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julietsf1 · 1 day ago

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Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

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The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not.

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed.

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror. “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk.

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

#kenan yıldız #kenan yildiz #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yıldız oneshot #kenan yıldız x reader #kenan yıldız fanfic #kenan yildiz oneshot

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acynicalsweetheart · 2 days ago

Note

Could you please write high school reader with daddy issues and meeting Jimmy. She lies to her mother to drop her off at a friend's house just to see Jimmy. He grooms her and thinks he has power over her when one day she drugs him ties him up and rapes him when he wakes up. +using a dildo on him for funsies :3

pairing: jimmy x fem!reader

word count: 3.9k

dead dove do not eat: 18+, non-con/rape, dub-con, grooming sort of, age gap, daddy issues, daddy kink, drugs, smoking, virginity loss

author's note: hai no dildo on jimmy unfortunately LMFAO did try to follow everything else tho.. umm this took forever and ending is very rushed and very ass.. it’s this long cause i felt i had to make it a fic for the grooming aspect so . yah. interaction/feedback appreciated!!

You’re on your way home when this strange, shady type you’ve seen lurking outside of your school walks up to you. Is this it? The last moment of your life, the end, kaput? Okay, paranoia’s getting the better of you, might just be a new janitor or something—

“You got a lighter?” He asks ever-so-casually.

He’s… old. Real old. Like, fourty-something kind of old.

“What?”

“A lighter?” He makes a gesture with his hand, pretending to draw a lighter flame with his thumb.

“Umm… no,” why the hell would you have a lighter? “No I—I don’t, sorry.”

You didn’t think you looked that old. Or like you smoke, for that matter. It’s kind of hard to take offense to his words though, when he’s that cute. Cute in a hobo sort of way.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, hand gliding down his rough face like you not having a lighter is the worst thing since Elvis.

Is this what they call withdrawal?

“But I think they have some at the store.” You point your finger down the street, giving him a once-over and - for safety - deciding to add, “they’re cheap.”

“Forget it.” He tells you sternly, dismissing you with a wave of his hand like you’re cigarette smoke before walking away—opposite direction to the store.

You’re left there standing awkwardly, shifting your weight across your feet. Body moving before you have time to think, you trail after him.

“I can buy them for you, if you want,” ‘cause you’re a pushover and a people pleaser and an idiot all at once.

He scoffs, glances at you over his shoulder. “You think they’re gonna let a little girl like you buy lighters?”

“Well, I…” You can’t tell if he’s angry with you or if his face just naturally looks like that, pulled into a perpetual scowl.

“Just take ‘em,” he shrugs.

“Can’t you take them?” He might look broke, but surely—

“I would, if I was still allowed in the stores.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, looking down at your shoes. That’s unbelievably hot. Is he a felon or something?

“Yeah. Oh.”

And so maybe you do end up taking a lighter, casually shoving it into your pocket and walking out of the store, egged on by a man you were convinced was the school janitor. You actually still aren’t sure if he is or not.

He leads you to some lightly secluded street. The sun’s setting and you should really get back home.

“Umm, here…” your hands shake when you hand it over, fingers brushing against his callused ones. “Mister—”

“Jimmy.” He grabs the lighter like it was his all along, like you didn’t just feel your heart falling out of your ass when you committed an actual crime for him.

“Jimmy,” you try out his name carefully, syllables rolling off your tongue in a way that tells you you’re meant to be.

“You know, since you were such a good girl for me,” Jimmy pulls out a cigarette from a package you didn’t know he had and holds it out for you to see. “Why don’t we share one of these?”

It takes a minute for you to get back on earth.

“Oh, I don’t… do that,” you scratch the back of your head, knowing all too well that you’d get a third degree ass beating if your mom knew. “Smoke, I mean.”

“Had my first cig at nine, you’ll be fine,” Jimmy says nonchalantly with the cancer-stick hanging from his lips, his gaze pressing you subtly as he glares up at you. “First time for everything.”

He’s too irresistible and you don’t want to seem like a pussy in front of the only cool, older guy to ever pay you attention.

So you give in. Lord help you.

“O—okay, umm,” you awkwardly take a seat on the pavement next to him, too scared to look him in the eye. “I don’t really know how to.”

“You know how to use a lighter, don’t you?” You wonder how many cigarettes he’s smoked to get his voice this rough. If it gets rougher for every cigarette.

“Yes…” Your experience goes as far as having only ever used matches to light candles.

Hands still shaking like crazy, you struggle to light his cigarette. Jimmy scoffs and you shrink.

“There.”

Once you finally muster up the courage to look at him, it’s clear how unimpressed he is.

“Saw what I did there? You gotta inhale like this,” Jimmy takes another drag and you feel a cough building up in your chest just by watching. “Try it,” he blows out, hands over the smoke.

“Okay…” Jimmy helps you hold the cigarette like he’s your father and you’re his baby and the dart is a spoon. Well, you weren’t wrong about the coughing.

“No, no,” for the first time since you met, his upside-down mouth goes upwards and your heart skips a beat. “Gotta do it twice, so you feel it here,” Jimmy presses his palm to your chest, accidentally brushing his fingertips against your breasts in the process.

“Oh.” You almost moan, thankfully covered up by your coughs.

Jimmy helps you till you get it right, till there’s no cigarette left to be smoked. He doesn’t even put it out, just drops it onto the ground.

“Better keep this a secret from mommy, huh?”

Heat of embarrassment spreads across your face like a wildfire of some sort, and you freeze up. It’s like Jimmy can see right through you.

“Yeah…” you reply quietly, playing with your fingers.

But maybe you end up having your first kiss that evening, exchanging cigarette-flavoured spit with a stranger whom you met only a couple of hours ago. Maybe you let his hand trail further up your thigh than what was appropriate.

And maybe you keep coming back for more.

Hanging out with Jimmy becomes a regular part of your schedule. The secrecy of it is even more of a thrill—feels just like those colourful pills he shows you that make you feel as if you’re on another planet.

Mommy dearest doesn’t know a thing, and daddy dearest… Well, Jimmy’s pretty much the closest thing you have to a daddy dearest.

He’s so different and so cool and you feel so ashamed that you let him touch you and kiss you.

Jimmy’s your new world—he shows you these grassy things that you can roll and smoke like cigarettes and make you all dopey. He shows you this trashy, thrashy music that makes your ears hurt, not just ‘cause it’s that loud but ‘cause it’s that bad. He shows you that fingers can go in holes and places you never knew, that mouths can go where nobody is allowed.

He shows you fun. You think you’re in love.

You think you should die.

Jimmy finishes up rolling his joint, exhaling the smoke right in your face once he’s lit it. “You know, you should call me Daddy while we try it.”

It. The new thing. For you, obviously. The fuck, the sex, the cherry-popping. Jimmy can practically smell your virginity on you.

“You can—you can… do that?” You question meekly, gaze zeroing in on his blunt, too scared to look him in the eye. Too scared to say a sentence properly around him, really. “I mean, it’s not wrong? It… feels kind of wrong, it’s what you call your dad.”

“Knew a guy who called his girlfriend mom in bed.” And that guy is Jimmy, a couple of months ago actually. Not his proudest moment. But what’s done is done.

“Eww,” you snort like he’s told a joke.

After a moment of awkward silence and two guitar solos from the background music, Jimmy puts the dart down, letting the fugly thing sit and burn on a makeshift ashtray in the form of a plate. After 30 years of smoking you’d think he’d be better at getting them to look fucking decent at the very least.

“So? You’re gonna let me fuck you?” Jimmy asks into your neck, kissing it lazily so there’s less of a chance of you turning him down.

“I… don’t know, Jimmy.” You say so quietly he has to physically exert himself to hear you. Shouldn’t have. “I mean, we don’t really know each other that well and I—“

Way to ruin the mood.

He pulls away from your neck, groaning out of pure annoyance. “Come on, don’t be such a fucking milksop.”

“…What’s a milksop?” You ask, wide-eyed and newborn.

God, you’re making Jimmy feel old. He has to deliberately simplify words when talking to you, speak in fucking baby phrases ‘cause you’re a baby and the only language you understand is goo-goo goddamn ga-ga.

“Forget it,” he pinches his nose bridge and tries to not combust, “just let me do it. You didn’t come all the way here just so we could sit and listen to Pantera, did you?”

You look at Jimmy like he is speaking an ancient foreign language.

Right. He forgot you’re not only incompetent but uncultured as well.

“You don’t even know how old I am, Jimmy, I could be—“ Off you go again with your incessant babbling. Just when are you going to realize that he doesn’t give a fuck?

“You’re legal, aren’t you?”

“Well yeah,” your head hangs lowly, the skin on your arms suddenly looking a lot more interesting so you start picking on it. “I am but, Jimmy, it’s like you don’t even care.”

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, in every fucking sentence. You want him so bad—you’re just too pussy to say it out loud, which is literally what he was trying to tell you. He’ll just simply have to show you.

Jimmy is overdue for some good ‘ol cherry-popping after all.

Resuming his biting on your neck, he says things the way they are to hear you gasp. “That’s ‘cause I don’t.”

“That sounds naughty…”

He almost bursts out laughing, keep talking like that and you’ll end up in a porno in no time.

“You’ll let me do it,” Jimmy bares your tits, pulling your dress down, “won’t you, baby?” ‘Cause a pet name or two is all it takes to get you to melt.

You’re pushed down onto the bed before you can even reply. Left in only your underwear before you can even blink.

“Okay, Jimmy…” you say timidly.

“Remember what I told you?” His fingers trail down your tummy till he finds your panties, the print and ribbon something you’re much too old to be wearing.

“Daddy,” your voice gets stuck in your throat when he palms your clothed mound. “Yes, daddy,” you correct shakily.

And Jimmy’s fingers slide underneath the fabric, struggling to fit two in your pussy. You’re squeezing him so tight he thinks they might fall off and get stuck inside you.

He doesn’t let you cum.

That’s an activity that takes place on Jimmy’s dick and nowhere else.

Once your panties are off and you’re naked like the day you were born in front of him—dripping onto the sheets, Jimmy lazily pulls his cock out and you stare like it’s your first time ever seeing one.

“Like what you see?” It’s a rhetorical question, there’s a 95% chance that you’re judging him. Shit looks more like a wild animal than a dick if Jimmy’s being entirely honest.

“Is it going to fit?” You’re blinking up at him with those awfully glossy eyes of yours. “Daddy,” you add a minute too late.

“Don’t know,” Jimmy tells you honestly.

He prods at your entrance, trying to find the right angle that will slide him right in after a nice little struggle. Your expression contorts every way, resembling a crumpled napkin more than your actual face.

“Ouch, Jim—I mean, daddy,” your eyes and mouth are wide open, looking like Jimmy’s impaling you with a knife and not his dick. “It hurts.”

Dramatic much?

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he keeps pushing in, managing to get a quarter of his tip inside. “Nobody ever tell you that?”

“No…” you heave out, gripping onto his arms for dear life as he very choppily forces himself into your hole.

Jimmy coos at you unenthusiastically, “poor little girl.”

(You are, probably never heard of sex till Jimmy mentioned it.)

He doesn’t let you get adjusted—immediately starting to fuck you harder, faster, rougher than one should a virgin. Jimmy’s popping your cherry, alright. Can even spot a thin red layer coating his dick already.

