eyebrow again, trying to hide his annoyance at your enthusiasm. “Coffee’s fine,” He said reluctantly, “but just that. I don’t waste too much time on lunch anyway.”

His annoyance went over your head and you mistook it for acceptance. “Sure! I promise it’ll be good,” You smiled at him. Looking down at the papers, you remembered the reason you were originally here for. “Well, I have to send out the rest of the papers, but I’ll be back tomorrow for lunch.” You let out a small sigh of relief and head to the door, waving excitedly. “Bye!” Giving him another warm smile before exiting the room.

O’Hara shook his head softly and continued working like nothing out of the ordinary happened. However, inside, he was battling with conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to reject you completely, shutting you and anyone else from pushing his boundaries. This was work after all, but another part of him was curious. He’d seen you before but his brain just blurred your face out with the rest of his co-workers. He sighs and leans back in his chair with his eyes focused on the screen but not reading anything in particular. Taking off his glasses, he tosses them to the keyboard and rubs his face. The unease in his chest wouldn’t go away. It was uncomfortable and he hated it. But he already agreed to it so he had to suck it up. He groaned and picked up his glasses again, placing it on his nose and took a look at the packet of documents you handed him earlier.

Meanwhile, you had a pep in your step since you left O’Haras office. This was progress, you told yourself. For yourself and Dr. O’Hara. You hummed happily while delivering the rest of the papers, buzzing with excitement that maybe, just maybe, something good will come out of this.

[resowrites]

Special Brew - oneshot.

Summary: Henry’s interview gets gatecrashed…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Reader/Wife!OC, Interviewer

Warnings: fluff, banter/British humour, fake interview, language, dialogue heavy, nondescript reader/OC body type/appearance, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2221

A/N: Hi folks I know it’s been a while, work’s nuts these days. This is very rushed and was meant to be longer (I wanted to base it on something I’d written previously) but for the sake of just getting something uploaded I decided to post as is. Sorry I can’t post regularly anymore but I hope you enjoy all the same - R x

Remember, this is pure fiction (as in completely made up), and not in any way meant to reflect reality. My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Gifs/pics not my own. Thanks for visiting!

Special Brew - oneshot.

The following is an excerpt from an article that can be read in full here.

— It's at about the halfway mark in my interview with the 41-year-old Hollywood actor, Henry Cavill, when I notice his attention is caught by something offscreen. 

"Where did you get that?" I think I hear 'the fridge, you dickhead,' in reply. He grins. But instead of resuming our discussion about his upcoming role in the rebooted 80's classic, Highlander, he starts gesturing for someone to join him. It fails. So seconds later his partner is pulled onto his lap despite some very loud protestations. He tells her it's her fault for taking his last tin of lager. She tells him she needs it more. What then follows is an almost a four-and-a-half minute squabble - yes I actually timed it - which ends with Henry relinquishing the can on the proviso that if he has to be interviewed, she does as well. I don't take offense but soon wondered if that was premature: 

"Who's interviewing you? The Telegraph?"

"No, The Guardian--"

"Wouldn't the Telegraph be more interested?" He gestures in my direction.

"Well, I assume Mark is all the same!"

"And how long have you been keeping this poor bastard?"

"We've not even been chatting half an hour!" 

"Oh… have you got a second question for him?" I smile. The 35-year-old financier first met the actor in 2015 and they were rumoured to have married in 2022. Not that either of them, his publicist, or even various social media accounts provide much in the way of confirmation. This seems to stem more from a desire for privacy where possible than anything else. Though it must be said, at first glance they make for an incongruous pair. She catches me peering at her still towel-wrapped hair, Celtic jersey, and joggers combo and wastes no time striking first:

"That's a nice shirt--"

"Don't be cheeky, just 'cos you could have made more of an effort--"

"It's my day off! At least I don't look like an undercover policeman." Is she referring to Henry or myself?

"I don't know, stand up," I laugh but he just rolls his eyes. "Has he apologised for Aryglle yet? To be fair that was actually my fault, I wanted a new kitchen." This lays the ground for what is arguably one of the most chaotic interviews I've experienced in a while.

"Do you see what I mean, Mark? It's not that she wouldn't be media trained, it's that she couldn't." Now she rolls her eyes.

"See, he thinks he's being slick by making me look bad--"

"I'm the one who does that?!"

"So he looks better by comparison--"

"Is that right? And what was wrong with Aryglle?!"

"Nothing! It's the best thing you've ever done. Even if you didn't mean for it to be." She coughs to try and cover a laugh. I ask for her thoughts on his most recent box office offering (Guy Ritchie's spy action comedy, The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare) but for a split second, the title escapes me.

"You mean The Manly Ministry of Something?" Henry tuts and grabs back the can. I dare to question if she has a low opinion of the profession in general. "No, it's more to do with the actors themselves." How so? "Well, considering they're usually the biggest gobshites you'd think it'd be great craic hanging out with them--" he quickly interjects.

"Who are you calling a gobshite?!"

'What do you mean?"

"You know fine well what I mean!" Henry turns back towards me and continues. "Even her own mother took me aside a couple of weeks after we started dating to try and warn me--"

"She never! What did she say?"

"Do you really want to discuss that right now?!" It can't be that bad then, I respond. He shakes his head, despairingly. "Oh no, just that she once walked on stage at a school assembly and instead of graciously accepting an award, pretended to trip so she could drag every single trophy off the display table!"

"… Can you tell he went to a private school?" I almost spit my drink out.   

"What do you mean?"

"Do you not realise how tame that sounds?!"

"But that was just the first month you were there!"

"Then I deserved an award--"

"Hang on, she also told me that when you had an after-school detention on your birthday, you climbed out the window of the room you were being supervised in--"

"Normally I'd just get on the bus and go home so that time they gave me a personal escort--"

"And then refused to come down from the roof unless they gave her a birthday cake!" Laughter rings out between our two screens. "In the end, they had to call the fire brigade and she became the reason why their school couldn't properly open their windows any more--"

"I also got a ride home in a fire engine so, hands down one of my best birthdays." Henry sighs. I wonder aloud how this contrasts with his own experiences of school. 

"Er, I mean I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so I felt a bit intimidated by that sort of thing." 

"He still is." He now chokes on his drink. Does this mean they wouldn't have crossed paths as kids?

"Nah, she'd have bullied me then as well." They both laugh. So she hasn't mellowed at all in the intervening years?

"I would say I have, yeah… you do as you get older." Henry's eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Oh right, so I just hallucinated that night at the Bafta’s then?" She clears her throat and takes a large swig from the can. Is this why she doesn't typically attend red carpets with him?

"Ugh, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap--"

"That and the fact you're a fucking liability!" She shrugs as he explains. "A few years ago, I made the mistake of dragging her along to the after-party--"

"Well, that explains why I didn't fucking remember. Why did I have to come? You didn't win anything you were just presenting--"

"Oh fuck off! I even promised to take her on holiday for a couple of weeks if she at least tried to behave herself--"

"'Cos that's a good incentive--"

"And Jesus Christ, never again. If I wasn't blackballed in this industry before, I was that fucking night--"

"No, it's 'cos you won't take acting lessons." Henry smirks and tries to cover her mouth this time.

"At least I didn't go up to a circle containing Judi Dench, Helen Mirren--"

"Look at him dropping names! And it's Dame Judi…"

"And last but not least, the Meryl Streep--"

"You know, of Mama Mia…" A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. 

“Only to ask them where their cauldron was!" 

"But that's the great thing about being a nobody, you can say whatever want--"

"You're not a nobody--"

"No, I'm your plus one…" They howl with laughter. "The best thing is to underdress slightly as well so they think you're staff, the reactions are even better." And what was the response? "None of them heard me." He snorts.

"Judi just burst out laughing--"

"Judi! Like they're friends! Yeah, well she saw us arrive together so I think she was onto me."

"Luckily she's got a robust sense of humour…"

"Not like that other one. Oh, what's his name? You know… the one that says he'd rather be making shoes?" Sir Daniel Day-Lewis?

"Yeah, she asked him if he wanted her to go look for his top hat." I can feel my own jaw drop.

"That's how he reacted! Oh God, I'd give my left tit to relive it…" I ask where Henry is when these interactions go down. "Usually trying to find the nearest exit--"

"Is it any wonder!" 

"But we were only there twenty minutes--" 

"And he wasn't even the first Daniel you managed to piss off!" And who was that?

"Dan Snow." The broadcaster? Henry glances heavenward, exasperated.

"No, Jon Snow - and she means Kit Harrington. She got talking to him and somehow things managed to go south even quicker than usual." I can see how referring to him instead as the 50-year-old historian might have that effect. "No, it wasn't that, it was when he asked whether she was enjoying Game of Thrones--"

"Which is presumptuous isn't it?" For once even I'm at a loss for words. 

"And so she asked him if that's the show with dragons and when he said 'yes,'" he starts cracking up, "she went 'then, no.'" I don't think I've ever seen a man look so crestfallen - not even when you accosted Sam." Mr. Rockwell? I'm assuming that took place while Henry was still on the Argylle press tour?

"Oh yeah that was a gas, I waited until we were a bit better acquainted--"

"So the poor sod had his guard down--"

"And on the last day, I asked if he'd sign a picture for me. I think he assumed it was for a friend or something so he wasn't expecting me to thank him for gifting Henry his picture to put above the toilet--"

"What's worse is that it was that still from The Green Mile, you know? Literally, the first one that pops up on Google!" This anecdote puts me in mind of a similar story I heard on the grapevine during the first season of Netflix's The Witcher. Against my better judgment, I ask him if knows what I'm talking about and immediately his eyes flash in recognition.  

"Yeah, and it pains me to say that's also true."

"What is?"

"Your stunt at the Witcher premiere…" For a moment she looks genuinely confused. "Don't pretend you can't remember!"

"Remember what? I wasn't even there!"

"And even that didn't spare me!" 

"Oh I can't fucking win Mark, all I did was try and bring a smile to his face 'cos I knew he was sad about me having to work that night--"

"So naturally you had an 8x10 still printed of me with Orlando Bloom's head (as Legolas), photoshopped on top? Which, by the way, you could have just messaged me. But what did you do instead? You made dozens of copies and had my bodyguard hand them out to fans for me to sign." She waits for a beat.

"But how long did it take for you to notice?" Gentle reader, when I tell you this is one of only a handful of occasions I've ever laughed so hard in an interview, it's because I want you to know how rare that's actually been over a 35-year career in entertainment journalism. Still, I imagine that if she was brazen enough to taunt some of Hollywood's most influential stars, far worse shots have since been fired.

"Oh yeah, why don't you tell Mark how you recently mouthed off to Aaron Taylor Johnson?" Even she begins to look sheepish. 

"Yeah, but I was only trying to make conversation." Henry's head falls into his hand. She snickers. What on earth happened? "Honestly, nothing. I just said I hoped he really was being considered for Bond ‘cos he looks great in a suit." I hardly know how to respond. "Now that I think about it, he probably just thought I got you two mixed up--"

"Stop it right now!"