“Ow, ow, ow,” you whimper under your breath with every thrust into your cunt. Kind of hilarious.

“You like it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I… like it,” you repeat with the most pained look on your face, tears pricking at your lash lines.

Jimmy makes sure you feel all of his cock, drilling deep enough to feel your fleshy cervix ‘cause he’d like to hear you scream.

“Daddy,” you kick your legs, pussy struggling to keep Jimmy’s dick inside you. “Oh, daddy.” Not quite a scream.

“Yeah,” his eyes are glued to your stretched entrance, growing impossibly harder at the sight of your ruined pussy—ruined innocence. “Gonna make daddy cum already.”

“Not inside…”

Oh and now you’ve suddenly taken sex-ed classes?

Jimmy keeps slamming his hips into yours, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room, he can hear you loud and clear over it. Purposely letting his groans loose so you really get the hint.

“Not inside, Jimmy, pleasepleaseplease not inside!” You claw anywhere and everywhere you can reach, trying to get him off. Didn’t he explicitly tell you to call him daddy?

“Huh?” His hips stutter against yours, movements turning sloppy as his balls tighten—readier than ever. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

Just a moment later, Jimmy cums inside, shoots like a fucking pistol—bullets in the form of sperm straight into your womb.

You start sobbing.

Jimmy’s never been good at comforting so he rubs your clit in consolation.

“Better cum on daddy’s cock soon,” it’s like he’s speaking to a fucking brick wall. A crying, teenage-girl-shaped brick wall. “Getting pretty sensitive over here.”

Can’t exactly tell with your hands over your face but Jimmy thinks you cum, ‘cause you squeal and push his dick out.

Well, could’ve gone worse.

“I don’t wanna get pregnant,” you whisper between sniffles after receiving the thickest creampie Jimmy has ever given anybody. Uh huh.

He pulls out with a sloppy pop! and watches his cum mixed with your blood drip out of your gaping cunt, soaking through he’s sheets that he’s most definitely not going to clean.

Jimmy’s been smoking and drinking since before he fucking grew balls, do you seriously believe that his sperm’s going to knock you up? If Jimmy became a sperm donor, the only thing he’d be giving out is strains of herpes—not babies. To put things into perspective.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He tucks his softening dick back into his pants, “a plan-B should do the trick.”

“Okay…” you’re crawled up like a frightened mouse—a naked frightened mouse, all sorts of questionable fluids leaking out of all your holes. “Okay, Jimmy.”

At least you seem to know what a plan-B is. Jimmy half-expected you to go but Jimmy I didn’t have a plan-B! I didn’t even want to sleep with you in the first place! in that whiny voice you do that makes him want to light himself on fire.

And for safety’s sake—partly out of spite, “I heard they sell some at the store. Could get it for cheap.”

“You’re not gonna buy it for me?” You’re shaking like you have fucking hypothermia.

He shrugs. Only time not being allowed in stores has ever been of a convenience to Jimmy.

Once you’re dressed he ushers you out of his apartment that he hasn’t paid rent for in a couple of months.

“Bye.” Jimmy says slackly, pushing you out of the threshold to his place.

“But—“ you start frantically, confusion written all over your features.

He shuts the door in your face. Locks it, twice.

Through the peephole of his door, Jimmy can see how you’re limping like a lamb born yesterday on the way out. He bets your mommy ain’t gonna be too happy about that.

You’re so sick and tired of Jimmy treating you like shit. How is he allowed to do that and get away with it? Every single time.

He’s a sad sack of pure sleaze and you can’t believe you let him take your virginity all those months ago.

You sneak into his place unnoticed because he’s such a sad sack of pure sleaze that he hasn’t even locked his door. He’s asking for it.

From the hallway you can see that his glass is empty. Jimmy’s rolling one of those grassy things again, watching the TV and listening to his shitty music. You haven’t even seen Jimmy’s face yet but you know that he looks thirty years older every time you do.

Disgusting.

You’ll sleep with him one last time.

You trail into the kitchen with the stealth of an elephant, knocking over a lone empty beer can on the floor in the process, yet Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice.

Rummaging through his cabinets, you’re reminded of this conversation between Jimmy and his really cute friend with a very unusual name that you can’t remember. Jimmy was telling him about the roofies he keeps in the fourth cabinet while his friend just laughed awkwardly.

They should do the trick.

Rohypnol reads the package, half of the pills are missing. Foul. But then again—this is Jimmy you’re talking about.

You put a singular green oval pill in his drink, watching it dissolve and colour the alcohol a shade weirder.

Jimmy groans from the living room and you scramble to hide underneath his table like a scared little kid. Your freak of a not-boyfriend - ‘cause he never did ask you out - actually drinks the shit in one gulp.

After a moment he stumbles into his bedroom and you think he passes out ‘cause you hear obnoxiously loud snores echoing throughout the entire apartment.

Guess this is your time to shine. And… fuck.

Fuck, that word is so unnatural—so vulgar. And Jimmy uses it so casually.

To embarrass him the way he’s embarrassed you countless times, you undress the entirety of Jimmy��s body apart from his feet—never his feet.

You decide that restraining Jimmy might be for the better ‘cause he’s like a wild fucking rabid animal when he’s drunk. Actually, you don’t know if he is drunk but all for safety’s sake, right?

You’re trying to make this as un-personal as it can be but Jesus he is hot. You just have to feel him up one last time. How there’s not one area that’s not covered in at least some hair, cute brown and puffy nipples, and his dick.

The one that sits there sadly and all alone, giving you puppy eyes.

Maybe it’s a miracle that Jimmy is soft so you can play with it for just a little. Maybe it’s a shame that Jimmy’s not awake to grab your hair and force you down all the way till you’re gagging and choking around him.

Once he’s hard you slide off your panties and bare one of your tits ‘cause you’re feeling kind of bad for Jimmy against your will. How he’s the only one naked.

Sliding down on his cock, it feels just like the first time—stings like hell. But this is your revenge after all so you suck it up. Bounce up and down until your slickness can’t keep quiet and is coating his length.

It actually feels good when you’re the one in control for once. When you have time to adjust, to feel it inside you in a way that feels more like sex than getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jimmy’s eyes do that weird back and forth thing that looks a little demonic—his body twitches like you’re an exorcist and not a technical rapist. He’s fighting against literal sedatives, it’s kind of funny.

You keep riding him.

All Jimmy remembers is thinking that he’s gonna get another drink and get back to his nice fucking joint before he very oddly lost consciousness. Shit was a real scare, thought he died and went straight to hell for a second.

No—the real scare is that he’s awoken by a weight in his lap, a death grip around his dick like somebody’s trying to rip it off, and most importantly, you.

You’re the weight in his lap, the death grip around his dick because of course you fucking are.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jimmy asks very rightfully angry. Let a man smoke for fuck’s sake.

Moving your hips back and forth like it’s your first time horseback riding, you counter with a half-aborted, “shut—shut up, Jimmy…”

Yeah, that’s real convincing. You can’t even get the words out without stuttering. Probably the first time you’ve ever told somebody to shut up in your life.

“No.” Jimmy is a man and men do not take orders from women let alone little girls.

You slow your pace and Jimmy is about to push you off when he notices that he fucking can’t because he’s tied up like he’s in a torture chamber.

Creativity must not be your strong suit seeing as you’ve used three of his belts and a pink sparkly jumping rope for his left foot.

“Fuck,” he thrashes in your makeshift bondage fantasy come to life, “get off me, bitch.”

“No.” You tell him and force your polka-dot fucking panties in his mouth.

They taste good so who’s really losing here?

“I’ll kill you,” Jimmy tries to say with your underwear down his throat. It comes out inaudible and muffled and you fucking laugh.

“Mmm, yes, kill me, Jimmy.” You run a cold finger down his chest, put on this sexy voice. “That’s so hot.”

He can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re just being fucked up like always.

“I’m serious,” it’s like he’s fucking chewing the fabric.

“You’re sexist? That sounds right.”

Jimmy fucking gives up, flopping down all boneless onto the mattress and glaring at the ceiling ‘cause he can’t stand your face. “Oh my God.”

Contrary to what Jimmy’s saying and doing, he actually quite enjoys it. Well, he would have, were you a fraction of a better rider. This is exactly why you don’t let virgins stick around. Either way, he wants you to stop because you’re fucking embarrassing him—he’s stuck underneath you like a damn sissy. And you can’t even get him let alone yourself off. Should just fucking give up and let Jimmy take care of the raping.

He’s been there, done that.

He endures your clear first attempt at roofying for about five minutes until you force yourself to cum. You’re obviously faking it for whatever reason, squeezing out ooh’s and ah-ah-ah’s like a pornstar.

“Fucking ugly slutbag,” Jimmy decides to add as his dick kicks inside you, a couple of more bounces away from filling you up the way he knows you like it.

“Whatever you say, Jimmy.”

And your bitch-ass just gets up and leaves. Jimmy is stuck in your makeshift restraints, panties in his mouth and butt fucking naked. Ruined orgasm at that. Fucking cunt.

He’s going to burn your goddamn house down.

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bunji-enthusiast · 3 days ago

Text

(𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲) 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐭

Characters [Kissy Missy, Huggy Wuggy, Doey The Doughman]

Note || request: idk if you're taking requests but can you possibly do small fic of kissy, huggy, and doey getting affection for the first time by y/n / the player? Platonic head kisses, hugs, that sort of thing.

Why, yes my good fellow fan. I actually loved this, omfg.

— Doey The Doughman

As an ex-employee of Playtime Co., you couldn’t shake the weight of your past. The haunting memories of the factory lingered in the back of your mind, yet there was something much deeper pressing at your heart. You had seen so much suffering over the years, and now, among the few survivors in this grim new world, you couldn't help but notice the vulnerable ones. Doey, especially.

The plump dough creature had been a beacon of hope for so many, but behind that friendly, playful demeanor, you recognized a burden. He held his group together, sacrificed his time, energy, and emotional well-being for those under his care in The Safe Haven. Even when it wasn’t necessary, he put on a brave face, especially with the overwhelming responsibility of leadership. You could see it in his eyes, that exhaustion. You suspected that he had once been a child under that appearance, his innocence hidden beneath layers of experience far beyond what a creature like him should bear.

For someone like Doey, affection was something foreign, something he rarely got, especially in such a harsh environment. Leadership had made him strong, but at the cost of his own peace. That was something only an empathetic soul like you could truly understand. You knew, deep down, that he needed care and compassion as much as anyone else. And though it was strictly platonic, affection might be the very thing that could allow him to heal — to feel like something more than the leader of a group of survivors.

One evening, after a long day of coordinating plans, you approached Doey in the quiet of the Safe Haven. He was sitting on a makeshift bench near the fire, his long, colorful arms resting at his sides, and his eyes fixed on the dim glow. His yellow, orange, and red dough belly pattern of three bendy arms seemed to ripple with the firelight.

You could see that he was tired, maybe even a little lonely, his mouth set in a soft frown. Without thinking, you moved closer, and a gentle but firm hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked, startled at first, before his eyes softened.

"Doey," you began softly, your voice uncharacteristically tender. "You’ve done so much for everyone. But you’ve been carrying this weight alone for too long."

He didn’t respond immediately, his hollow eyes looking at you through the holes in his doughy face. But there was a subtle shift, a small recognition that the burden he carried wasn’t unnoticed. You could feel the tension in him as if he was silently giving himself permission to let down his guard, just for a moment.

You kneeled beside him, reaching up to gently pat his head, careful not to be too forceful. The blue clay of his doughy scalp was soft, cool to the touch. He blinked again, this time with a hint of surprise, but you continued, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head, a silent promise of care. The warmth you felt in the moment was something you hadn’t realized you needed, and perhaps, neither had he.

As you leaned back, Doey’s long orange arm slowly lifted, hesitating before it rested on your shoulder in return. You could tell he was processing the moment, unsure of how to respond, but you knew it wasn’t the kind of affection he was used to. He was a leader, after all — strong, unyielding, and often alone in his role.

But here, in the dimly lit corner of The Safe Haven, there was a quiet kind of peace. You could see the tension in his body gradually melt away. He needed this. He deserved this. After all, even the strongest of leaders were human, even if their form was a strange, colorful dough creature.

"Thank you," you murmured. "You don't have to carry it all on your own, Doey. We're all in this together."

For a moment, Doey said nothing, but the subtle shift in his expression spoke volumes. His holes, the makeshift eyes, softened as if a weight had lifted. And then, in a rare and tender gesture, he leaned toward you, wrapping his long yellow arm around your shoulder in a gentle embrace.

The warmth of his body, though made of dough, felt oddly reassuring. The hug wasn't tight or demanding, but it was everything he needed — a small, quiet moment of affection and support. It wasn’t about leadership, or strength, or the mission. It was simply about being there for each other.

You could feel his breath — or perhaps it was the absence of it — as he pulled away just slightly, his eyes meeting yours. "You're right," he finally said in his soft, humble voice. "I... I haven't been good at asking for help."

You smiled, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. “You don’t have to ask. Sometimes, it’s okay to just let others help you."

As the fire crackled in the background, you stayed close by Doey’s side, offering him the rarest of gifts — a moment of respite, of care. Just for tonight, he didn’t need to be a leader, a beacon of hope, or the one who carried the weight of so many. He could simply be Doey — the dough creature who deserved love, affection, and the safety of knowing someone had his back.

And for you, it was a reminder that even in the darkest of places, sometimes the best thing we can offer one another is warmth, care, and affection — the simple things that make us human, or in Doey’s case, something more than just an animated being. Something deserving of a gentle hug and a soft kiss on the head.

— Huggy Wuggy

It had been a long time since you had last seen Huggy Wuggy. The factory, now eerie and abandoned, had its haunting air, but there was something... different about it now. The silence that permeated the air had always felt oppressive, but as you ventured deeper, a strange sense of sadness washed over you.

The towering blue creature loomed before you in the dimly lit corridor. Huggy Wuggy stood there, as if waiting. His large black eyes stared at you, reflecting the remnants of something broken, something lost. His tall, slender frame seemed so out of place in the sterile halls of the factory, but it wasn’t his presence that made you pause—it was the unmistakable loneliness that seemed to emanate from him.

The thought had crossed your mind many times, especially after the encounters you had witnessed between him and others in this factory. Huggy Wuggy had been part of a long-lost project, a toy designed to spread love and affection, but something had gone horribly wrong. The violence he once displayed, the frenzy he brought upon anyone unlucky enough to cross his path, wasn’t his doing. It was the Prototype, manipulating him, turning his purpose of affection into something much darker.

You had made a decision—one that surprised even yourself.

The truce, strange as it was, had to mean something. The creature before you had been twisted by forces far beyond his control, but there was still a trace of the original Huggy inside. You didn’t want him to be just another victim of whatever twisted fate had led him down this path.

“Hey, Huggy,” you spoke softly, your voice breaking the quiet tension of the room. Huggy’s head tilted slightly, as if trying to understand what you were doing here.

You took a cautious step forward, your heart racing slightly. You had no idea how he would react. He had been hostile before—ferocious, even. But this time felt different. There was a hesitation in his movements, a kind of vulnerability that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps, after everything that had transpired, Huggy had found the small, flickering ember of his former self.

You slowly raised your hand, offering him an open gesture—an invitation. Huggy’s large yellow hands twitched, the velcro straps on his palms shifting as he examined your hand cautiously. His face, though monstrous and alien, held a certain curiosity now, as if unsure whether to accept or reject the kindness you were offering.

Gently, you stepped closer, placing your hand on his outstretched arm. It felt surprisingly warm, almost organic. Huggy froze, and you could feel his body tense as if ready to pull away. But you didn’t back down.

In a move that could have been considered a gesture of trust, you leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on the top of his head. It was a simple act—one that might have seemed odd to anyone else, but it was something that felt right in that moment. Huggy, the once terrifying creature, stood still, unsure of how to process the affection.

After a long pause, something shifted within him. He let out a low hum, almost as if responding to the touch. His large black eyes blinked slowly, as if digesting the sensation, and for a brief second, it felt as if time had stopped. The hostility that had once radiated from him seemed to fade, replaced by something almost... grateful.

You pulled back slightly, watching as Huggy lowered his head, almost as if in acknowledgment. It wasn’t much—just a small sign that the creature, so often feared and misunderstood, had been longing for the kind of kindness he had been created to offer.

Huggy’s response wasn’t immediate, but it wasn’t hostile either. Instead, he took a step closer, his large frame towering over you. He didn’t try to grab you or threaten you. He simply knelt down, lowering himself to your level. And then, with a gentle motion that seemed so foreign to his nature, he wrapped his long arms around you in a hug. It was awkward, almost clumsy, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to hold you without causing harm. But it was there—a gentle, almost tender embrace.

You held on for a moment, a quiet smile creeping onto your face. This—this was what Huggy had been meant for. Not to be a monster, but to offer comfort, to be the source of warmth and affection he had been designed to be before everything had gone wrong.

It felt like a small victory. The kind of victory that didn’t come from defeating an enemy, but from giving someone, or something, the chance to be seen as more than what they had become.

Huggy’s large head nuzzled gently against your shoulder. Despite everything that had happened in this twisted factory, in this place of nightmares, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace.

“Thank you, Huggy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”

For a brief moment, the factory seemed less ominous, less dangerous. Huggy, the creature who had once been a source of terror, now simply wanted to be understood. And for once, in this forsaken place, you understood him.

You stepped back from the hug, your hands resting on his shoulders as you gave him a reassuring smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Maybe, just maybe, Huggy Wuggy could find his way back to the love he was once meant to give.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back one last time at the towering blue creature, now seemingly at peace, standing alone in the quiet, broken factory. The path ahead of you was uncertain, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you knew there was a chance for redemption—even for Huggy Wuggy.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

— Kissy Missy

The factory loomed around you like an old, haunted memory, every creak and groan a whisper of its long, forgotten past. The shadows seemed to stretch for miles, the dim flicker of lights casting eerie silhouettes against the walls. But amidst this endless labyrinth, there was something — or rather, someone — you couldn’t shake from your mind.

Kissy Missy.

When you first encountered her, she had been a tragic figure, caught in the aftermath of violence and destruction. She had once been part of something grand, a cheerful toy meant to bring joy. Yet, years of abandonment, trauma, and violence had altered her. Despite her kindness, there was a depth of sadness within her. She had seen horrors that no one should have to bear, and now, she wandered the empty halls, looking for solace in the rubble.

You had grown fond of her over time, not just as a comrade in this strange and dangerous world but as a friend. And you knew, perhaps more than anyone, that even the toughest souls needed affection sometimes.

That night, as you walked through the cold, empty corridors of the factory, your thoughts turned back to her. Kissy Missy was injured. You could see the physical toll the factory had taken on her, the scars on her body from an unknown attacker, and the burns marking her face. But there was something else, something you could sense. Her spirit, too, had been wounded, battered by years of loneliness and violence.

You stopped in front of her quarters, the heavy door creaking as you pushed it open. She was there, slumped against the far wall, her large, dark eyes tired but still holding a glimmer of something — something hopeful, something good.

She didn’t notice you at first, her gaze distant. But you didn’t need to say anything. She’d always understood. Slowly, you moved toward her, kneeling down to her level. For a moment, you simply gazed at her, taking in her delicate features and the softness that still remained beneath the layers of pain and exhaustion.

“Kissy…” you said gently, your voice carrying the weight of unsaid things. She turned toward you slowly, her gaze meeting yours with a quiet recognition. She didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of relief in her eyes — she had been waiting, perhaps without even knowing it, for this moment.

Without thinking, you reached out, your hand softly resting on her shoulder. The warmth of your touch was met with a long, almost imperceptible sigh from her. It was as though she had been holding her breath for too long, and finally, someone had come to release her from the tension of it all.

You didn’t speak, not just yet. Instead, you simply gave her a gentle squeeze, a comforting touch that she had long since forgotten. Her eyelids fluttered, and she leaned into it, just slightly, her head dipping to rest against your hand.

The gesture was so simple, yet in it was everything. It was the kindness she hadn’t known in years, the warmth she had been starved of, the affection she so desperately needed but never dared to ask for.

Without a word, you stood up and moved behind her, pressing your palm against the back of her head, urging her forward into a soft embrace. You could feel the tension in her body, the slight tremble as she tried to stay strong, but she gave in. She allowed herself to be held for a moment, to be taken out of the nightmare of the factory, even if just for a brief while.

It was quiet — just the two of you in that forgotten place. You could hear the faint hum of the factory’s systems, the distant echoes of machinery, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that, for once, Kissy Missy wasn’t alone.

As you stood there, holding her, your mind wandered to all the things she had gone through. The years of isolation. The horror of the massacre. The unrelenting loneliness. It was no wonder she had become the way she was — strong, silent, fierce in her resolve. But beneath all of that, there was a heart that longed for connection, for love, for someone to show her that she still mattered.

You kissed the top of her head gently, a small gesture of affection, your lips brushing the soft, pink fur of her hair. It wasn’t romantic; it was something deeper, something more human. It was a promise — a promise that she wasn’t forgotten, that she wasn’t some abandoned, discarded thing left to rot in the depths of the factory.

The slight weight of her head against your chest was a silent confirmation that she understood. You weren’t going to leave her alone in this place. You wouldn’t let her carry the burden of her past by herself.

For a long while, you stayed like that. The world outside seemed distant, and all that mattered in that moment was the fragile creature in your arms. You could feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she took a deep, steadying breath, and you knew, for just a fleeting moment, she felt safe.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t leave her side. Instead, you sat beside her, your shoulder against hers, offering your presence as a reminder that she wasn’t forgotten. She looked at you, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, there was something resembling peace in her eyes.

In the quiet of that factory, you promised yourself that no matter what horrors lay ahead, Kissy Missy would never face them alone. And that, for all the trauma she had endured, she could still find a little bit of warmth, a little bit of comfort in this broken world.

You didn’t have to say it aloud. She knew. And for now, that was enough.

#submission #kissy missy x reader #poppy playtime kissy missy #kissy missy poppy playtime #kissy missy #huggy wuggy x reader #poppy playtime huggy #huggy wuggy #doey ppt #doey x reader #poppy playtime doey #doey the doughman

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obsidianpen · 3 days ago

Note

I'm cheeky snippet anon. I was particularly hoping for a glimpse of the Draco pov in B&G but I'm a fan of all your fics I'll take any snippet and be incredibly grateful 😍 or I'll take nothing and be grateful too! Thanks for writing!