"What? You bought me in on this interview!" This of course is true and seems to serve a more serious purpose the longer our conversation continues. That he adores her is plain - his eyes never leave her. But it's the fact she can keep making him laugh, even under the scrutiny of being interviewed, that seems to make all the difference. Is that the key to the success of their relationship? "Well, that and the fact he's gone for six months out of any twelve--"

"So all the messages saying you miss me is just lip service?"

"Oh alright, it's cos he's got a huge… heart. Almost as big as his bank balance." Henry's legs are suddenly thrown in the air. At first, it seems he lost his balance, but judging from how quickly he then chases her from the room, I assume it was she who pulled the lever on his office chair that sent him hurtling to the floor. 

A couple of days later, I received a brief email from her which apologised for them both having 'christened more than a couple of ships' that day and explained how she was grateful that even though she 'had a lot of baggage' before they met, Henry refused to give up on her. She signed off with the following; 'His biggest problem is his limited self-belief. But seriously, he's admired because, in a professional and personal life full of arseholes, he's still, as Virginia Woolf said of her husband right before she died by suicide, 'entirely patient and incredibly good'. I'll never be drunk enough to say that to his face so I've cc'd him in.' I double-checked and saw that she had indeed emailed him as well. It's an oddly moving, albeit characteristically funny postscript and one that underlines her devotion to him no matter what. We should all be so lucky.

The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare is on Amazon Prime Video.

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

@fanfictionaddiction99 @luclittlepond @caffeinatedfestivalsheep @summersong69 @ushijimbo @livesinfantasyland @jackjanira @thearcana-moonlight

[matrixbearer2024]

Fire and Flames

Related to this post here of the twins being unhinged in my time lord AU because frankly we need more content of these two being menaces to society- so yeah, have a moment of how brutal the twins could be and exactly why the multiverse should be wary of them.

That and well- traversing the multiverse and seeing all sorts of things could genuinely change somebody's perception of normal. This included.

Context: The Stan twins go after some hooligans that think setting people on fire is entertaining. A horrible painting of death and flames ensue.

The room reeked of gasoline, its pungent sting filling the air like a forewarning of the chaos to come. The stench clung to everything— the walls, the floor, my skin— as if the very molecules of the room knew what was about to transpire. I stood over them, these pathetic creatures, crumpled in their misery at my feet. They whimpered and squirmed, drenched and beaten, their arrogance drained alongside the cheap plastic water pistols I’d so carelessly discarded moments ago. Their misery didn’t inspire pity; no, it awakened something far darker. Something barely restrained, coiled like a viper ready to strike.

The thought made me laugh. Two frail old men, was it? Easy targets, just another set of wandering fools to torment for entertainment. That’s what they thought. That’s what they all thought. And yet here they were— broken, bleeding, drenched in their own fear, and begging for mercy they would never receive.

I shifted, sneakers scuffing against the grime-ridden floor as I tilted my head to the side, watching their trembling forms with clinical curiosity. The gasoline glistened on their skin, catching the dim light as if mocking them with its inevitability. They had doused themselves in sin, and I was merely the one to light the match.

“I trust you still have your lighter?”

I asked, voice smooth but brimming with anticipation. The words rolled off my tongue like silk, but the smirk tugging at my lips betrayed the storm brewing beneath my calm facade.

Stanley didn’t even need to reply; the wicked gleam in his eye said everything. That familiar little tin box danced between his fingers, its edges worn from years of habit, its crude engraving catching the faint glint of light. I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of his eagerness— barely restrained, barely hidden, just as it always was when we found ourselves in these situations. My twin, my partner, my balance. He wanted this as much as I did, and gods help me, that knowledge was as intoxicating as it was empowering.

“Oh, c’mon,”

He said, his voice thick with amusement,

“did ya really have to ask?”

The lighter stopped its twirling, coming to rest in his open palm like an offering. A ritual, sacred in its own twisted way. This was our unspoken agreement— our unholy dance. Lee might bring the tools, he might observe, but he’d never soil his hands with the final act. He left that to me, and I was all too eager to bear the weight of it. The one untainted thing I could preserve in this bloody, merciless life was him. Even if the flames reflected in his eyes betrayed just how deeply he wanted to watch the deepest darkest pits of the world burn.

I took the lighter with a reverence that felt almost ceremonial. My fingers brushed his for the briefest moment, and I felt the unspoken understanding pass between us. He didn’t need to say a word, but I knew he approved. He always did. My chuckle rumbled low in my chest, a sound that felt like the prelude to an orchestra. Below me, the delinquents writhed, their pathetic pleas rising into a crescendo that only fueled the fire building inside me.

Burning helpless people for fun, was it? Well, let’s see how it feels when the tables turn.

The flick of the lighter was sharp, decisive, a beacon of warmth and destruction. The flame sprang to life, small yet mighty, and I couldn’t help but stare for a moment, mesmerized by its simplicity. Such a small thing, and yet it held the power to consume. To purify. To destroy. My smile widened, slow and deliberate, as I turned my gaze back to the quivering bodies at my feet.

“Burn, baby, burn~”

I murmured, my voice laced with a sing-song cruelty as I tossed that little tin box without hesitation.

The gasoline caught instantly, the fire roaring to life with a hunger that matched my own. The screams that followed were exquisite— raw, primal, and symphonic in their agony. They clawed at the air, desperate and futile, as the flames consumed everything they thought they were. It was justice in its purest, most visceral form, and I reveled in it. This was not mercy; this was a reckoning.

Beside me, Stanley watched, his expression alight with a satisfaction that mirrored my own. His grin was sharp, feral, and the faint reflection of the flames in his eyes made him look almost otherworldly. He didn’t say anything, but the way he stood— shoulders square, head tilted just slightly— told me everything. He didn’t regret this. Neither of us did.

The fire roared, the heat licking at my skin as I stepped back, giving the flames their space to work. My pulse thrummed in my ears, adrenaline coursing through me like a live wire. This wasn’t just vengeance; this was art. And as the last of the screams faded into crackling embers and ash, I couldn’t help but feel... satisfied.

“Looks like we’re done here.”

I said, my voice calm despite the chaos surrounding us. I turned to my brother, whose grin hadn’t faltered for a second. He simply nodded, the lighter now back in his pocket, a fitting end to our symphony of flames.

And with that, we walked away, leaving the fire to burn away the filth, to turn their sins to smoke. Two frail old men, was it?

Oh, how wrong they were.

I hope you enjoy this little thing, comment or like if you want to see more of this or of the AU in general!

[otipe]

Neuvillette x Fem!Reader

Coffee shop AU

[Fallin in love is hard. Falling in love with someone who is away from your reach and possibly in love with someone else is even harder.]

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

Tick-tick-tick 

Glancing at the clock, you sigh a shaky breath, feeling your body sag from the nervousness when you realize it's time.

You start the shift at the bar with clean cups and soft voices from your co-workers in the background, brewing the fresh coffee for the upcoming clients with carefulness, and ignoring the sudden palpitations of your heart as the seconds pass by and the awaited moment approaches.

And then, after retrieving your apron and carefully putting away your tools, the bell from the door echoes with a soft clink in the background while a man walks in the shop.

As if memorized a script, and never breaking in character nor actions when he comes closer with his usual calm demeanor and expressionless eyes, you cannot take your sights off him the first few seconds, mouth ajar and cheeks warm with embarrassment when you catch yourself in the act—because it's impossible to react differently, when all the man does is impress you with his elegance and beauty.

Is like a practiced play.

She knows the answer, the man never asks for anything different since his first visit, but she purposely tries to prolong his stay for as long as she can to seek the opportunity to start a conversation in hopes today will be different.

The girl at the register smiles brightly at his presence, unbothered and swiftly taking charge, and asks the same question she's programmed to do to every customer. 

“What would you like to order?”

You watch from afar their interactions with nothing but contemplation, heartstrings tugging the edge of your heart and getting lost on the way his silver hair flows like a cascade and frames his broad shoulders like a shield from the sunlight.

His lilac eyes watch the list of beverages rapidly, as if deep in thought and indecisive, as if he were considering choosing another item to try out despite having a routine.

“One black coffee.” Is his reply, the usual. His voice is deep, curt and cold, but it makes her blush nonetheless, smiling behind her hand and tucking away a strand of hair while ringing the order.

The reaction she has is ridiculous, yet you can't find in yourself to blame her.

You're embarrassed to admit he has the same effect on you, after all this time, even when you've never crossed words—but you'd rather die than let anyone else know you fancy the mysterious man from your morning shift just like the register lady.

The man seems unfazed by her attitude though, paying for the order before retrieving his figure to the nearest available window and sits there in silence.

And now is your turn, the next act follows.

You have three minutes until you have his order. 

Three minutes to take advantage of your position and glance over whenever you want to admire him from afar without his knowledge, to enjoy and indulge in the fluttering of your heart and warmness spreading to your cheeks when you think about striking a conversation to the man you’ve found liking for a long while.

Would he be kind, or perhaps rude? 

Is there something else beneath the persona he sells when he goes out of his house and into the world? Or does he know about the enchanting aura he carries flawlessly anywhere he goes? 

Does he know you exist beyond the display of pastries? A singular person pinning for a stranger they found infatuated with since day one?

The answer might not be something you wish to know, already regretting your weakness into daydreaming about said man with him present. 

But dreams are free and painless, and the safest way to cope with your unrequited feelings.

“Did he talk to you?,” one of the cooks whispers to the girl. 

She shakes her head, “Cold as ever, but I think he's just pretending.”

“He was looking your way a few moments ago! Maybe he's shy.”

Alas, it's all but a fantasy in your head.

He's beautiful, a gorgeous being out of a fairy tale, and enchanting on his own. It would make more sense to ask the pretty cashier about her growing crush on the man and its advances than the coffee girl who never dares interact with the crowd. 

You suppose that's how it's meant to be. 

Everything has an order and law, the handsome lead and the pretty girl together. They look like the main couples from romcoms about to have their destined encounter and waiting for the right time to develop their romantic relationship, with obstacles and problems in between to make it the more entertaining.

And every romcom needs to have the antagonist, someone who also desires to be with the leads, to have their own fairytale and love to cradle with gentleness without regarding anyone but themselves—but you don't want to play that part, you don't have it in you to be brave and jeopardize your own feelings nor be mean to get in the way of two destined people.

Is something you've accepted a long time ago and try not to dwell much on the thought.

“Is the coffee ready?" 

Nodding your head, you lend her the cup with the lid tightly closed. She smiles and thanks you, jogging to the man at the window and delivering the beverage before returning behind the register.

So deep in thought, you are unable to tear your sights off him when he gets ready to leave.

And then, both of your eyes meet in-between.

The air gets stuck in your throat from the sheer surprise. His eyes are enchanting, like a sweet siren’s song, melting your insides and penetrating to the depths of your soul in silence.

The man blinks slowly, lips parting and turning his body to face you, and you feel your heart leap in your chest when he takes the first step in your direction.

Suddenly, you are too aware of your surroundings and what it means for him to still maintain eye contact after an uncomfortable time. So to save yourself the embarrassment, you turn around to face the wall and try to calm down your hammering heart.