“Floor two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” announced the cool, female voice.

Draco rushed out of the lift as soon as the doors opened. A few interdepartmental memos flanked him before fluttering off in different directions.

He knew his way around, having come here with his father on more than a few excursions, so Draco made his way to the Auror offices quickly. He kept his head down. He avoided making eye contact with anyone, and somehow managed not to draw attention to himself.

He heard him before he saw him.

Draco was just passing one of the large sections of walled-off cubicles when the much too familiar sound of Potter’s voice reached his ears. “...feels like a Friday, you know?”

“You said that yesterday, Harry.”

Weasley. After glancing quickly up and down the narrow hall he found himself in, which was, blessedly, empty at the moment, Draco made a split-second decision. He pressed himself up against the wall of what must have been Potter’s cubicle and eaves-dropped.

“It does, though. Feels like this week has dragged on forever already.”

“I know. It’s the paperwork.”

“It’s always the paperwork. I’m losing my damn mind.”

Perhaps you made a grievous error in your career choice, Potter, Draco thought amusedly.

“You might have made a bad career choice, then,” said Weasley. Draco glowered. It sounded much less funny coming from him.

“Yeah, well, at least you’re stuck in it with me.”

“Don’t think I’m not considering quitting every time a new case to file gets dropped on us. George said his door is always open.”

“You’re not allowed to quit. You’re nowhere near funny enough to help run a joke shop. You’d ruin his business, and then my Triwizard Tournament winnings will have gone entirely to waste.”

There was theatrical sigh followed swiftly by a banging sound, which was then followed by some swearing and some good-natured laughter. Draco rolled his eyes. He was about to turn the corner and finally announce his presence when Potter spoke again.

“It’s… Today is Hermione’s birthday, you know.”

Draco froze and held his breath. Her birthday? Today was her bloody birthday?

“...Yeah. I know.”

A stretch of silence so uncomfortable that even Draco felt awkward. More awkward than he already did, at any rate.

“I, er. I owled her, Asking her to meet me out later. I think she will.”

You think incorrectly, Potter, Draco thought darkly.

“Yeah? That’s… Good. That’s good.”

“I told her I got her something. A gift.”

“That is traditionally what one does on someone’s birthday, yes.”

Potter sighed even more dramatically than before. “It’s you. You’re the gift. You and a giant, heartwarming, much-needed apology speech. You’re coming with me to the Three Broomsticks, and we are finally going to hash this whole thing out and move past it. Okay?”

Draco had to cover his mouth to prevent the awful laughter that threatened to escape. Weasley? Potter was bringing Weasley to Granger, as a present? Her estranged ex-boyfriend? To hash out his cheating behavior from over a year ago?

Wherever she was, Draco was certain that Granger would feel nothing but relief knowing she had missed out on this birthday surprise. She’d probably prefer to be ripped apart by the turbulence of time-travel, really.

“I… what?” Weasley said weakly.

Draco decided he’d heard more than enough. Granger would not be meeting anyone out for birthday drinks, because Granger was likely in mortal peril, stranded in the wrong decade, and that was looking at things optimistically. Channeling all the dignity he could manage, Draco straightened his posture, fixed a contemptuous look on his face, and turned the corner to reveal himself.

“Potter,” he said stiffly.

It worked too well.

As it happened, Potter was leaning back slightly in his chair, lifting the two front legs off the ground. Upon the unanticipated arrival of Draco Malfoy in his cubicle, he startled so badly he yelped and kicked the chair right over, sending himself tumbling backwards to the floor–and good thing, too, because he also happened to have his wand in his hand. A bright yellow spark shot from its tip, missing Malfoy by a distressingly small amount as he fell and striking an interdepartmental memo mid-flight instead. The little paper airplane promptly exploded in a burst of golden confetti.

“Hope that wasn’t important,” Draco said drily, not allowing the panic of nearly being hit by a hex show on his face.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MALFOY?”

“FUCKING HELLS!”

Both Potter and Weasley yelled at the same time. Potter–in a move that was, admittedly, impressive–had turned his fall into a sort of tumble-roll, and was back on his feet in a flash, his wand aimed much more precisely on Draco’s face. Weasley had pulled his wand out as well, and now that Draco looked around properly, he saw that there were at least five other wizards and witches who had popped their heads up over the cubicle wall, all of which were now doing the same, looking alarmed.

Probably wasn’t the brightest idea, spooking a bunch of aurors, Draco admitted in the privacy of his mind.

#Blood and gold #snippet #tomione #even though there is no Tom nor Hermione present

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harpersdragons · 24 hours ago

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New Fic! (again)

It's Fine if We Know We Won't Change

Words: 2,033

Description: Jason realizes just how rough it was for Tim when he was training to be Robin

not canon-compliant, idk enough about canon for it to be.

Jason spins, dodging the incoming strike. He ducks under and slashes with the wooden sword. Tim blocks, ducking low and trying to sweep Jason’s leg.

“C’mon, pretender, that all you got?” Jason taunts, jumping over Tim’s leg.

They trade blows for a long time, dancing back and forth with each other. Eventually, Jason disarms Tim and tosses the bo staff across the cave. Tim jumps out of the way of his next strike, setting his jaw and considering Jason’s stance. Jason lets him take his time, tossing his sword in the same direction as Tim’s staff. In a real battle, Tim would need to be prepared to be unarmed and facing a weapon, but this isn’t a real fight. Besides, not many criminals on the streets are fighting with swords.

Tim smirks as he launches himself at Jason again. Jason dodges again, knocking Tim’s arm out of the way, then spinning around and sweeping his legs. He locks Tim into an arm bar.

Tim groans and thrashes his legs, trying to loosen the tension on his arm and shoulder, but Jason’s grip is iron. One leg is keeping Tim’s body pinned to the floor, the other bracing his arm as Jason bends it back. His thigh digs into Tim’s bicep, Tim’s breath is coming in short pants.

“You gonna yield anytime soon?” Jason questions, increasing the tension. The rule is generally to keep increasing tension until they tap out, but he might have to call it soon if Tim doesn’t tap out himself.

Tim just groans in response and struggles more. His upper body twists, and a sickening snap sounds through the cave. Tim yelps, and Jason releases him immediately, scrambling back. Tim rolls over, cradling the injured arm against his torso.

“The fuck? Why didn’t you yield?”

“I knew how to get out, I just needed a few more minutes.” Tim pants, pushing himself up slowly.

“Jesus christ, tap out if you need to. This isn’t a real fight.”

“If it was, I could have died. I need to know how to get out of that.”

“Yes, but this is training. We’re going on patrol in a bit, this wasn’t meant to be that serious.” Jason stares in shock as Tim walks to the back wall. “Where are you going? The medbay’s the other way. We need to call Alfred.”

“Calm down, will you? I can set it myself, it’s just a dislocated shoulder.” Tim doesn’t look at him, sets his back against the wall and bunches up his shirt, then tucks the end into his mouth. He grabs the wrist of his injured shoulder and guides it out in front of him.

Jason jumps into motion before he can do anything else. He gently stops Tim from popping his own shoulder back into place, and guides Tim back to the medbay.

“Sit.” He points at the cot, then moves around and gathers lidocaine, syringes, and a sling.

“You don’t need to do all that. If you insist on helping, give me something to bite down on and do it. I don’t want to go on patrol with a numb shoulder.”

That stops Jason in his tracks. “You’re not patrolling tonight.” He doesn’t glance at TIm, he just goes back to gathering his supplies. “Either I’m doing this, or Alfred or Bruce is. Your choice.” He sets the supplies on the cot next to Tim and then gently starts feeling around his shoulder. Tim’s scoff turns into a groan and he grits his teeth.

“Please, Bruce isn’t going to take care of my injuries. I doubt he’d let Alfred do it, either. So get it over with, or I’m going back to doing it myself. And I am patrolling tonight, so no local.”

Jason stares at him, taking in the way he’s braced for it, jaw set and staring straight ahead at the wall in across from them. He sighs, “Look, if you really don’t want the local, I won’t do it without your consent. But if your only reason for not wanting it is because you have some deluded idea about going on patrol an hour after dislocating your shoulder, I can promise you Bruce isn’t letting you out of this house tonight.”

Tim finally looks at him, an exasperated look on his face. “Bruce has never once stopped from going on patrol after being injured. Just get this over with before it swells too much.”

Jason huffs, then presses the call button on the cot. “The fuck you mean Bruce never stopped you from going on patrol injured?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I’d get injured in sparring, we’d go patrol that same night. I’ve never been benched for an injury.”

The way he says it, so deadpan, like it’s expected and normal for Bruce to not go full mother hen when one of them is injured.

“How is that even possible? You’ve seen how he gets when one of us is injured.” Jason takes a step back, so he and Tim can be face to face for this.

“That’s different.” Tim shrugs, then winces when it reminds him of his shoulder. “You’re his kids. I’m just some random kid who forced his way in.”

“Tim—” The word sounds punched out of Bruce. “What? You really think that?”

Jason glances over, to see Bruce entering the med bay with Alfred right behind him.

Tim scoffs, pushing himself off the cot. “It’s always been true, hasn’t it?” He stalks past them, going back to the wall. Bruce gently grabs his good arm to stop him from leaving.

“It seems I’ve messed up with you. Let me start fixing it?” Bruce stares down at Tim, waiting while Tim considers it.

“Don’t worry, B, I’ll be fine by patrol. Just gotta deal with this.” Tim tries to pull out of Bruce’s grip.

“That’s not what I asked. I’m not worried about patrol, I’m worried about why you think I want you to patrol after being injured. Go sit down, and please let Alfred or I take care of you this time.”

“I don’t need the help! I’ve been patching myself up since I started this vigilante business, I’m fine!”

Jason frowns, if he or Dick refused medical help like this, or even Damian, Bruce would force them into the medbay and keep them there until someone else has seen to their injuries. Jason used to hate it, but he’s come to realize it’s one way how Bruce shows he cares. But Bruce doesn’t push. He doesn’t scoop Tim up and place him on the cot. He just…waits. He waits while Tim glares up at him, body stiff and unyielding. He waits as the younger man considers what he’s saying, considers his options, and then ultimately decides to go back to the cot.

Bruce follows, making sure TIm is comfortable where he’s sitting as Alfred checks Tim’s shoulder.

“Jason?” Bruce calls over his shoulder. “What happened.” It’s not a question, not even a statement. It’s an order.

Jason winces, Bruce is already pissed and he doesn’t even know what happened yet. Jason doubts that’s going to get better when he finds out Jason’s part in this.

“We were sparring, he didn’t tap out.”

“Why didn’t you stop before this happened?” Bruce��s voice is barely more than a growl, more reminiscent of Batman’s voice than Bruce’s.

“How was I supposed to know he was that close to being hurt! He didn’t tap out!”

“Use your intuition. We don’t take sparring that far.”

“Clearly you did, if the kid has that much of an aversion to tapping out. Where do you think he learned it?”

Bruce turns, getting in Jason’s space. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” Jason crosses his arms, drawing himself up to his full height. Bruce is slightly taller, but they have pretty much the same build.

“Guys, stop.” Tim calls out. Bruce visibly deflates immediately, stepping back to Tim’s side.

“Why the fuck does Tim think he can’t tap out?” Jason scoffs.

“Knock it off, Jason, it’s not a big deal.” Tim winces as Alfred finally guides his shoulder back into place.

“Bullshit!” Jason snaps, “Sparring isn’t that serious. Injuries are supposed to be bruises! Not fuckin’ dislocated shoulders!”

“Drop it! You don’t know what it was like after you died! I had to fight every second to prove I deserved to be here. Bruce didn’t want me, if I missed a patrol, someone could die. I was weighing someone’s life against my own injuries every goddamn night. If I tapped out, I was admitting defeat. I didn’t tap out. I learned to escape, or suffer the consequences.” Tim is glaring now, he’s hopped off the cot and stalked close to Jason. “You think when I was searching for Bruce I was allowed to ‘tap out’ of a fight? You think I had someone patch up my injuries? It’s great, that Bruce cares enough about you guys to be worried about you, or keep you from making your injuries worse. But you don’t get it. Bruce changed. You had him before. You have him now, when he’s slightly more well adjusted. When he’s trying. I had him when he was broken. When I had to stop him from drowning himself in alcohol, or crossing a line he can’t come back from.”

Jason stares, speechless, at his little brother. Tim doesn’t talk much about what’s going on in his head, or what he’s been through. And honestly, Jason didn’t think Bruce was that affected when he died. He knows now that Bruce loves him, and it’s been a long ass road to get here, but he didn’t think Bruce had gotten to that point after he’d died.

Bruce looks heartbroken, and he steps forward, reaching for Tim, but Tim sidesteps and turns to leave.

“Tim, wait—” Bruce calls.

“It’s fine, B, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Before Tim can take another step, Bruce grabs his good arm again. “Tim, can we talk before you leave, please?”

“Why bother? I know where I stand, Bruce. I’m not your son, I never have been. Don’t sweat it.” Tim doesn’t even seem bothered by the words coming out of his mouth. Like it’s just common sense.

“No, see, that’s why we have to talk. You are my son.” Bruce speaks in a rush, as if he’s trying to get all the words out before Tim leaves. Maybe he is, maybe if Tim leaves after this, he won’t come back. “I didn’t see you that way at first, I’m not going to lie to either of us by saying that. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize it. But you are my son, Tim, and I will do everything in my power to help you see that.”

“Why now?” Tim’s voice is rough, his head tilted downwards, as if to hide how close to tears he is.

“Because I only just realized you didn’t see it. I was stupid to believe you’d just know how I felt. That’s on me, son, and I’m so incredibly sorry.”

Tim sobs, and Bruce tugs him into a hug.

“I know it won’t change overnight. I know there will be good days and bad. But please, give me a chance to fix this.”

Tim grips at Bruce’s shirt, nodding slightly against his chest. Jason winces as he sees Tim’s injured arm pinned awkwardly, that has to hurt.

“I’m gonna—” Jason points at the door and starts to head out, before Bruce grabs him.

“We’re going to talk about you not realizing how much pressure you were putting on his arm.” Bruce narrows his eyes over Jason’s head.

“Yeah, yeah. Hug your kid, B, I’m gonna go patrol.” He tugs his arm out of Bruce’s grasp, and makes his way quickly to his gear.

He can hear murmuring in the med bay, probably Bruce and Tim talking more, but that’s not his problem now. They’ll work it out. It won’t be easy, but they will.

After all, if Bruce could convince Jason to come back home, that he loved him, that he is , then he can convince Tim.

#jason todd #batfam #batman #my fics #bruce wayne #fic writing #tim drake #tim drake has issues #hurt/comfort #tim drake needs a hug #and he gets one

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confused-bi-queer · 1 day ago

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AU Fest is coming!!! I'm so excited for it. Both to read everyone's works and to be able to finally get my out.

Sadly, I couldn't finish writing everything of my fic yet, so I'll be dividing it into 10 chapters, but they'll be pretty short. Before it goes out, I'd like to show a few sentences:

LUCY

“I want to make you happy,” he says. I reach for his face, to be able to cup his head and have him lean into me, rely on me, but I grab his arm instead. You already make me happy, I think, but before I say anything, he continues.

And another three sentences from another chapter:

DAVY

Since she’s sitting next to the window, she taps at it, pointing at the scenery in front of her. She pulls me into her, and I have invade her space to be able to look at what she’s referring to, but she pulls me harder. […] It’s the greeniest grass with the best-looking trees, moving in tandem and sync with the wind, and then…

I think young Davy dating Lucy is one of the most adorable characters I have ever written. He talks about Lucy with such a care and admiration. My MalMage heart is so confused.

And I have this other fic I'm working on, and guess what. To no one's surprise, I wrote angst!

SIMON

But Baz started not coming home when he said he would, ditching dinner with me or leaving earlier in the morning, before I woke up. And worse of all, he started lying. Ever since we got together, he hasn’t lied to me. He might have avoided telling me things or he diversed my attention, but he didn't lie. Work is a difficult thing but I don’t see how being a teacher of children can be so difficult. My jealousy increased when I thought he might be cheating on me.

He's not, though! This fic is ending me because I thought it would be lighter and happier, and then I had to make SnowBaz co-dependent and angst was bound to come.

I'm still burnt out, but I'm still standing. My notes at school were amazing, and I'm thriving with new projects, but I need some sleep and to stop being sick. I'm starting my last semester of uni and I'm scared. I do not want to graduate. Or start school by being sick. Jesus.

Anyway, hellos and tagging under the cut:

@martsonmars @valeffelees @cutestkilla @fiend-for-culture @roomwithanopenfire

@drowninginships @forabeatofadrum @onepintobean @whogaveyoupermission @thewholelemon

@fatalfangirl @facewithoutheart @artsyunderstudy @ic3que3n @johnwgrey

@noblecorgi @orange-peony @lovelettersto-mars @emeryhall @hushed-chorus

@monbons @pato-roldnart @aristocratic-otter @argumentativeantitheticalg @mooncello

@alexalexinii @rimeswithpurple @blackberrysummerblog @theearlgreymage @larkral

@imagineacoolusername @palimpsessed @ileadacharmedlife @stitchy-queerista @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

@wellbelesbian @j-trow-95 @letraspal

#my writing #carry on au fest #au fest 2025 #corb 2023 #snowbaz #carry on #davy/lucy #baz x simon #simon snow series

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autisticshadowthehedgehog · 1 day ago

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remember how i said an old AU i had might be kicking my ass rn enough to make a fic?

out-of-context preview of one of the chapters i'm working on. would you guys be interested in what i've got going on here?

Sonic gasped, dropping to the floor and putting a hand on his chest.

“Left yourself open.” Shadow said, dropping his own fist and rolling his shoulder. He waited a moment for the other hedgehog to recover, before holding out his hand to help him up.

The room was empty, aside from them. Their spars were usually supervised, but recently they’d been getting into fighting one-on-one without the scientists present. It had started when Shadow noticed Sonic falling behind in… pretty much every combat test presented to him. He’d suggested they get some extra practice in, and now here they were, meeting up whenever they got bored.

“I don’t get it,” Sonic hissed, shakily getting back to his feet. “How do you even catch me at that speed?”

“I don’t. You’re predictable, I know where you’re going to be. Soon as I’ve got a handle on your speed, I can figure out when to attack.”

“Predictable? Me?”

“You rely too much on the moves you’ve been taught.” Shadow shrugged. “In a battlefield, enemies aren’t going to be challenging you to a supervised fencing match. They’re going to do whatever they can to kill you, so you have to do whatever you can to get to them first.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“This is stupid.” Sonic crossed his arms, turning to glare at the wall. “The Professor told us that we’re meant to heal. Why do we need to train to fight, anyway?”

Shadow watched him for a second. So that was another thing he hadn’t been told. Trying to figure out how best to word things, he eventually settled on, “Sometimes things aren’t so black-and-white. Sometimes we may have to fight to defend peace.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“A lot of things don’t.” Shadow sighed again. “Look, maybe one day you won’t have a choice. You’ll have to fight or die. And I’d rather you have blood on your hands than lose your life as pathetically as you lose every match with me.”

Sonic snorted, turning to glare at him. “Is that so, Ultimate Lifeform? You think I’m an easy match?”

There it was. A simple challenge was enough to bring Sonic out of his funks, at least for a moment. Shadow smirked and shrugged. “I know you are. Why else are we here?”

Sonic spun, his speed carrying him quickly to the other side of Shadow, where he laid his elbow on his shoulder. “So that one day I can kick your butt so thoroughly in tests that they’ll have to notice.”

“You can keep dreaming.”

“Oh yeah?” Sonic did a loop around Shadow, and then held up his fists. “How bout a rematch right now? I try that ‘thinking on my feet’ kinda thing, and you try not to slap me hard enough to make me black out.”

“I’m not going easy on you.” Shadow smiled. “That’s the whole point. You learn how to match with me, you can match with anyone.”

They smiled at each other for a moment. And then Sonic said, “Except [redacted].”

“Oh, yeah, neither of us are beating [redacted], like, ever.”

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic fanfiction #sonic au #mine #connie writes

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cherryheairt · 2 days ago

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Law of Attraction ch.2

Chishiya x reader fic series

Chapter two: The Beach

chapter one here

Masterlist

There was nothing left to do but move forward. Since your first game, unfortunately not your last as you grew to find out from a sobbing woman who pleaded for your and Niragi's help to end her before the lasers did on her final ‘visa’ day (which only ended with you covered in blood and Niragi laughing in your face and being no help), you had been traveling through Tokyo on foot. There was no electricity anywhere besides games that distantly lit up, being narrowly avoided by you both until further notice, and although you knew all the other people in this abandoned world were stranded here just like you, you didn't trust any of them.

Desperation made people do crazy shit.

Every noise made you flinch and study the origin, leaving Niragi terribly irate at your jumpiness. He had found a gun somehow, just a little handheld pistol to defend the both of you, but it still made your tenseness fade ever so slightly. On the third day of idleness, Niragi brought up a good point.

“We need to find a game tonight.” He said firmly. “I'm not ending up a bloody mess on the side of the road like that chick.”

“That woman just wanted out. It's not a crime to choose rather than doom yourself to having no say in your own death.” Your words made him quiet for a long moment as you both scanned the windows of the department store you locked up in for the previous night.

Nothing was amiss it seemed, and you took to padding around to find fresh clothes and hygiene products.

“We'll be fine. The games aren't impossible to win.”

You hummed from the hair care aisle. “We don't know that. Thirteen people died in our first day—and I think that was meant to be an easy game.”

“Easy?” He asked, trailing after you. “Sure, maybe after we figured it out, but I'd rather not almost drown again.” The reminder that you owed him your life laid heavy in your heart.

“That's not what I mean. Do you remember the AI's information? She said: Three of Diamonds. Like a deck of cards. If we go off of that, three would be one of the easiest games we would face.”

Niragi had the sense to pale slightly. “What if Diamonds stands for difficulty, too, though. Like, 1-13, but Spade, Club, Diamond, and Heart are leveled 1-4?”