It takes a while, but when the bell from above the door echoes once again, you look over your shoulder and notice the man has since left the coffee shop.

It is said it takes eight seconds to fall in love at first sight.

You wonder if that's how long it lasted for you to end up bewitched by his presence.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The boss arranges a gathering with all the coworkers to celebrate the coffee shop's anniversary since the grand opening a few years ago. 

He says it's nothing out of this world, but a celebration he wants to have to not forget all he's worked for and that dreams come true for everyone if they work hard on it—besides, it's a way to get back at his roommate, whatever that means.

Is a cute incentive, and you'd be more than eager to participate if it weren't on your only day off of the week. But what could you do? Coming one more day to interact with people and blend in with the joy they'll share shouldn't be that bad.

Besides, you appreciate the boss just like everyone else. He's a good man, he deserves the attention and love from his workers. That's the reason you accepted going in the first place.

“You should come this Saturday!”

The cashier extends a little pamphlet to the beautiful man, to Neuvilette, in hopes to establish a conversation.

You have half the mind to ponder about her attempts when you've finally acquired a name to match the face.

Neuvilette, that's a really pretty name, unique on its own, and fitting.

“I'm not a worker.”

“But everyone is invited to celebrate! You should come by, since we will have discounts on drinks and all.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I know you usually don't come on Saturdays, but it would mean a lot to have the usual clients celebrating with us.”

Neuvilette reads the pamphlet in silence, as if pondering and giving it a thought, but gives it back to the now pouting cashier after a second, “Thank you, but I must decline.”

At the pit of your stomach, you feel disappointed. If she was unable to convince the pretty man, who says anyone else would have a fair chance at talking to him?

Being in love is hard when you are actively seeking it, you realize.

“Hey! Boss is asking for everyone's favorite color, need yours, too!” 

Despite the interactions with Neuvillette, she doesn't seem deterred by the failure and carries on with a smile and notepad in hand after delivering his order. 

You avoid any sort of comment towards her behavior after the rejection—the least you want is to converse about him and give her the wrong idea. She's kind, but a gossip at heart. You want your little crush dying with you instead of being outed to the rest of the crew for saying something out of pocket.

“I like blue.”

Raising a brow, she shakes her head and sighs.

“The colors are for custom cups the boss is making for us to share this Saturday,” she replies, “What about a light green? I think that color would suit you.”

“I like blue.” You repeat like a parrot.

The cashier purses her lips, shaking her head and writing down your request. 

“Don't blame me if the cup comes out ugly.” 

You wouldn't dare, since it is not her job to ensure the aesthetic. As long as the requests arrive with no delay and on time for the little event, you will have no complaints about it.

“That would be everyone, then.” she mutters, looking longingly at the window, “Hopefully, we will have better weather by Saturday.”

Is raining quite heavily outside, with the pit-pat pit-pat hitting the glass in a harmonious melody.

The sound is soothing alongside the machines surrounding you, vibrating under your hand when you pour another cup for yourself on this fine morning and watch the pouring outside in silence.

Neuvillette stands from his chair when he gathers his thing, catching your attention once again: an umbrella hooked to his arm, and the other holding his suitcase and cup of coffee. You try to not follow him with your eyes when he walks towards the exit, but you are unable to when he suddenly stops at the door, turns around and walks with quick steps to the counter to take one pamphlet and exits the shop hurriedly.

The squeal from the cashier is hard to miss when she jumps and runs to the kitchen to tell her friends about this development, assuming the meaning behind his actions.

Alone and with the silence vibrating, you think that yeah, that certainly was something.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The morning is cold.

Clouds are overtaking the sky menacingly, gray and blues fighting to take control over the city, and there is a faint humidity in the air that warns you enough about the upcoming rain about to pour.

The cashier is helping you out unwrapping a box containing the personalized cups and organizing it in alphabetical order for better handling for the toast. Most of the colors are bright and colorful, some with pastel tones and gentle details on the sides that you find adorable.

You’re surprised to see your cup, a soft baby blue with tiny white stars in the corner, being handled by the girl with a gentle smile on her face. 

“It ended up being cute.” she says, an apologetic smile on her face. 

You only nod, taking it from her hands and placing it under the coffee machine. You never minded her comment in the first place, so you find yourself ignoring her embarrassment to make the most of your morning and finish quickly.

Understanding you don't want to talk, she starts humming under her breath while picking up the tossed paper wraps and putting them inside the now empty box. She nods to herself, giving you a thumbs up when you deem you've finished and you return the gesture with a soft smile.

“Do you think he's going to come today?” she asks, standing up. There is a pout in her glossy lips, and you blink owlishly at her sudden change in mood.

“Um, not sure.” 

“Should I have told him to come later? He comes early every morning, but never on weekends. The paper never says at what time we are celebrating.”

She sounds so sad you don't know a thing to try and comfort her. Finding it difficult to interact with the cashier outside work-related stuff, you pat her back shyly in an attempt to reassure her.

“He always comes around this hour,” you continue saying, catching her attention. You feel your face warm, “Sometimes he takes his time, but he always comes, doesn't he?”

She nods, sighing and sagging against the register. “Yeah, but today is Saturday! And I'm sure he's coming, moreso because he took the pamphlet with him.”

Wearing your apron, and readying your tools, you end up being her focus to pour her feelings about Neuvillette and how pretty he is, since none of her friends were coming today until later.

Is a little tiring, but you are kind enough to nod or give short replies to let her know you were listening.

Despite feeling a little jealous over her feelings for Neuvillette, you know this is just the immature and childish part of you that cannot speak freely just like she does, and for that, you commend her for her bravery.

Gushing over someone sure does seem fun, in truth.

When she starts talking about…not so decently about him, it is when the bell above the door rings loudly in the empty coffee shop and gets you both attention.

When Neuvillette comes through the door and the cashier is ready to greet him, both of you fall silent. Because you are faced with blue, instead of silver. You are faced with a Neuvillette dressed up like this were his wedding, instead of his usual casual attire.

There are a few streaks of blue on his hair, all brushed back and tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a low ponytail, loose strands of hair framing his long face, and the gasps from the cashier echoes what you’re currently thinking: He looks gorgeous.

The sudden change in his looks has the both of you flabbergasted and blushing on different levels. 

He seems composed as ever, if not slightly nervous for the way he fidgets with the cuffs of his suit constantly while he walks up to the cashier, stopping and clearing his throat to catch her attention.

It suddenly crashes on you, oh.

He has dressed up. For her.

The realization of such a small, but meaningful, action makes your heart throb in pain and jealousy, biting your lower lip and avoiding to look at him for even one more second.

Disappointment was the first emotion to swirl in your mind when smashing the coffee beans on the machine, loud enough to avoid listening to their conversation and focus solely on your job.

There is the urge to cry, too, and you almost scoff at the absurdity of your reaction upon realizing that her feelings might as well be reciprocated by the beautiful man. And you’re once again standing behind the curtains of a play.

The doors open with a strength that has you breaking out of your thoughts, raising your head nervously and thinking that the last thing you want is to deal with troublemaker customers.

“Good morning, my lads!” Your boss walks through the main entrance, blindingly beautiful and energetic as always. He graces the two of you with a smile of his and a simple bow to Neuvillette who seems startled by such a greeting. “Ah, my dear ____, you didn't have to work today. You could have come later in the evening for the celebration!”

Oh, your saviour.

His outburst is enough to override the sadness tugging at your heart and entertain you while finishing his usual order.

“Is okay, Kaveh,” is all you can reply, a forceful smile on your features. “I like doing this.”

He nods, “Of course you do! But I can replace you if you get tired, yes? Is a miracle itself you've come today, I don't want you to regret it because you felt pressured to work.”

“The cups came earlier today, just before we opened, and she was helping me arrange them.” The cashier chimes in, ringing the order for Neuvillette who hasn't moved an inch from his spot since Kaveh entered. “I roped you in, sorry about that.”

Shaking your head, you take the receipt and read the order despite knowing what it is already. 

Kaveh takes that time to rummage through the cabinet to check everything is in order while the cashier curses under her breath when Neuvillette leaves to sit by the same window as always. 

“Everything in order, yes.” he nods to himself. Craning his neck a little, he smiles up to you, “Could you make me a caramel macchiato? I think I'm going to work here until the rest of the crew comes.”

“Sure,” reciprocating his smile, you begin working on his beverage, “Hot or cold?”

Taking his things to the back of the kitchen, he yells, “Cold, please! Thank you, love!”

You roll your eyes at the pet name, but don't argue it. Despite Kaveh being so affectionate with his crew, you know he does it with good intentions and the love he has for his workers. He's said so himself, and you believe him. 

Still, you cannot help the blush covering your cheeks at being addressed so lovingly.

“Oh, the ingredients have come!” You can hear the excitement in Kaveh’s voice from inside the kitchen. Is not long until he comes through the door, motioning to the cashier to come in. “I need to make an inventory and a pair of hands might help!”

“O-oh, I—uh,” she looks bashful for being targeted. She looks between you and Kaveh a couple of times, pondering whether to reject him and offer you as a help, instead, but nothing comes out of her mouth in time.

Kaveh, blissfully unaware of her inner struggle, happily takes her wrist and drags her to the back with a peppy step, leaving you now at the front to take care of the register and the orders.

It was just your luck no one else was here to distract you. Being Saturday morning, the influx of people coming in so early were pretty low, so you had all the time to relax and make the order to the utmost best despite knowing what happens next.

Do you approach Neuvillette and give him his drink? Or do you call him to take his beverage? 

A part of you wanted to go and strike the conversation you've always wanted, now without the prying eyes of your coworkers, but the anxiousness and nervousness were getting the best of you—besides, it would only hurt you further if you keep longing for a man who is clearly not interested in you. 

“Neuvillette?” 

Your call seems to break him from a trance, blinking up once, twice, before registering you were calling out to him.

Neuvillette approaches with the slowest walk you've ever witnessed—time stopping for you to admire him from close and afar, making his way to the counter and gingerly picking up his cup.

But he doesn't move.

He stays still at the same spot in front of you, clearly flustered and embarrassed. But for what reason? Neuvillette isn't speaking, nor looking at you to guess what he needs.

Does he want sugar? A napkin? Another shot of espresso?

If he asks me for her number I swear to god—

“What is your name?”

The question quells your irritation quite easily, blinking up at him confused and lost.

His lilac eyes maintain eye contact with you for a long time where you don't answer, opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water and unable to understand his sudden want to…talk.

“You don't carry a tag,” he continues, a finger tapping to the side of his coffee, “I was wondering what your name was, since you know mine.”

Is a stupid attempt to satiate his curiosity, and you've known because you have thought of the same before.

You tell him your name, breaking eye contact and continuing to work on Kaveh's order with your heart hammering inside your ribcage. But curiosity gets the better of you and when you glance back, he smiles at you. He smiles so blindly.

It takes all your self-restraint not to swoon right then and there.

“Such a fitting name,” he says, “It's beautiful.”

Where is this coming from?! 

Panic seizes you for a moment when your brain short-circuits from his compliment. Warmness spreads through your cheekbones and you yelp, embarrassed and suddenly in pain, when you realize you dropped the hot shot of coffee on your free hand and not on the cup you were aiming for.

“Fuck,” running to the sink, you do your best to conceal the pain from the burn and ignore the sudden warmth at the back of your neck for committing such a careless action.

The cold water makes you hiss in pain, and that is enough to make the man break out of his shock.

Neuvillette walks around the counter and tresspasses the station where you deem as worker's space to hold your wrist gently between his gloved hands to see how bad the accident has been.

“Is nothing serious,” he twists your wrist gently to the other side, and nods to himself, “keep your hand under the water. Do you have a towel we can use for your hand? I'll place some ice on the towel and wrap it to keep it cool on your skin to lessen the burn.”

“The towel on top of the coffee machine, you can use that.”

He goes to retrieve the object, leaving you with your hand tingling from his touch. He turns the faucet off and dries your hand gently before taking a few pieces of ice, wrapping them up, and lays it on your skin softly to ease you into the sudden change of temperature. Neuvillette never backs off, but walks a little closer, making it obvious the difference in sizes, and suddenly making you aware of his warm touch.

“I-I can hold it myself,” you mutter, taking a step back. You don’t know how much you can handle the closeness without fainting, “Thank you.”

Blinking owlishly, he nods, returning to his previous spot behind the counter. But just like before, he doesn't move from there.

Slightly anxious from his out of character actions, you clear your throat, peeking up at him.

“Do you need something else?” you dare ask, fingers twitching under the towel.

Neuvillette seems pensive, eyes roaming your injured hand to your face. His stare is unwavering, and it makes a slight shiver run down your spine from the intensity of his lilac eyes examining your features.

“It has come to my attention that…you seem involved in some sort of romantic aspect with your boss, yes?” He begins.

What.

“And whatever I might say will come off as rude or simply crossing boundaries, so I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me for my indecency.” Neuvillette seems bashful, “If you could give me some of your time to hang-out, like the young say, I can prove myself worthy of your affections and daresay, your love.”

Huh?

“But if your relationship with your boss is on a serious note, a respectable commitment and admirable, I won't meddle in between the young love and will proceed to exit the establishment for I have overstayed my visit.”

The fuck.

The silence that follows is so dreadful you think you're dreaming. You are the only one who seems affected by such claims of love and misunderstanding of the situation, because Neuvillette looks composed as ever if it weren't for the blush on his face betraying his nervousness.

What could you even say? 

Is like the spotlight has suddenly shifted to where you’re standing; you’re suddenly the main character to this story where you believed wasn’t even to have you as part of the play. With the main lead, nonetheless!

Most of your thoughts don't lead you anywhere and confuses you further. It looks like this is some sort of joke, a distasteful one, and the dread of uttering a single yes might break you apart from the seams until you’re drowning in your own self-pity.

“If my words have made you uneasy about my presence or uncomfortable in any way, I can see myself out,” He whispers the last part, as if regretful for giving you the option, “But, if you also harbor the same feelings as I do, please do tell—”

“Why did you dress up today?,” you blurt, cutting him mid-sentence. The bitterness in your voice doesn't go past him, “Why…why did you come…like this?” 

Is such an innocuous question but nags the back of your head, eager to hear the reply because, whatever his speech has told you, he has made aware that he likes you, too.

He likes you.

Neuvillette brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ears where you can make out the silver lining of an earring decorating it. You cannot help but think: Does this man have anything that is not hot and gorgeous on himself?

“I asked a close acquaintance how to win the affections of someone I haven't had the pleasure to meet yet, and they called me a buffoon for attempting a ridiculous thing. Despite their insult, I searched through the internet to find a solution to my plight.”

Cocking your head to the side, you raise a brow, unable to comprehend the correlation, “What…does that have to do with you dressing up?”

“You said your favorite color was blue.” He says, the corner of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, “I don't own anything blue, so my next good suggestion was to dye my hair. Sadly, I underestimated the amount of hair dye I’d need, and the kind lady at the store didn't know it was for the entirety of my hair. Despite the little mishaps, I believed it would be nice to present myself more elegantly to make a better impression.”

His heartfelt confession does nothing but accelerate the rate of your heart, fanning your face because of how hot you're starting to feel.

“If my attempt wasn't clear, I apologize for that matter.” he chuckles, Neuvillette's smile broadening, “Can't help a man who is smitten, for all he will do is embarrass himself further without good communication. But I couldn't wait any longer after listening to your conversation with your boss, believing I have lost a battle that never began...”

“...I dare say, I was feeling defeated, and very jealous, over the fact that he calls you love. I thought: maybe one day I will get to call her mine.”

How can he say this…so shamelessly! 

Neuvillette speaks without shame and so earnestly, baring his heart and intentions to you when all this time you've deemed him as someone who comes out of a fairy tail and out of reach. The kind of man who wouldn’t bat an eye at your presence just because, but he’s gone out of his way to look appealing enough to your tastes to get your attention when all this time he’s had it.

“Perhaps this comes as a shock to you, but I've been intending to court you since the first time I came here.” 

“...What?”

Nodding softly, smiling, he offers his hand for you to take. Unable to resist his attempt, you extend the good hand and burn from the inside when he holds you gently, caressing the skin of the back of your palm affectionately.

“It has been an agonizing journey for me. To understand my own emotions and intentions for me to act accordingly has been taxing, but it has given me plenty of time to finally see that I would love to have you in my life.”

And this is it.

Neuvillette has given you the whole story in a plate of gold, sincerely and open-hearted, that there is no doubt in your mind that he wants you, and no one else.

No tragedies to come, no twists in the story for more excitement, it's you and him, and no one else.

“I’m not dating Kaveh,” is what you say, lips trembling from the emotion, “I’m not dating anyone. He’s just, very loving to his friends.”

And oh, to rejoice in his open expressions and the relief that courses through him from hearing that yes, you’re available and not straightly rejecting him. 

“Oh, that’s good to hear,” smiling apologetically, he shakes his head, “Sorry, that must have sounded rude.”

You laugh, brightening up at him, “Don’t worry, you are just fine.”

The coffee has gone slightly cold by now, too deep in words and confession through a little accident, that the beverage has become less important. A little voice at the back of your head tells you that Kaveh is taking a long time sorting things out with the new delivery, but you don’t mind, you are in good company, anyways.

“I think you deserve a proper question now, don’t you? Now that everything has been cleared up,” he asks, raising a brow. Clearing his throat, he straightens his back, never letting go of your hand, “Will you do me the pleasure of going on a date with me?” 

Covering your mouth with your free hand, you nod. The hold he has on your other palm tightness slightly, showing the excitement he feels.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Neuvillette.”

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

“By the way,” you ask, leaning on the counter. You delight from the sudden blush on his cheeks, “how old are you?”

“Ah, I’m forty-seven, love.”

Oh, lucky you.

[trashmouth-richie]

series masterlist

series summary: Hawkins Annual Halloween Festival is in town, and this year you and your friends were lucky enough to work the event. But when some of your co-workers are missing, and a trail of blood leads to the woods behind the festival. Your friends work together to find out what’s going on. A killer is on the loose but who could it be? Or is it the town’s spooky secret of what really happened at Hawkins Lab?

chapter summary: darkness falls, reader takes a trip down memory lane with eddie, corroded coffin performs, the things start to go bump in the night.

chapter warnings: major character death, violent death, minor character death, blood, gore, monster descriptions, slaughter.

CH 3. THE ROCKSTAR AND THE REDLIGHTS

The green puddle of freshly brewed puke slapped hard and wet along the ground.

Another victim of Eddie, who long ago threw away the rule book and Creels poem about ride times.  

You slam another dollar into his outstretched cocky palm, hoping it stung. 

“Well thank you m’lady,” he says, batting his eyelashes, his dimple digging deep into his cheek, “Eddie 3, Pebs zilch, zero, nothing!” 

You shove him hard in the chest and it only makes him laugh harder, “c’mon sweetheart, you know I’m just fuckin with ya.” His big brown eyes squeeze at the edges and his lip turns to a frown when you throw up your chin and a middle finger his way. 

“S’not fair,” you pout, “you have control of the rides!” 

Eddie waves you off and pockets the cash, “Don’t be a sore loser.” 

Arms crossed you stare high above him, “ ‘m not!”  

You were. 

Always had been. 

Racing down the bumpy lane of Forest Hills Trailer park, Eddie’s clumsy ass would somehow always win, even when you had gotten new tennis shoes in the summer of ‘79. 

You’d pout and Eddie would spend the rest of the day trying to win you over. You always were a flair for the dramatics, but he never did mind your pouty lips and furrowed brow. 

In his eyes, there just wasn’t any other girl who could  compare. 

He slings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a death grip of a hug. Pinning your arms tight against his chest so you couldn’t move,  he shook his long hair in your face, the curls tickling your nose until you squealed, and gave up. A surprised heat in your cheeks. 

He’s out of breath, a Cheshire grin on his face and deep huffs fan across the apples of your cheeks, fluttering your eyelashes. His grip hasn’t wavered, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t breathed at all as you look up at him, giggling. 

His fingers move to your jaw, and down the slope of your neck, fingering the necklace and the neckline of your shirt. 

Eddie blinks slowly and wets his lips, you can feel the pounding from both of your chests as you look up at him through your lashes with a stuttering breath. 

“Still mad at me, baby?” 

The shiver that runs down your body and hits like a lightning strike in your underwear is colossal. Baby. You’d hang onto that pet name the rest of your days. 

“I never was.” 

He smirks, and something that had been developing for years was suddenly flourishing, seeds planted and finally getting the sunlight and water that was needed to grow the crop. 

Whatever breath you let out he inhaled, but before he could move in closer, the familiar clink of Creel’s cane was right beside you and you both straightened up and put on a serious face. 

He looked deranged. You had never seen the black crumbled mess of teeth left in his mouth but suddenly they were on display, gums rotted, red and swollen around each jagged edge of decay. 

“I'm pulling the plug on rides, we’re starting the concert early, get these kids off here, you got fifteen minutes, hurry up!” He barked, before clicking away his cane hitting the gravel as he muttered nonsense to himself.  

“Oh fuck,” Eddie spins and quickly brings levers forward and backward, unlocking each basket full of teenagers and shooing them away. 

Locking up the rides with the heavy chains and locks, you snap the padlock shut ensuring its strength and join Eddie in his quickened pace to the rear entrance of the carnival where the stage was set up for Eddie’s band Corroded Coffin. 

Your mind is spinning with what ifs and did we just almost kiss? You wonder if he felt the same jolt of electricity you felt when you hadn’t leaned away from him. Wiping sweaty palms on your shorts you work hard on evening your breathing as you both stomped in the dirt with racing minds in silence towards the stage. 

—

“One cotton candy, a small popcorn and a medium Coke, two straws.” 

Steve pulls out his leather wallet and pays with a crisp fifty. Nancy frowns and rolls her eyes. 

“What?” Steve says, nonchalantly, tucking the change back into his tight jeans having changed once all the ice cream was gone and he closed shop, “It’s all I have.” 

Nancy sighs,  “thank you,” she says to the man behind the booth counter, reaching up and grabbing the sweet and salty snacks.