You pondered the idea. It could be, yes, but with the game's objective, you doubted it. “I think Diamonds are a game of intelligence.”

Niragi rolled his eyes but didn't seem too hung up on it. “Great, intelligence games with a bartender. I might not be able to cash in this life debt after all.”

Glaring, you tossed him a pack of hairties. “I'm in college, dipshit. It's not like you came in with a lab coat on, either.”

He turned his head, scoffing. “I design and code game software. Graduated university: top of my class, thank you.”

You both sat in uneasy silence for a while. You broke it first, changing the topic entirely. “I didn't give you those for nothing. Tie back your hair, it got in the way in our first game, I don't want it to happen again.”

Niragi awkwardly fumbled with his midnight black strands of hair, but with no mirror and presumably no experience, it became hard to watch. “You've never put your hair up?” You asked, bemused.

Niragi clicked his tongue irritatedly. “I'll do it later.”

“Give it,” You nearly growled out, snatching it from him and urging him to lean down but the heel of your palm, earning an offended noise from the man. You tied it half-back in a manbun-esque style. Studying your work once he stood back up straight and eyed you with a slightly flustered expression crossing his sour face, you snickered in satisfaction. “Much better. We can see your pretty face now.”

Although it was a half-hearted joke, Niragi seemed to take it as an insult rather than a friendly tease. He scowled at you and continued prowling through the aisles with a heavier step.

After having little luck, you both decided to move on. With your find, you were able to change from your, frankly quite gross, tank and jeans and into more breathable athleticwear that allowed you to freely move around. Niragi didn't get the memo, instead changing from his standard office attire and into black jeans and a loose-fitted silky button-up. He vehemently ignored your barely concealed look of judgement, humming out loud as you looked around the city streets. It was evening now, when the game venues all started to light up and people could sometimes be spotted if you looked from a high vantage point.

He nodded towards a warehouse arena that had lit up moments ago. It seemed to be an old candy-making factory judging by the brightly colored LEDs, but you weren't quite sure. “That one's close.”

“What type do you think it is?” You asked, stashing your bag under the cash register in an old corner store deli. The smell was absolutely awful in it, but you knew it would repel any scavengers who weren't so lucky in their own pickings.

“It's a big arena.” He sniffed, not saying a smart-ass comment like you had started to expect over the past few days. “Physical game, I'd guess. Lots of space to hide or run away in.”

“I'm pretty good at hide and seek.” You said optimistically, earning a genuine laugh from your companion.

“Let's hope it is, then.”

🍒

The warehouse was, in fact, a candy factory. It still smelled sickly sweet as you both wandered through the employee entrance door. It was a pristine grey everywhere, quite a depressing place of work but sleek and clean nonetheless. Conveyor belts were seen through the open gate doors and giant palettes of differently packaged candies were stacked nearly to the ceiling. The sight was nauseating and you avoided looking to the top, hoping that none would be knocked over any time soon. In a smaller area people piled in quickly after.

Some were clearly experiencing their first game, eyes glossed with fear and confusion. Some were wary of others, backing to walls and observing their opponents with hard stares. Most seemed to collectively be anxious and alone, a select few coming in with another at their shoulder.

One particular duo caught your eye, looking out of place next to other pairs. About the same height, one styled his medium-length wavy and greasy hair into a loose bun at the back of his head, facial hair lining his uniquely handsome face as he glanced over everyone with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Even his wardrobe was eccentric, a fedora with sunglasses stacked on top of it adorning his head and a colorful shirt-slack combo. The other was his stark contrast, buzzcut hair and wearing a simple outfit of a black wife-beater and matching cargo jeans, showing off muscled arms. Military, easy, and possibly your most dangerous enemy or valuable ally in a game of brawn.

You shared a glance with Niragi, who also caught interest in the new additions. Only mere moments after they walked in, the door shut behind them and the AI's voice rang. Stepping closer to Niragi, you looked to your phone for the instructions.

“Player Requirement met. Closing registration…”

“Game: Laser Tag. Difficulty: Five of Spades.”

A five. On the presumed scale of 1-13 like you guessed, a five was still on the easier side. Five days would be added to your visa if you survived, providing ample time to set up a secure home base for you and Niragi.

Niragi seemed satisfied, patting his handgun with a pleased grin. “That sounds promising.”

“Rules: Two teams will be assigned from the 28 players in the game. The Red and Blue teams will use their provided laser guns to play one round of laser tag.”

“How many lives do we get?” A nervous young voice spoke out, leading your eyes to a teenage boy dressed in a grimy t-shirt and pajama pants. He'd been here for days already, used to the games but not acclimated enough to find supplies. He was scrawny, collarbones visible under his thin shirt and cheeks hollow like he'd not eaten in days. “In the arcade, its always three.” He says, hugging himself.

You hummed assuringly. “Maybe. Or whatever team gets the most tags.” You said, slightly reluctant but knowing no one else would speak up and comfort him. He weakly smiled at you, shuffling ever so slightly closer to your pairing.

A door clicked open, revealing an employee break room that held coat racks of vests with attached guns, classic arcade style. “Can we pick our teams?” You whispered to Niragi, shivering at the temperature drop that seemed to happen after the rules explained. He didn't reply.

Grabbing a vest from the rack, you shrugged it over your shoulders and strapped it across your chest. Next to you, the teenage boy followed your lead and did the exact same actions. Picking up a gun each, the players all glanced around at each other with distrust in their eyes and tense bodies. Niragi was confidently standing almost entirely in front of you, blocking most people from your view—or looking at you. Unconsciously or not, you were grateful.

The timer dinged while counting down time for players to gear up. Seeing the boy's grip shaking over the hold of his trigger, you reached out and placed your own over his. Muttering, you comfortingly said: “It's okay. Treat it just like you're out playing laser tag with your friends. Do you go to the arcade often?”

Swallowing harshly, he nodded. “Almost every weekend.”

You smiled. “I haven't been in years. If we're on opposite teams, go easy on me.”

He laughed, nodding softly. “I'm Hoshiko.”

You told him your own in turn, and the timer finally stopped. The room went completely dark, and mutters released into the room. The vests all lit up at once, lighting it in blue and red. Looking down at your gun, you found that you were blue. Niragi turned to you, smirking when he saw your colors matched. “Watch my back this time.” He said plainly.

Hoshiko was blue, too, and you let out a subtle sigh of relief. “Take care of me.” You said, nudging his arm. He nodded with furrowed brows, seemingly set in his goal.

“Clear condition: Do not get hit with a laser gun. Time limit: 20 minutes.”

You sucked in a breath. “One hit is a loss?” To have to sit out and allow your teammates to carry on after only one hit would be a challenge. People would drop like flies, even in the large arena.

“Game starts in: One minute.”

People immediately began their rush out of the employee room to find beginning points. Hoshiki led the way for you and nodded towards the office areas upstairs. “We can see everything from there.”

Niragi obviously had the brains to agree, not arguing with the much younger boy's decision. Your trio rushed up the metal staircase and to an open office in the middle of the hall, overlooking a good majority of the line of conveyors. In the distance, the enormous stacks of wrapped cases were slightly visible. “Did anyone else come up here?” You asked, leaning below the window and glancing over it to peek. The blue glow from all of your packs lit up the small space as the timer ticked down.

“20 seconds remaining.”

You tensely gripped your gun, taking a deep breath in and listening to the footsteps below.

“I didn't see anyone else.” Niragi said. “But don't assume anything.”

You and Hoshiko nodded together. “Game start. 20 minutes until the game finishes.” The factory lit up with LEDs and strobes, highlighting the floors and walls periodically and making vest colors harder to see.

Immediately, blasts were heard throughout the arena. Shoes squeaking on the metal floor echoed throughout the open area and shouts of panic did, too. Niragi sprang up to join the action, looking both ways down the hall before situating his gun on the railing while kneeling. You and Hoshiko followed behind, each finding a spot on the railguard to shoot from. You flinched as a red-hot laser shot just past your head and into the wall. Whipping your head around, your eyes widened in horror of realizing that the lasers used from the guns were the very same ones that shot down from the sky and killed game losers.

“We only get one hit because it'll kill us.” You told Niragi and Hoshiko, who were both coming to the same realization in different ways. Hoshiko was nearly hyperventilating, hugging his gun to his chest and leaning below the railing to shield himself. Niragi, on the other hand, was cheering and celebrating his own killshot.

He ducked when the dead man's teammate spun around and blasted towards the upper area. Laughing, he seemed high on adrenaline as he faced you. “You didn't put that together already, sweetheart?”

Swallowing, you braced yourself at the sound of thundering footsteps climbing to the office hall. “Go!” You urged, taking Hoshiko's arm and running towards the end of the hall and towards the other stairwell. Lasers lit up the arena with red and blood littered the floors as fluid as water might. You all hid among a line of conveyors, watching a few blues and reds alike taking turns jumping from hiding spots and shooting at the opposite sides.

Niragi was the boldest of you three, taking risks and peaking out to discreetly shoot down any stragglers who tried to move positions. Each little cheer he did made your stomach squeeze uncomfortably, but you forced yourself to understand the situation. It was them or you, after all.

Bringing up your phone, you read the black digits: ‘15:27’. Only five minutes had passed and yet it felt like hours with your blood pumping hot through your veins.

Niragi leaned down, whispering to you and Hoshiko. “See that guy in the black tank?”

You both nodded after a glance up. The buzzcut guy from the break room was dominating the competition—blue side's, luckily—from a clever spot on the second floor of the storage area. He peaked up strategically and shot at the Reds hiding amongst the large stacks of candy. “I'm going to make for the wall between storage and the conveyors.” He said. “With him, we can take most of the Red guys down.”

“You'll be exposed!” Hoshiko said urgently, pleadingly shaking his head.

“You both are covering me.” Niragi said sternly, earning saucer eyes from you.

“I'm not a good shot, Niragi.” You told him. “If you get shot—”

“Don't let me.” He nearly growled out, wasting no time and run-crouching over to the concrete wall. You and Hoshiko held you breath all the while, and you didn't even register the Red-lit woman stalked Niragi with a keen eye as she spotted him skittering across the floor. Stepping from her hiding spot, aiming right for his back.

It was Hoshiko that moved first, lifting his gun to tuck it below his chin and rest on the conveyor to aim for her leg. When the trigger was pulled and the gun's nozzle was left slightly smoking from the intense heat, all you could hear was the woman's pained scream as she dropped her gear and clutched at her leg. Panting on the floor, she rocked herself back and forth before turning her angered gaze to you two. Her Red vest turned off and she was entirely in the shadows. Gasping, you pulled the boy down and hidden away with you again.

“Shit.” Hoshiko cursed. “Can the guns still work if you're out?”

“I don't know…” You trailed anxiously, sweat-laced hands gripping the handle of your gun and sucking a deep breath in. “We can't risk that.”

Hearing the hobbling footsteps approach the belt, you hopped straight up onto your feet and shot forward. The red laser momentarily lit up her face, illuminating the horrified expression on her face as it hit her right in the chest. The ‘thud’ echoed in the immediate area as she went down. You killed a woman. In a game of laser tag, you shot down and murdered your opponent with no hesitation. Hoshiko rose to your level, grabbing your arm with a worried expression. “We need to move spots. They'll hear that fall and know someone is right here.”