The man grumbles something under his breath, and slams the window shut with a snap, flicking the lights off just as quick. 

Nancy turns to follow Steve, matching his footsteps looking over her shoulder at the now foggy and desolate windows of the concessions booth they were just at. 

“That was weird,” she said softly, mostly to herself. 

Steve dives a large veiny hand into the popcorn, shoveling kernels into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough of the tasty treat. 

“I know right?” He says crunching through the buttery snack, “five dollars for burnt popcorn that tastes like buttcrack, what a fucking ripoff.” 

Nancy shakes her head, “yet you're still eating it?”

Steve ponders this but keeps eating, “I’m hungry Nance, Creel never gave me a break, and Robin fucking bailed on me.”

“You poor thing,” Nancy feigns to humor him, “need me to draw you a bath and rub your feet?” 

“You can rub something else if you’re offer— okay! okay, it was a joke, jeez!” 

Nancy thumped Steve one more time on his ear for good measure, “I meant that guy… he didn’t seem right.” 

Steve shrugs, “is anyone at this place? Fuck, look around.”

It was true, more people showed up to start working than any of you had anticipated, all looking stranger and sort of sickly, like they hadn’t seen daylight in years nor having the common skill to hold a conversation. 

“I'm just happy this holiday is almost over, I hate Halloween. ” she shudders, allowing herself to be tucked into the crook of Steve’s arm, slurping the flat pop and grimacing at its soured taste. 

—

The spray painted bed sheet reading “Corroded Coffin” rippled with the light breeze, the boys had already been setting up, Eddie’s warlock tucked safely into the worn guitar case by his microphone. 

“Nervous?” you ask as he breeches the steps. Grabbing an amp and moving it around to his liking. 

Eddie blows air through his mouth, as he lowers an amp down, “nah, never— its like breathing to me y’know? Second nature or whatever you wanna call it.” 

You nod along , hiding a smile with your hand curled into your lips, and you don’t see the way he smiles at you. His muse. He’d written songs about you for years now, ones he scribbled into a composition notebook and shoved into the depths of his mattress and the wall. 

His fingers reach out to pick a stray thread from the sleeve of your shirt, and the heat from his fingers pricks at your skin. 

“Gonna be where I can see you?” he asks, already knowing the answer but wanting to relish in your words, knowing that you were here for him. And you’d be in the crowd, front and center staring up at him. 

“Always am.” 

And there it was again, the shock the magnets pulling you two together. Him leaning on one knee down to you and your face looking up at him like he hung the moon. 

“Munson! Hurry up, that old creepy bastard didn’t give us any fuckin’ time!”  

—-

The trees were spinning. She was certain of that. Robin may not have the greatest sense of direction and when she stumbled into the woods on floaty brain cells and twinkly red eyes, the thought of getting lost hadn’t crossed her mind once. 

The hallucinations hadn’t stopped when she saw Vickie’s body hanging limply from that tree. She swore she heard two men yelling at each other, blaming one another for something they had lost. 

After over an hour of tripping over branches and a sour smelling buck covered in its own blood, Robin finally emerged from the treeline, more confused than when she went in. 

-

The screech from Eddie’s microphone made the crowd cover their ears in unison and he mutters a shit, sorry, with his hair hanging in his face.

The moon was large, shining a burnt dandelion yellow shaded by the dark indigo clouds.

You loved watching Corroded Coffin play. Going from their garage band days to performing on top of Eddie’s trailer for his birthday, and when they scored Tuesday nights at the Hideout— you, Eddie and the rest of the band drank until you were all sick, throwing up all over Jeff’s basement. Now they were playing a real outdoor event, and you couldn’t be more proud of your friend being one step closer to chasing his dreams. 

They’d been playing for the better half of an hour, the crowd singing along to today's favorites heard on the radio, requested specifically by Creel. It didn’t take long for Eddie to learn them, his ears could tune a fart in a steel bucket. 

Robin was clutching onto you, screaming lyrics along with Eddie and guzzling beer after warm beer, trying like hell to numb the feeling of rejection. She came stumbling out from a makeshift bar, a sinister look in her eyes, and when you asked what was going on— she shook her head and told you it was just the redrum. 

The buzz you were feeling from earlier never left, and it was or like you’d seen Eddie in a whole new light. As if he had transformed before your very eyes, shaking free of his chrysalis and spreading the beauty of his wings. 

His toothy wide smile. The dimples that caught in his cheeks whenever he found your eyes and winked your way. The way his curls lengthened and swayed across his back when he turned to Gareth and put a foot on his drum to thrash his guitar. 

He was breathtaking. 

The passion he held for music and the way it flowed through him was truly bewitching. And if you hadn’t known better you would have sworn you were under a trance. 

He reeked of talent, and you knew he would go far, leaving Hawkins and you behind in a cloud of dust. The thought of his dream coming true left traitorous tears in your eyes and you wiped at them hastily. 

When his guitar started to crane out, “Rocky Mountain Way”  your heart fell into your stomach. 

You remember the day he showed up on your doorstep, pants shorter than they should have been and out of breath, begging you to come over. 

Did you do it? 

His dimples already gave him away as he drug you behind him running all the way to Wayne’s trailer.

“Hurry P, hurry! Go on, sit down!”

“Alright Eddie,” you said in a pout, sitting down with a huff on the shag living room rug next to Wayne’s work boots, “ jeez you about tore my arm off! What’s going on?”

“Shh! I need to focus!”

Once you were situated, and his guitar was tuned up, he started the opening notes to the song. He tried to mimic his voice to Joe Walsh’s as best as he could, and even then he sounded good. His small hands flew over the frets with ease. He played the song over and over again in the cramped living room of Wayne’s trailer. And you stared in amazement. 

“You can be my manager when I’m famous, Pebbles.” He had said, tuning his strings a little bit more. 

You were sitting on the floor by his feet now, criss cross applesauce, writing a paper for your sixth grade History report. 

Craning your neck up to look at him, you scowl, “what does that even mean?” 

“I dunno really,” he admitted, sweeping his shoulder length hair from his eyes, and giving you a grin, “but it’s important enough that you’ll be rich too, and we can get out of here.” 

He thought about that for a bit, his dad had just left again, his mom had only called once in the last year, promising she’d come back for him but never did, the only people he could count on was you and his uncle, sometimes Billy. “Maybe Wayne can come too.”

It felt real then, like getting out of Hawkins would only take a single tank of gas and the money problems wouldn’t be an issue, and now you wish it was that easy. 

Another tear slips down your fac, and this time you don’t wipe it away. 

“That bad?” Jonathan says loudly behind your left, wading through the crowd of people, brushing his bangs from his sweaty forehead, he’s followed by Steve and Nancy, holding hands and sharing a blue cloud puff of cotton candy. 

“The opposite actually,” you answer, eyes gleaming in a  sad way, your fingers hesitant against your mouth to stop your lips from quivering. 

The five of you stand with eyes glued to the small rickety stage, in awe of how minor league you were compared to the rockstar vibes that illuminated him. 

The crowd cheers when the song ends. And Jonathan clicks his camera behind you, taking shots of Corroded Coffin on stage. 

“He’s a natural,” Nancy says, thumb in her mouth to suck the sugary gloss of melted sugar off, and Steve nods standing behind her resting his chin in her hair. 

The stage lights look spooky under Eddie’s chin and the second he winks at you—it happens again. The lights flicker bright red for a mere second, and then blitz back to normal. 

A screech.

And not from Eddie’s guitar or the wonky microphone. It was a loud, horrific scream. Sending pin pricks down your spine as it shattered through the night. The crowd went silent, looking around but wherever the screech came from went unnoticed. Hiding amongst the dense foggy treeline, waiting. 

Robin is the only one not paying any kind to what was going on, moving her hips to the low strum of the song still playing in her head 

You look up at Eddie with a confused look upon your face, waiting for him to offer the same expression, or a shrug, a look of what the fuck? But his eyes were trained forward like lasers— straight through the trees in the distance. As if he had some sort of ability to see something no one else could. A look you’ve never seen before that clouded his eyes, over taking his mind before he shook his head free. 

His eyes meet yours again and before the second screech ends he’s jumping from the stage and grabbing your hand, his eyes were frighteningly dark and his voice caught in his throat and rubbed his vocal cords like a scratchy violin, “we need to go, NOW!” 

The crowd filtered out, people ran in every direction in an attempt to avoid whatever was making that horrific noise, but you couldn’t see anything but the blur of families and the residents of Hawkins, Indiana running past you. 

It happened fast, quicker than you could comprehend. He was yelling for you to run, to follow him. The same hands that just played the prettiest of songs were now wrapped around your wrist and dragging you behind him. The same ache in your shoulder you felt that day almost ten years ago when he ran with you to show you his learned talent returned and you would have smiled if you weren’t absolutely terrified. You could barely register not that your own feet were moving willingly. 

It was like you were in a movie, and the VCR was on rewind. What the hell happened? 

Steve was running in front of you, hollering for Nancy to keep up. Her tear stained cheeks were dirty and her lips were blue from the cotton candy. 

Eddie’s jaw was set in a grit so tight his teeth were creaking under the pressure. You turned once to look behind you, and you wished you hadn’t. 

It was a beast, a monster shaped like a malnourished man. Long spindly arms and legs, translucent leathery skin, it’s mouth replicated a flower, and glittered with hundreds of razor sharp teeth. 

Its head was currently held high as it bellered loudly into the night, the blood from Chrissy Cunningham’s torso running down the flaps of its mouth, its taloned foot crushing her skull beneath it. 

Carnival goers were running in every which direction, and Eddie was screaming at Steve to get to his van. Blood was sprayed around the ground like a sprinkler system had gone off, arms and limbs were tossed in the air as if they were nothing. 

But the most terrifying thing of all was seeing Mr. Creel on stage, arms wide open, laughing maniacally. 

—

He fumbled with the walkie from his backpack, the arena caught on the canvas lining, and when it finally breaks free, loose papers, a broken pencil and a special little scribble of two stick figures came flying out with it. 

Frantic, he hits the button and begins his desperate attempt to get help. 

“Dustin! Code Red! We have a code red! Do you copy? Over!” 

Son-of-a-bitch!

 “Mike! Will! Code red! What is your location? Over!” 

Lucas had grabbed Max and ran as fast as he could into the top level of the fun house the second after he watched the demogorgan filet Mr. Clarke like a kabob on a grill. 

It was back. But how? 

He watched with his own eyes when El had closed the gates last time, hell he helped destroy that thing with bottle rockets and black cats. How was it back? 

His back was pressed to the back of a distorted mirror, hip to hip with Max. 

Max finally speaks, her normal glossy eyes were now clouded over in a milky trance, the same one that sprung the air from Lucas’ lungs whenever he saw it. But he knew her second sight was a sick gift from that night. 

“Lucas…” her voice breaks, trembling in the delivery,  “there’s more coming. He’s coming.” 

—

“What the hell was that?!” Steve yelled as soon as Eddie’s van was close, he threw open the sliding door and shoved Nancy into the back seat, looking behind him for the monster. You slammed the front door shut and rolled the crank for the window, your arm pumping fast as the glass slid slowly into the doorframe. 

“Demogorgan.” Eddie said matter of fact like as he finagled the keys into the ignition turning his wrist to start the van.

“A what?!” The three of you said in unison, if this weren’t a life or death situation, you would have said jinx. 

The engine sputtered and shook as Eddie purred into the steering wheel with a frustrated yell as he slammed his fist onto the dash.

“A dem—fuck, look I’ll tell you everything— but first we need to get the hell out here!” 

One more slam into the hood and Eddie’s heavy boot on the gas pedal— the van let out an exhausted sigh as it came to life. 

You looked at the dilapidated remnants of the carnival, an orangey red glow from the center of the stage slivered open and cast an ominous light behind Creel. 

Enormous slime covered black vines slithered and slinked as they broke from the underground, wrapping around the legs of unlucky onlookers and dragging them into the crimson abyss, drug straight to hell. 

The lights around the grandstand all blurred that same angry hue of red you swore you had seen last night out your window. 

Fingers wrap around your hand and from the rings you know it’s Eddie’s, he squeezes your hand and gives you a sad look, like a kicked dog.

The carnival looked like a scene that could only be described in a scary movie, but no matter how many times you blinked your eyes, it wouldn’t go away, this was real. 

“Yo! Wait!”

The voice was familiar, California cool with a slight Midwest accent coming through from years of living in Hawkins.

You looked at Eddie, his bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat. And his tongue was poking out in concentration. 

From behind a car and hobbling on a broken leg was a long haired man, eyes wide and fear stricken as he waved his hands in the air. 

Eddie cranked the lever into reverse, and squealed his tires when he threw the van into drive, ready to get you and everyone else away from this literal bell on earth.

“Whoa whoa wait! It’s Argyle!” 

Nancy slid the van door open from the inside, screaming his name and trying to encourage him to run faster.

His clothes were ripped and haggard looking, his right arm was bleeding profusely, long claw marks that shredded his skin into limp ribbons, leaving the muscle and tissue exposed in a mixture of scarlet red and deep bronzed flesh. 

He was only yards away when he sighed with relief, “Man am I glad to see you guys, I lost Jonath—”

Argyle's sentence falls short as a pair of black scaly feet  hook into the meat of his shoulders and yank him upwards, into the dark sky. 

It was a large leathery bird-like creature, great expanse of wings with jagged skin and a razor sharp beak, gaping wide to show rows and rows of three inch teeth. 

Its black eyes swam in a sea of red, it stood on two muscled hind legs that had several blister-like sacs on them, oozing black liquid that reeked of decay. The body was boney, stretched tight with a scaly black leather skin riddled with bright red veins etched into it like tattoos. 

You watched in terror as another bird creature joined the first, swooping to collect Argyle’s feet in its mouth. Fighting for dominance. 

They had him at either end, swaying back in forth in jerky motions screeching loud and snapping their beaks in grit, struggling to stay airborne while fighting for their prey. 

Flying in different directions, their talons sunk deeper into Argyle's body, the guttural scream from him could shatter the noise barrier, and you swallow dryly as bile creeps up your throat. 

The four of you watch in horror as his torso disconnects in squelching threads of skin guts and bone. His body shreds in half with a wet snapping crunch, blood falling like rain onto the ground. 

Nancy’s screams filled the van as Steve slammed the metal door shut, jamming a thumb into the lock. And you don’t realize your screaming until Eddie’s hand squeezes yours tighter, and the vans tires squeal into the night. Away from the carnage. 

-

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[hed-romancer]

so i made it to philadelphia

somehow. i got on one of the very few commercial flights leaving western north carolina (wnc) and holy shit. my mom kept asking me if i had any fun plans for my last weekend in wnc before my move and i kept telling her i didn't. turns out the hurricane had plans for me!

i work at a grocery store. wednesday when i worked, i asked everyone who came through my line if they were ready for the storm. only maybe 1/4 of anyone was seriously preparing. and that's a generous statistic. people were seriously unprepared. myself included.

thursday was my day off. rainy day off. i love rain! very relaxing, got a coffee, packed some.

friday i got a ride into work and the storm finally hit. by 7:30 we lost power and couldn't open the store. we stayed around to shelter in place and tried to save as many cold items as we could and stock the dry stuff. lost cell service around noon. i got home at 2 and the weather was alright by then but by 3 we had no water- the pipes were down. i practiced my instrument for the first time in a few months. friday night some of my neighbors started a bonfire and i went out and joined them for some food (salvaging the last of what we could before it went bad) and talking. very fun. (this time around i'll meet my neighbors before a disaster strikes!)

saturday i went back into work and we still had no power. we spent the whole day getting rid of previously cold food that had gone bad. the local fire station had a cell hotspot for verizon so i went there and finally called my mom to tell her i was okay. one gas station had gas so there was a blocks-long line of empty cars leading up to it as people left their cars to try and get gas. that gas station ran out, another one got gas, the same thing repeated. people waited hours for gas, waited hours to get groceries at the store right next to the one i worked at. since no one can flush toilets (unless they collected rainwater ahead of time or had a creek to get water to use in the toilet), the bathroom in my apartment and my workplace smelled BAD. i somehow got enough water from my sink to fill a bucket and i used that to take a rag-shower, then poured the leftover in the toilet. i read a book and had another bonfire with my neighbors. sirens- fire/police/ems- went off constantly.

sunday the store i worked at opened because we finally had power, and our store's line wasn't as bad (only 30 min wait time) but it was still intense. we ran out of still water in the first hour and were close to running out of sparkling water when i left at 2. two of my coworkers lost their houses. five haven't been heard from yet. some people had cell service so i looked it up and my flight was still set to leave on time. i'd heard from my neighbor who worked at the airport that the road to the airport was alright (for a while no one could leave wnc at all). sunday was my last day working there, and i was supposed to meet some coworkers for a drink after at this brewing company. the brewing co is now underwater. so's my favorite taco shop there. i read another book and had another bonfire with my neighbors.

when i left this morning, my apartment still had no power or water and i still had no cell service. my flight left as intended and i'm in philly now but it's so strange. i turn on the sink and water comes out. i use the toilet and it flushes. i went to a restaurant and they gave me a refill on water without me asking and i was aware that if i didn't drink it all they'd just pour it down the drain. i can call people now and read fanfic again.

[the-deer-doctor]

Flask of Poison - Predisaster

TW: Violence, poisons, mention of injury/wounds

"Poison....? Are you kidding me, Subspace? Do you WANT us to be known for such cruel and vile things like brewing up nerve killing POISONS?" The pale green doctor nearly shirked out, gripping a flask of a brightly glowing pink liquid. The pink scientist, Subspace, didn't seem too phased by this thought however, a sly smirk pulling up the corners of his lips. "Meddy! My best friend Meddy! Don't you understand what I'm trying to do? I'm trying to make sure nothing can take us down! Other factions are our enemies, Meddy. And if we let even the SMALLEST sign of weakness show, they could possibly strike us down!" "Strike us down....? STRIKE US DOWN?! Subspace, look around us! We're surrounded by your stupid murder machine robots! We've got heavily armed guards patrolling basically every inch of this faction and we've got highly skilled, well-trained mercenaries at our disposal at any given moment! Do you really, REALLY believe that anyone would make attempts at us when none of them have what we do?" The pink scientist hissed softly, his scorpion tail curling up angrily as he moved towards the pale green deer, squinting darkly at him. "I really don't know why I should listen to someone who can only half see our situation, Meddy...." Medkit inhaled sharply at that comment, having to resist the urge to touch the bandages that covered one of his eyes. Dirty scientist.... "You want to ruin us, Subspace. You want us to TEST these fucking awful poisons on prisoners of our own faction! I understand they tried to go against us, but they don't deserve THIS! They don't deserve to have their entire bodies ruined for your sick twisted pleasures!" "Sick twisted pleasures?!" The scientist hissed out loudly, his entire body seeming to tremble with rage as he approached closer, causing Medkit to step back with the flask still gripped tightly in his hand. "Meddy.... Meddy!!! In this world it's KILL or be KILLED. I am going to make sure WE'RE the ones to survive if our enemies try to do anything! You're just some simple little medic... All you've ever done is BABY and PATCH UP those who've failed us! Who've forgotten that their deaths are the building blocks to our faction! That they've-!" The shatter of glass rang out through the laboratory followed by an ear-piercing shriek of pain. Subspace stumbled back, falling onto his back as a burning sensation coursed all over his body. Vile, glowing pink liquid dripped all over his face and onto one of his arms as he kicked and screamed. Medkit, in a blind panic, hurried out of the lab with a wide eye. He knew what he did, he knew he fucked up, he knew what that liquid was capable of, the properties that it had and how it could affect the demon body. But he didn't care to try and save his co-worker. He needed to escape, he needed to get out of his hellhole of a faction. Subspace's shrieks were drowned out by the beating of his own heart as ran, he could barely hear Subspace screaming out "Traitor!" and "My face! My face is burning!", but the deer doctor didn't stop. He kept running and running until he was eventually out of the Blackrock facility, disappearing into the cold stillness of the night. He knew what he did. And there was no turning back now.

[loominggaia]

What fancy and decadent dishes do the Great Kingdom leaders and their families love to eat? Do they secretly eat food that’s more “plebeian” as they might say?

Good question! I think it would be tedious to go through every single character's tastes, so I'll just talk about the most notable ones.

FOLKVAR: Juvella loves traditional Folkvaran fudge bars. It's her biggest weakness. This woman tries so hard to stay in shape, attending aerobics classes every day, turning down so many junk foods at the royal feasts, keeping track of everything she eats to stay healthy...then every night, she hides in a closet while she secretly scarfs down a plate of these damn fudge bars. She's deeply ashamed and hides this behavior from Gultopp, believing he would think her weak for having so little self-control. In reality, he'd just be like "o shit u got fudge?? pass me some of those! :D"

MATUZU: Marghan has a taste for exotic cuisine, and it must be authentic! He has every meal imported from faraway lands, and he does so in the most impractical, expensive way possible. Of course he's not using his own allowance money for this, oh no...he's using Matuzan tax dollars for his cross-continental DoorDash orders, the little prick.

LAMAI: Chua hates gruju, but pretends to love it because it's synonymous with Lamaish culture. They force themselves to chug that crap at every gala to keep up appearances. Every one of their conjoined siblings has their own likes and dislikes, which makes dinner time a complicated ordeal. One sibling has an addiction to xamali and sneaks this alcoholic beverage whenever Chua isn't looking. Of course, Chua suffers the consequences of whatever their siblings consume...on more than one occasion, Chua has found themselves randomly drunk or on the verge of shitting themself because of things their siblings ate.

YERIM-MOR: Roz brews his own kombucha, believing it has all kinds of crazy health benefits. He drinks this stuff all day long and encourages his son Jaq to drink it too, but Jaq thinks it's gross and his dad is weird. Roz is also a fan of yogurt, cheese, and all things probiotic. This is a guy who tries to nurture life wherever he goes, but that's hard to do when his kingdom is such a pit of death. If he can't breathe life back into his kingdom, at least he can nurture microbial life.