Wordlessly, you nodded. Niragi had to do the rest himself. Hopefully, that woman was the only one who'd noticed his movement. You and Hoshiko crouched back below the conveyors, using them as covers to stalk below, avoiding other players who seemed to trip over each other in panic. You both reached a small room to the side, finding it to be some kind of broom closet. “Get—” You started, whipping around when a loud, ‘crash!’ went through the entire factory instead. In the dark, you could see the silhouette of the towers of packages start to tumble down like dominos. You could hear Niragi and another man's voice call out triumphantly towards each other, cheering and whooping coming solely from Niragi but the other man affirming the victory that the falls brought.

Glancing up, you saw the man in the black outfit who'd been at the high position and shooting from a distance waving for Niragi to run back into the working part of the factory. He obeyed, surprisingly, cackling as he ran with his gun in hand back to the former hiding spot that you three had taken.

“Seven players remaining.” The robotic feminine voice chimed. You hummed, wondering which team had more. With the large stacks of boxes falling, you assumed that your team had taken the majority of the Reds down in that room.

Hoshiko shouted next to you, yanking you down from your spot and into the wall. You almost scolded him for the unnecessary manhandling, but quickly paused when you saw him shoot down a limping Red team man who escaped the box flooded area. His gun was pointed right at the two of you, only stopped by Hoshiko's own precise aim to his chest. He was animated in the air for a second before falling completely limp in a pile of blood and flesh.

You held Hoshiko's shoulder, staring at the dead man with a silent gape. There wasn't any time to dwell on it when another Red came darting across the working line room. “Shit-” You cursed, jumping to run behind a wall with the still shell-shocked boy.

You heard the padding of his heavy footsteps approaching with vigor, and clutched your gun tight to your chest to prepare for another one-on-one shootout. You hoped desperately that even if you were shot, you could take him down at the same time to prevent him from harming Hoshiko.

A shot interrupted your prayers, and you gingerly peeked out to see a red-hot hole cooling down to black right between the man's eyes, blood pooling around his head on the reflective floor. Looking up, you saw Niragi with an unimpressed raised brow and gun leaning on his shoulder casually as if he'd not just shot down a man.

“Saved you again.” He snickered, though he didn't sound too hung up over it.

Standing on shaky legs, you shook your head. “I shot down a woman who saw your big head switch spots.” You defended yourself.

Sharp laser shots sounded in the much quieter arena, presumably from the AI rather than any players. They were too rapid and short to come from your guns.

“All Red players eliminated. Game clear.”

Looking at your gun, you shoved it to the floor and wiped your sweaty hands on your pants.

“Really now?” Niragi sounded surprised. Glancing around, he spotted the woman's still body in front of the first conveyor that they hid behind. “That's still two saves versus one. Don't forget it,” he nudged your arm with his own, not bothering to lose the gun. Ignoring him, you glanced down to Hoshiko, who hugged his legs and shivered.

“Hoshiko,” You started gently. “We need to go. Do you have a group?”

He looked up at you with glossy eyes, shaking his head. “I—I came here with my brothers. But the first game killed them both.”

Niragi eyed you, kicking your shoe from behind as if to say ‘don't do it’.

“Niragi and I are on foot right now, but it's safer with three. Come with us.” You offered a hand out to him, smiling when he grabbed it to hoist himself up. Niragi clicked his tongue behind you.

At the break room's emergency exit, you three found the two men from the beginning holding up the 5 of Spades card and inspecting it. Apprehensively, you stilled when spotting them, unknowing of their friendliness beyond playing on the same team for less than half an hour.

“Hey.” The eccentric man with the bun greeted first. Niragi narrowed his eyes, nodding his own silent greeting. The more intimidating of the pair was completely silent and still, crossing his large arms other each other and studying all three of you with hawk eyes.

“Have you been here long?” He continued, obviously unconcerned with the awkward tension in the room.

“About a week.” Niragi rounded up, tossing aside the vest and gun, making sure the gun in his belt was visible to both men. Smart, you thought as the buzzcut glanced at the other man with a raised brow.

“Most people don't even make it that long.” The man laughed. “My name is Takeru—or Hatter, if you please. This is Aguni, my…security.” He clapped Aguni on the shoulder, and you half-expected that Aguni would shank him in the stomach for the close touch. Surprisingly, he stayed perfectly still and nodded at the mention of his name.

“Niragi.” Niragi introduced himself, intrigued at the introductions. To you, it felt like you were about to be given a sales pitch.

You introduced yourself and Hoshiko shortly, staying in front of the boy while he was still shaky and unnerved.

“You must be tired from all the walking. Here and there, no electricity and running water. Water bottles grow scarce in all the scavenged stores.”

“What's your point?” Niragi asked.

“You look like you can handle yourself. At The Beach, we've been recruiting people like you.”

“The Beach?”

“A utopia.” Hatter spread his arms out dramatically like a preacher might, and you questioned just how much truth comes from his mouth. “There's only a few of us now—but we've managed to get electricity and water working again with our resident geniuses. Cars, too, so no more walking aimlessly for the next game. Aguni here is our militant branch head, he joins most of the games to keep our residents safe and returned back to The Beach.”

Sounded too good to be true. Electricity and running water run by only a few people. “Where's this utopia?” You asked apprehensively.

Hatter's eyes locked on you and he smiled brightly, a cheek to cheek grin that made you certain he was missing some screws. “Come with us. Niragi, you were good with that gun, you could be placed right under Aguni.”

Niragi seemed to think over the offer in his head, shifting his weight and glancing between Aguni and Hatter. “They can come?” He asked, nodding towards you and Hoshiko.

“Of course! All are welcome at The Beach.”

“We'll check it out.” Niragi agreed for you all, earning a scorching look from you and you pulled his arm.

“I never agreed to that. We should discuss it, Niragi.” You hissed in his ear.

He yanked his arm back, looking down at you like you were a mere animal. A dog begging for food at his heels. “There's nothing to discuss.” He left the alleyway with Hatter, following him to the car that was promised.

Aguni stayed a moment longer, eyeing you before he followed after.

You and Hoshiko shared a glance. “Do you want to go?” You asked. Without Niragi, you wouldn't be half as safe. A young woman and a teenage boy alone on the desolate streets of abandoned Tokyo with scavengers hiding about would not prove positive for anyone. Niragi knew that and took advantage of it.

“I think we should just give it a chance. If Hatter is lying, we'll leave.” He suggested, looking a hundred times more weary than when they first joined.

“Are you okay?” You stopped him from approaching the car. “We could take a moment, if you need it.” Truthfully, your own stomach was churning with the weight of Laser Tag's deaths—directly and indirect. You thought your first game was horrible, with the thirteen other people dying in their water-filled cages surrounding you, but at least you were not responsible for their deaths like you were now. How many people would you have to kill just to make it to the next game and kill some more?

“I'm okay,” he smiled weakly, leading the way to the car. “A shower would be nice, though.”

You laughed and agreed.

🍒

Hatter was telling the truth. The Beach was a reformed resort with fully functioning utilities and people. There were only a few, leaving the lobbies and pool empty as you passed through them like ghost towns. The bright lights were comforting, though, making up for it. Hatter and Aguni led the way to an upstairs rentable office room that had all the previous decorations removed and replaced with more practical ones. A large white table sat in the middle of the room, with three people sitting at it as if they were waiting for you all.

“Everyone, meet Mira, Ann, and Kuzuryu.” He introduced you three in turn. Murmured greetings were exchanged between everyone. Kuzuryu was wearing a formal suit and square glasses, looking groomed and proper despite the wildness of the new world. Mira was wearing a black blouse and dark red slacks, a mirror of the former and yet looking twice as sweet with a smile and wave towards you. An was in a white blouse and denim shorts, expression hidden behind sunglasses but still managing to look intimidating.

“These are our number two, three, and four.”

“Why are they numbered?” You piped up, glancing at the bracelets on their arms.

“I'm glad you asked, my dear!” Hatter appeared behind you, grabbing your shoulders and laughing joyfully.

“Now that you know The Beach is real, I can explain the purpose of it.”

You and Niragi sat next to each other at the table, you sitting opposite of Mira and him next to Hoshiko as you waited for an explanation. Kuzuryu stood and walked to a wooden wall, opening it like a barn door to reveal a few scattered paintings of cards. Your eyes ran across the wall, scanning for the cards that were painted on. It wasn't many, and you assumed it was still a work in progress as a few were crossed out and others were still half-done.

“The purpose of The Beach and all of its citizens, future and current, is to collect every single one of the cards from the games.”

“For what?” Hoshiko asked quietly, wringing his hands together in his lap. He looked interested.

“To get out of this world.” Hatter said, demeanor suddenly extremely serious. “I have a theory. If every card is collected, then the game is completed and one person at a time can go home per deck of cards.”

“That's why we have rankings.” Kuzuryu spoke up. “Number one goes first. Then two, and three, and so on.”

“I am number one, of course.” Hatter said with a charming bow.

“That would take years!” You exasperated. “Who would wait that long?”

Mira giggled in front of you. “That's why we're recruiting people all over Tokyo to join us. The more people contributing cards, the faster we can all go home.” Basing everything off of a theory was risky.

“I'm not sure I want to stay here.” You told Hatter, following his pacing form around the room.

“No?” He asked. “Not even if you were offered a place on the executive table?”

“Would I be able to keep it if you offer everyone new a spot at it?” You bit, glancing at the entrance door that was blocked by Aguni.

He waved the question off. “Of course. The ranking is decided by how many cards someone has contributed, and their cards’ value. As long as you keep playing the games, you can keep your number.”

“Still. It'll be faster if I do it alone. Good luck, Hatter.” You stood from your chair, yelping when you were yanked back by Niragi.

“We'll stay.” He promised simply.

“Niragi—”

“Great!” Hatter clapped, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Let's get you three some numbers. What are your cards?”

“Three of diamonds and five of spades, obviously.” Niragi answered for you both. “We didn't grab our first card, though.”

Hoshiko reached into his pocket and slid a three of hearts to the table's head. Hatter nodded appreciatively, pocketing it for himself. “That's no matter. We'll find another three of diamonds game eventually.” Mira moved to cross out the three of hearts with a fresh can of paint, her neat handwriting showing no flaws on the white wall.

Ann reached into a bag and handed you three numbers. Six, seven, and eight. “Distribute as you please. You three have an even amount.”

Hoshiko handed you the ‘Seven’ and took the ‘Eight’ for himself as Niragi immediately slapped ‘Six’ on his own wrist. You didn't give a damn what number you were assigned, knowing that tonight while everyone else slept you would simply sneak out. Hoshiko, too, if he accepted your offer.

“Your room numbers correspond with your numbers.” She continued.

“Before Hatter left, we were discussing the rules of The Beach.” Aguni said. You almost forgot he was there with his silence. He sat slumped at the other end, opposite of Hatter.

“Ah, yes.” He said. “We only got to brainstorming but during our drive I think I figured some out.”

Ann nodded for him to continue and she brought out a pen and paper from her bag yet again.

“Number one.” He started, drafting it. “Live as you desire. Drink, party, fuck. Its some of our last days, might as well be free.” Some nods and mutters of agreement filled the room. Seeing no complaints, he leaned back in his seat and continued.