ZAREEN: Qara and her husband are junk food junkies, but Qara is particularly fond of sweetpork burgers. In fact, her love of these burgers is so well known that she endorsed a Zareenite burger chain, appearing in their ads for many years. This chain quickly became the most popular fast food joint in the empire. Some would say it's unprofessional and uncouth--perhaps even unethical--for an empress to advertise such unhealthy slop to her people. But this deal scored Qara a lifetime supply of free burgers, and she regrets nothing. Her endorsement of such plebian cuisine won her points with blue collar Zareenites, convincing them that she was ~*~relatable~*~. Other people think her tastes are just as trashy as she is.

EVANGELINE: Indiga strikes me as the type of woman who eats the exact same things every day. A traditional blue breakfast, meat pie for lunch, blue dinner, and a couple cookies for dessert. Every day. For decades. She's so xenophobic, she doesn't trust any sort of foreign cuisine.

MOGDIR: Oberon has a thing for mushrooms, especially truffles. He demands only the finest specimens, no matter their cost. After snorting a long line of pink sugar off a hooker's ass, he washes it down with some silk milk tea, his favorite drink. His daughter, Winnie, is a bugs rights activist who refuses to eat any bug-based dishes. This is hard to do in a place like Mogdir Kingdom, as its traditional cuisine is based almost entirely around bugs. That's because in this culture, farming animals for meat is forbidden, but bugs are not considered animals here. Winnie is like a Mogdiri super-vegan who subsists on scrap rice and carrot mash. She won't even consume bug byproducts such as honey or silk milk.

ETIOS: Hethor loves to eat grass. She's a typical Etiosi grass snob who insists that different types of grass have completely different tastes. Other than that, she enjoys quite a bit of Folkvaran cuisine, which is shipped to her regularly by her pal Gultopp as an act of good diplomacy.

DAMIJANA: Serafeen regularly visits different Damijani restaurants and eats their food as a PR stunt. In reality, she can't stand her empire's native cuisine and much prefers Mogdiri food. Of course she can't possibly let her people know this, and they would flip their lids if they saw their god-like leader put a bug in her mouth. Most foreign cuisine is viewed as "dirty" and "uncivilized" in Damijana. Serafeen must endorse only the sterile, hyper-processed cuisine of her native land.

SEELIE: There is a cup of chocolate coffee within arm's reach of Titania at all times. It's one of the few little joys she has left in her grueling, never-ending life. She has grown sick of all flavors, having tasted them all too many times...but there's something about that chocolately coffee that never gets old to her.

UNSEELIE: Morgause enjoys pickled squid. She'll sit on her throne and eat it straight from the jar with her fingers, she doesn't give a shit. She seems to have a taste for bitter, vinegary things in general.

AQUARIA: Sovereign is infamous for eating live baby dolphins, considering them a delicacy. He insists they must be alive until the moment he bites into them for peak freshness. This makes him sound like a picky guy, but in reality he's a total glutton who will eat damn near anything you put in front of him. He'll even eat stuff he hates as long as it's convenient. Bro has a pretty bad eating disorder, to be honest...It's less about enjoying food and more about the act of consumption for him, which fits his greedy nature.

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

Read the Series

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Two

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the movie "Life as We Know It"!

Masterlist: Here

It had been three days since you’d found yourself in Rafe’s house, a place that now felt more like a cage than a refuge. You hadn’t had much time to adjust to the new reality. Between the funeral, the endless meetings with lawyers and child services, and the sudden responsibility of Willa, everything seemed to blur together in a haze of exhaustion.

You had told yourself you’d stay at the house more often, that you’d help Rafe get into a routine with Willa, but the sheer weight of everything had left you in a constant state of uncertainty. It wasn’t just that you were suddenly her guardian, it was that you were also navigating a delicate, complicated dynamic with Rafe. Every time you thought you had a handle on things, another obstacle seemed to rise up in front of you.

But life didn’t stop, and the bills still needed to be paid. So, you found yourself at the local café by 7 a.m. every morning, working the early shift as if it were a lifeline to some semblance of normalcy. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries helped ground you, a comfort amidst the chaos.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

That morning, you found yourself staring blankly at the coffee machine, lost in thought as you tried to get a fresh batch brewing. Willa’s laugh echoed in your mind, that small, joyful sound she’d made when you’d managed to make her smile that morning at Rafe’s house. But then there was Rafe—his disheveled hair, his barely-contained frustration as he tried to make breakfast, as if he were a stranger in his own life.

You shook the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. You couldn’t afford distractions right now.

"Hey, [Y/N], you okay?" Jess, your co-worker, asked as she slid into the back room, eyeing you with concern. Jess had been your friend since you started working at the café, and while she wasn’t a mind reader, she could always tell when something was off.

You nodded quickly, putting a smile on your face. "Yeah, just a little tired. You know how it is."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press further. "Well, the morning rush is about to hit, and we’re already behind, so I’ll let you catch up. Just take it easy when you can, alright?"

You offered a grateful smile, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. Jess had a way of reading you, and the last thing you wanted was to let her know the extent of what you were juggling.

The morning rush came and went, the familiar frenzy of orders, refills, and people coming and going. By noon, the crowd thinned, and you finally got a break. You slipped into the back room, sitting on one of the crates as you checked your phone, hoping for a distraction.

You had a few missed texts, mostly from Sarah’s family offering condolences, a few work-related messages, and then... one from Rafe.

Can you come over tonight? Willa’s been fussy all day. I can’t figure out what she wants.

You stared at the message for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’d been trying to keep your distance from Rafe, only coming over when absolutely necessary, and still, he was asking for help. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with his emotions, but there was something about the way he’d written this message that gave you pause.

You knew it wasn’t just about Willa—it never had been. There was still tension between you and Rafe, an unspoken rift that neither of you had quite figured out how to cross. Yet, here he was, reaching out.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You’d been trying to balance it all—work, helping Rafe, and processing the grief that seemed to be dragging you under—but it wasn’t easy. You needed to be there for Willa, but you also needed to keep your job, and your sanity.

After a moment of contemplation, you typed out a reply. I’ll be there around six. I can stay for a few hours.

You didn’t know what you expected, but you sure as hell didn’t expect the quick response. 

Thanks. I’ll make dinner. She’s been restless.

You felt a strange knot form in your stomach at the offer. Dinner? From Rafe Cameron? A part of you wanted to laugh, but another part—an irrational, confusing part—wondered if this was his way of trying to do something right, for once.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur. You tried to focus on the coffee orders and the chatter of the customers, but all you could think about was Rafe and the odd, fragile dynamic that had begun to take root.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

By the time you pulled into Rafe’s driveway later that evening, you could feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. But Willa needed you, and whether or not you wanted to admit it, Rafe did, too.

You took a deep breath before getting out of your car, trying to mentally prepare yourself for whatever awaited inside.

The house looked even bigger at night, the lights from the interior casting long shadows across the front yard. As you walked up the stone path, you noticed the faint scent of something cooking—garlic, herbs... something surprisingly warm and inviting.

When you stepped inside, the familiar coldness of the house hit you, but this time, there was something different. The warmth of a home-cooked meal filled the air, and for the briefest moment, it almost felt like things could be normal again.

Rafe was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he stood over the stove. He looked up when you entered, a slight tension in his posture as if he was still waiting for you to call him out on some unseen mistake.

“Hey,” you said quietly, watching him carefully. “Dinner smells good.”

He nodded, but didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s nothing fancy. Just pasta, I—uh, thought it might help if she had something warm.” His voice faltered, just a little, but he quickly recovered.

You glanced over at Willa, who was in her high chair, her small hands gripping the edge of the tray as she watched Rafe. She looked so small in the expansive room, and the sight hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You walked over to her, gently picking her up from the chair. “Hey, little one,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Rafe turned away from the stove, his hands gripping the counter as he stared down at the floor. "I don't know what I'm doing. She won’t stop crying, and I... I don’t get it."

You felt a pang of sympathy, despite everything. You moved toward him, your voice soft. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine. It’s all new for both of us. You don’t have to have all the answers.”

Rafe looked up at you, his expression tense but vulnerable. "Yeah. I guess I just... I want to do right by her. I don’t want to screw this up."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The sound of Willa’s cries echoed through the vast kitchen, filling the space with a noise that felt almost too loud for the house. She was tiny, yet her cries were fierce, relentless. It had been over an hour, and you were beginning to feel like you were running out of options. You had tried everything.

You’d fed her, changed her, rocked her. But no matter what you did, she wouldn’t stop. Willa’s little fists clenched and her body writhed in your arms, the tears never slowing, never quieting.

“Come on, Willa,” you muttered, trying to soothe her with the kind of gentle rocking you’d seen Sarah do a million times. But nothing worked. You glanced over at Rafe, who was standing across the kitchen with his arms crossed, looking both helpless and frustrated.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Why the hell won’t she stop?”

You didn’t have an answer. Honestly, you didn’t know why she was crying, either. She had been fine all afternoon, playing with her toys, laughing when you made funny faces at her. But now, she was inconsolable, and it was starting to tear at your patience—and Rafe’s too.

You rocked Willa more gently, trying to keep calm. "I don’t know," you said softly, your voice low and soothing. “Maybe it’s... something else. She could be tired, or maybe she’s just upset. Babies have their moods.” You spoke from experience, but your words felt thin in the moment. You hadn’t expected to be thrown into this role, and you were starting to feel every bit of the weight of it.

Rafe glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Do you think she’s sick?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

You shook your head. "I don't think so... I mean, she doesn’t have a fever. Maybe it's just... a bad moment." You were doing your best to sound confident, but even you didn’t believe the words you were saying.

Willa’s cries intensified, her tiny body wriggling in your arms, making it even harder to calm her. Your chest tightened with frustration, helplessness. It was hard enough to balance everything with the weight of the situation, but right now? You felt completely out of your depth.

“I don’t know what else to do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You looked over at Rafe, who hadn’t moved an inch since you started holding Willa. His face was tight, his eyes narrowed in frustration, but there was something else there, too—something you hadn’t expected: vulnerability.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After a few more seconds of Willa’s crying, he finally broke the silence.

“Maybe I could try,” he offered, his voice a bit softer, tentative.

You were surprised at the offer. You’d never seen Rafe with kids—never even imagined him with a child this young. But there was something in the way he said it, a quiet desperation, that made you nod.

“Yeah. Try.” You handed Willa to him, careful not to jostle her too much as she continued to wail. She was still kicking her legs, her face scrunched up in distress.

Rafe hesitated for just a second before adjusting her in his arms, awkwardly holding her against his chest. His expression was uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this tiny person who was now his responsibility.

“Hey, Willa,” Rafe said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We got you.”

He bounced her lightly, just enough to make her feel the rhythm of his movements. For a moment, nothing changed. Willa’s cries didn’t soften, but Rafe didn’t seem to mind. His focus was entirely on her, like he was determined to make it work.

You watched him for a moment, trying not to show your surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafe in this light. The way he moved, the way he spoke to Willa—there was something different in his tone, something real.

But the crying didn’t stop. Willa’s cries just seemed to escalate, as though she was testing him, testing you both.

Rafe gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold on her again, more firmly this time. “Alright, little one,” he muttered under his breath, his voice still trying to stay calm despite the rising frustration. "We’re gonna get this right. I swear."

He then shifted, trying a different approach, gently patting her back. He’d seen Sarah do it before, you knew, but it still felt foreign coming from him.

You, not sure what else to do, knelt beside him, trying to be as calm and soothing as possible. You placed a hand gently on Willa’s leg. “Shh… Willa, sweetie, it’s okay,” you cooed, matching Rafe’s rhythm.

And then, something unexpected happened. Slowly, gradually, Willa’s cries began to soften. Her body stopped wriggling as much, her little fists loosened. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t magic, but her wails started to turn into quiet sobs, then sniffling, then, finally, she rested her head against Rafe’s chest.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"See?" you said softly, your heart still racing. "I told you it was just a moment."

Rafe, his face still a bit tense but now with a faint trace of relief, looked down at Willa. Her eyelids fluttered as she finally, finally, drifted off to sleep.

“I don’t get it,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I tried everything, but... she calms down when you do that. When we’re both here.”

You shrugged, feeling the exhaustion in your own body. “Sometimes... it just takes both of us. Babies are unpredictable.” You didn’t know what else to say, because, truth be told, you didn’t really understand it either. But you knew one thing for sure—despite your differences, despite the chaos, this was something you could do together.

Rafe shifted his weight, still holding Willa carefully. “Thanks,” he said quietly, as if he hadn’t just gone through a whirlwind of frustration. It was brief, but there was sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t think... I mean, I wasn’t sure I could handle this.”

You glanced up at him, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something different in his eyes—something that wasn’t defiance or anger, but something closer to gratitude.

“You’re not alone in this,” you said softly. “We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The house had fallen into a strange stillness after Willa finally settled into bed, her little form bundled up in the crib, tucked in for the night. The hours of chaos, the endless crying, the uncertainty—it had all melted into a tense kind of quiet that felt almost too heavy to breathe through. You and Rafe were both exhausted, physically and emotionally, but the weight of the situation hadn’t lightened one bit.

You leaned against the counter in the kitchen, your fingers wrapped around a mug of warm tea, trying to find some semblance of calm. The silence was comforting in a way, but also suffocating. You and Rafe hadn’t exchanged many words since Willa had fallen asleep. There had been a brief moment where you’d both sat at the kitchen table, exhausted, sipping coffee in silence, but now it felt like the quiet was pressing in from all sides.

Rafe was standing by the window, his arms crossed, looking out into the darkened yard. He had been quiet for a while, but you could feel his presence like a weight in the room. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"You know," he began, his voice low but firm. "I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be better if you just moved in here."

You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug in your hands. "What?" You turned to face him, the surprise evident in your voice. "What are you talking about? Why would I—"

He cut you off, not giving you a chance to react. "Look, we’re both her guardians now, right? I get it—you have your life, your job, but you can’t keep going back and forth between here and the café. Willa needs us both, and we both need to be there for her."

You blinked, trying to process his words. "That’s... a huge thing to suggest, Rafe." You shook your head, stepping away from the counter, moving to the other side of the room. "You think it’s easy for me? You think I don’t have a life outside of this? I’ve got my job, my own responsibilities. I can’t just—move in here."

He turned, his gaze sharp as he watched you. "I’m not saying it would be permanent, but Willa... she’s not going to be okay if we’re both stressed out all the time. You’re already running yourself ragged. This way, you wouldn’t have to go back and forth. You could be here when she needs you, and you wouldn’t have to worry about missing shifts or running out of time."

You felt your pulse quicken, frustration creeping in. "You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just about time. This is my life, Rafe. I’m not just going to—what?—move in with you? Because that’s what you think is best?"

Rafe’s face hardened. "It’s not about what I think is best, [Y/N]. It’s about what Willa needs. You think it’s easy for me, either? I didn’t sign up for this. But here we are, and we both have to step up. We both have to make sacrifices."

Your breath hitched, your voice shaking with the weight of it all. "You think I haven’t thought about that? But this isn’t just about ‘stepping up,’ Rafe. This is about our lives. You can’t just dictate how things are going to work because you suddenly want to play house. I’m not some—"

"Not some what?" he snapped, cutting you off, his jaw tightening as his temper flared. "You think I’m asking for you to live with me because it’s some great idea? I’m trying to help you. You can’t keep doing this alone, and neither can I."

You felt a sting of anger rise in your chest, the frustration of everything spilling out. "I don’t need you to help me, Rafe. I don’t need you to fix everything. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this!"

There was a long, painful silence that hung between you both, a tension that had been building ever since that damn phone call, and now, it seemed like it might tear everything apart.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly as the heat of his anger cooled into something more complicated, more raw. "I’m not trying to fix everything," he muttered, his voice quieter now, laced with frustration. "I’m just trying to do the right thing. I didn’t ask for any of this, either, but I can’t keep pretending it’s just going to work if we’re both barely holding on. You need help. I need help."

Your heart ached at the words, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. But you pushed it aside, unwilling to let the floodgates open.

"I don’t need you, Rafe," you repeated, more firmly now. "I need to figure out how to do this on my own. We’re both her guardians, but I’m not going to make this—whatever this is—worse by complicating it. I can’t just move in here and pretend like that makes everything better."

His face tightened, the walls going back up, the Rafe you knew slipping behind his defenses. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "Then keep living your life. Keep juggling it all, and see how far that gets you."

You shook your head, your words coming out in a rush. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t care? I care, Rafe. But this isn’t just about what’s easiest for you, or me, or anyone else. It’s about Willa. And right now, she needs more than just two people fighting over what’s best for her. She needs stability. She needs peace."

Rafe was silent for a long moment, the tension still thick in the room. His eyes flickered to the hallway where Willa’s room was, the soft rise and fall of her tiny chest visible through the crack of the door. His face softened for just a fraction of a second, but then he steeled himself again.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now, though there was still a trace of frustration. "She needs peace. And maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the right call." He turned his back to you, his body tense as if he was still holding onto something you couldn’t see.

You felt your anger begin to ebb, replaced by a quiet weariness that settled deep in your chest. You wanted to argue more, to fight for your space, for your independence. But the truth was, Rafe’s idea, crazy as it seemed, did make some sense. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to agree.

You stayed silent, the space between you growing more and more uncomfortable, until Rafe finally broke the stillness.

"I guess we’ll just have to figure it out, huh?" he said, his voice distant.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you were agreeing with him—or just acknowledging the mess you’d both gotten into.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I guess so."

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you both wasn’t just filled with tension. It was filled with uncertainty.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 

It had been weeks since the argument, weeks since you and Rafe had first clashed over what was best for Willa, what was best for the two of you. You’d spent those weeks bouncing between your place, Rafe’s, and the café, and with each passing day, it was becoming more and more clear that you couldn’t keep it up. You were running on fumes, your mind spinning with the constant demands of work, the responsibilities of being Willa’s guardian, and the weight of your personal life crumbling under the strain.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

It was a quiet morning when you finally made the decision. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft, golden glow across the living room of your small house. You hadn’t been home in days, had barely slept in your own bed. Willa was still adjusting to the routine, and the nights at Rafe’s were becoming more frequent. The constant back and forth was wearing you down.

You stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the coffee mug in your hand, the warmth barely reaching you. It was still early, and the sound of Rafe’s truck hadn’t yet filtered through the house. But today, you had to make it right.

You had to admit you couldn’t juggle it all.

The idea of moving in had been haunting you for days, but admitting it was another thing entirely. Rafe’s offer wasn’t just about practicality—it was about more than that. About Willa, about what you and Rafe were going to have to become for her. You’d been resisting it, pushing it away because it felt like giving up control of your life. But you knew you couldn’t keep going on this way.

And so, you made your decision.

When Rafe finally walked through the front door a few hours later, his presence filled the space like it always did—big, heavy, almost too much to ignore. He didn’t say anything at first, just kicked off his boots and moved to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water before leaning against the counter, his gaze flickering over to you.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You set your mug down, taking a deep breath before you spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, your voice steady but with an undercurrent of hesitation. “And I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep bouncing between my place, yours, and work. It’s... it’s too much.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed slightly. “So what does that mean?”

You met his gaze, the weight of what you were about to say pressing down on you. “I’m going to move in. I can’t juggle all of this alone. But there are some conditions.”

Rafe tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly in curiosity. “Conditions?” he echoed, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “Like what?”

You took a breath and laid it out, clear and firm. “First, I’m not giving up my job at the café. I need that. I need a space where I can breathe and do something for myself. I’m going to be there on my shifts, but I won’t be running myself into the ground. So, we need to find a rhythm that works. I can’t just be at home all day, every day. I have my own life, too.”

Rafe nodded slowly, processing the first part. “Okay. Makes sense.” He crossed his arms, waiting for the rest.

“Second,” you continued, your voice unwavering. “I’m not going to just be a ‘housewife’ or whatever. I need to be treated as an equal, I’m her legal guardian too, not some babysitter. I’ll help with Willa, but I can’t take on the full load. If we’re doing this, we’re both sharing it.”

Rafe didn’t argue with that. He gave a slight nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were preparing for the next condition.

“And third,” you added, stepping forward, your gaze never leaving his. “We set some boundaries. This is for Willa. We’re doing this for her, but I’m not moving in here for any other reason. We need to keep things professional—for her sake. I’m not moving in here just to... make things weird.” You paused, feeling the tension rise between you. “If we’re doing this, it’s for Willa. Nothing more, nothing less.”

There was a long silence between you two as Rafe absorbed your words. He was silent for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a sound of reluctant agreement. “Fair enough,” he said. “I can deal with that. We both need to be in this equally. No one person doing more than the other.” He glanced over at you, a little more seriously now. “And about the boundaries... I’m not trying to make this any more complicated than it has to be. I get it. You’re here to help with Willa, and I’m not going to make that weird.”

It was strange, the way things were shifting between you both. There was a subtle shift in his tone, something closer to understanding. As much as Rafe might have wanted to fight you on it, you knew he respected the fact that you were being clear about your limits.

“So, what now?” he asked, breaking the silence. “You move in today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. But, you’ll have to help me get my stuff together. I’m not just leaving everything behind, Rafe.” You allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at the corner of your lips. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Rafe smirked, the tension breaking between you two for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll help. Just don’t expect me to pack your clothes.”

You laughed quietly, feeling the weight on your chest lift just a little. “I don’t need you to pack my clothes. I just need you to be... not a pain in the ass while I get settled in.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “No promises there.”

You shook your head, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. It was a step in the right direction, you told yourself. A step toward figuring out how to make this new life work.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe it would take time, patience, and more compromises than you had ever imagined. But one thing was clear: you couldn’t do this on your own. And maybe, just maybe, with Rafe by your side, you could figure out what it meant to be a family, even if it wasn’t the family you’d ever expected.

With a deep breath, you took the first step.

"Alright," you said. "Let’s go get my stuff."

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.