“Number two.” He scanned the room, lingering on you, Mira, and Ann for moments too long. Confused, you glanced at both of them and found no luck in an explanation. “We must all wear bathing suits at all times. This goes hand in hand with ‘no weapons’. Nothing is hidden in swimwear.”

Before you could plead your case, Niragi spoke up. “No weapons?” Like that was the biggest issue. In fact, you actually liked that rule.

Hatter laughed and waved him off, too. “Not you, Niragi. The Militants are permitted guns. To keep order, only a few select people can be exempt.”

“Can't we just do room checks?” You asked.

“If you're against the policy, you could wear normal attire during games. But there is no further argument.”

Well, damn.

“Only one more rule. Short and sweet to keep confusion to a minimum.” He decided.

“Death to all traitors.”

#law of attraction #aib #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #alice in borderland #aib fanfic #chishiya x you #chishiya x fem!reader #fanfiction #writing

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kingpreciouswrld · 5 hours ago

Text

Spare Me (College!AU) Ch.2

Summary: Old flames die hard, yours is especially stubborn. However, when your rides to and from the practice fall through, you take up a sweet offer. Meanwhile you meet the rest of the coaching team on the second day of practice but not without some clashes.

A/N: Again, don't know what this is-- never written a multi-chapter fic before so I really don't know what I'm doing. Uhm...read if you want? It seems long but that's just cause there's a lot of one-liners...anyway, enjoy? Feedback is encouraged (cause...help...plz)

Your dorm room was definitely your little home away from home. It was currently a mess due to taco trash and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

After you and Sam ate your winning tacos, you decided to do some…research…on your coach. It wasn’t weird or anything, you just wanted to know more about her, see if she was as interesting as you thought she was. No, it wasn’t weird, you just needed to know more about this woman…you just–

“Is that–”

You slammed your laptop shut, “Nothing!” you cleared your throat and tried again, “It was noth–”

“You’re looking her up?!”

“NO! No no no no, I was just looking at the school’s athletic page–”

You two started a tug-of-war with your laptop, “You were looking at google pics Y/N/N! Just let me seeeee!”

“SAM! Stop! You’re going to break my laptop!”

“Then stop fighting me and let me see what you found!”

Letting the dirty blonde win the tugging, you groaned in frustration. Sam just smirked at you and patted your head as she sat down next to you on your bed, “Don’t worry, your creepy little secret is safe with me.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes, laying on your back with a grunt.

“You know, it's kinda normal to cyber-stalk your crushes.”

“I do NOT have a crush on coach Calderu, she’s just…”

“Just, what?”

You grumbled before throwing a pillow over your face and screaming into it. It was so embarrassing that Sam caught you red-handed. You didn’t know what pulled you in to the other woman, she was just so…beautiful…and you couldn’t get her out of your head! Her short hair, her big doe eyes that could turn into a wicked glare, her bright smile that could turn into a knee-buckling snarl when she got snappy.

Coach Calderu was an enigma and you desperately wanted any information to help you piece together the kind of woman she was.

“What about this?” Sam shifted the laptop back onto your lap.

Slightly perking up, you moved to sit back up, “What is it?” you asked as you scrolled the page.

“It’s where she works, you know, when she’s not a college coach.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock, but what even is this place?”

“Some weird little shop, looks like it might even sell those cards you like to hog. It’s not that far from campus, we could always take a look?”

“But what if she’s actually there?” You really didn’t need to embarrass yourself in front of her. The season just started and you wouldn’t be able to take it if something happened that would make it even harder to face the older woman.

Sam rolled her eyes and got up, grabbing her jacket in the process.

“So what? We’ll just be looking for your weird cards anyway, it doesn’t need to be awkward. Just be cool about it, yeah? Come on.”

The dirty blonde grabbed your jacket and threw it at you. Your eyes widened as you felt your nerves come alive, “N-Now?!”

“I’m not going to be waiting Y/N/N!” She said as she left, leaving your dorm door open.

“Goddamnit….Sam! Wait up!”

– – – – – – – – – –

The sun was just a few hours away from setting. Although you despised Sam for being so impulsive, you knew you wouldn’t have followed through with seeing your coach outside of practices.

The walk to the shop didn’t seem too long and although it was a bit chilly, it was a nice walk.

“I can hear your mommy issues screaming from here.”

You rolled your eyes and huffed.

Sam held her hands up in surrender, “I’m not judging, I just think this would actually be good for you.”

“What? Why would you say that? She’s our coach, Sam. I highly doubt anything would happen.”

“That’s not what I meant…It’s just, after Agatha, I think you need a good distraction and if making up scenarios in your head about older women will help you, I’ll feed into your delusions!”

“Y/N!”

“Speaking of the devil…”

You didn’t know who started, but both you and Sam started to quicken your pace. You could hear heavy footsteps approaching you from behind before they fell into stride next to you.

“Please, Y/N, just hear me out–”

“Can’t you fuck off? She doesn’t want–”

“It’s alright Sam,” you sighed before linking your arm with the dirty blonde.

Your action made Agatha stop in her tracks. You could’ve guessed that Agatha assumed you moved onto Sam but you two were just good friends, you considered her a sister even. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t feed into Agatha’s insecurities.

“You coming or not, Harkness?” you asked, not looking behind you.

You could hear hurried footsteps approach you again before you heard them match your stride again.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s this shop we wanna check out before they close for the night, Y/N needs a new card deck.”

“They’re tarot cards Sammy,” you could practically hear Sam’s eyes roll in her head, “I didn’t know you still practice Y/N…”

“You lost the chance to know.”

As you three turned around the corner, the shop came into view.

Madame Calderu’s Psychic Readings.

Despite your nerves, you were pretty excited to get a new deck. You haven’t touched any of yours since your breakup with Agatha. Maybe Sam was right, having someone else to think of could be good for you.

When the shop came closer, both Sam and Agatha raced to see who could open the door for you and to your luck, Sam won. Rolling your eyes at their antics, the door opened, making the bell above it ring out into the small shop.

Agatha fell to the back of the group and let out a low whistle as she looked around, “Well isn’t this a swanky lil place…” she murmured.

As Agatha was caught up with the crystal ball on the main display, you were focused on the tarot cards on the wall.

“Well isn’t this a lovely surprise!”

You all whipped your heads towards the front counter to find coach Calderu in all her glory.

“Coach! What...are you doing here?” Agatha asked in surprise.

The older woman smirked, “Welcome to the curious.”

Coach Calderu walked around the counter to stand in front of you three.

“And what brings you three to my humble abode?”

Your eyes widened and you discreetly slapped Sam on her back, “Y-You live here too?”

“Well don’t seem excited by it, by all means! Is it that bad?”

“N-No! That’s not what I– I mean–”

The older woman chuckled and patted your shoulder, “I’m just pulling your leg hun, but yes! I do live here. Don’t touch that.”

Agatha, once again, snapped her hand back to her side with wide eyes, “Sorry coach, I didn’t mean–”

Coach Calderu waved her off, “No harm, no foul, just be careful, hm?”

As you turned to continue looking through the selection of tarot cards, you could smell her perfume before she draped her arm around your back, “Ohh do we have a little cartomancer in our midsts?”

You blushed and chuckled nervously, “I’m just an amateur really, I haven’t done a reading since high school…plus I’d only do personal readings or do a few readings for Sam.”

Your coach hummed, looking at the decks on the wall, before she picked one and handed it to you, “Well then I think this is what you’d like.”

The Cozy Witch Tarot Deck

It was cute and although tarot could be intimidating, the card deck looked anything but. You smiled and looked towards the older woman, “Thank you, it’s really cute. I like the aesthetic of the pictures.”

“Of course hun, only the best for my girls,” she winked.

You looked down at the deck in hand, pretending to read the packaging to hide the redness in your cheeks. In response, your coach just chuckled lowly and squeezed your arm as she moved to talk to Sam.

Oh you were definitely going to take up tarot reading again.

“Are you girls ready for practice tomorrow?”

“Oh, actually, I’ll be a little late.”

You whipped your head towards Sam with a confused look on your face. What did she mean? She was your ride to and from practice tomorrow and you sure as hell weren’t going to lug your bowling balls down 4 blocks to get to the bowling alley.

“I have family in town visiting and my grandma wants to take me to breakfast before practice. Where they’re staying is a bit out of the way so I might be late but I’ll do my best to be there on time.”

“Wait, but Sam, what about–”

“Same here actually.”

It was your turn to face Agatha with wide eyes. Well there goes your second option. Yes, asking Agatha for a ride would’ve been a stretch but you really didn’t want to walk around with your bowling balls in public.

“I also have plans for breakfast with an old friend of mine, but they’ll take me to practice from the diner. I’ll let them know that it’s important to get me to practice on time.”

“And what about you Y/N? Any plans for breakfast?” Coach asked with a raised brow.

“Uh– no, but I should say that I’ll try my best to get to practice on time…”

“Oh? And why would you need to try?”

“Because someone–” you glared at Sam who smiled innocently, “was supposed to be my ride to practice.”

The older woman looked at you two with amusement.

“Well if you need a ride hun, you just need to ask,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“Oh! I– I wouldn’t want to impose–”

Coach Calderu waved her hand, “Nonsense, I’ll be more than happy to give you a ride. You’re living on campus, right?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, still not believing you were about to spend even more time with the woman.

“Give me the name of your hall and I’ll be there bright and early.”

– – – – – – – – – –

When you finished shopping around, you ended up arguing with Agatha about who would be paying.

You honestly didn’t know what was wrong with the younger woman. Maybe she wanted to get back together and was trying to weasel her way back into your life somehow or maybe she wanted your forgiveness? You really couldn’t tell what she wanted from you.

Agatha ended up paying for your things. You got a few candles, the tarot deck that your coach had picked out, and a big dream catcher. Since Agatha paid for you, you made her carry your things too, not that she complained though, she seemed happy to help much to your annoyance.

Coach Calderu sent the three of you on your way with a wink and a wave goodbye and then the three of you started to make your way back to campus.

Sam nudged you with her shoulder, “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Why would I want to thank you? You’re ditching me AND you lied! All of your family lives within thirty minutes of campus!”

“But now you have time with coach, so, you’re welcome.”

You punched Sam in the shoulder.

“What?”

Oh shit. You forgot Agatha was with you guys.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about Harkness,” Sam mocked. “Well would you look at the time, I want to get to the cafeteria before they run out of cheesy bread. See ya!”

And now you were alone.

With Agatha.

Sometimes you hated Sam with every fiber of your being.

“Come on superstar, I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

You let out a sigh and reluctantly walked the rest of the way with Agatha.

The sun had set just as you and Agatha got to your dorm. The younger woman was still carrying your things as you unlocked your door.

You walked in and sighed as you took off your jacket before turning towards the open door. To your amusement, Agatha was still out in the hall. She was looking around your room but kept herself from crossing the threshold.

“You can just set those down on my desk.”

Agatha nodded before she came into the room, setting the bags down on your little desk.

“So…I– well, Y/N, I just wanted to say–”

“I didn’t say we were talking.”

“It’s been a few years, I’ve changed! Just– hear me out, please?”

You rolled your eyes before you hopped up on your bed. You gestured towards Agatha for her to continue.

“Thank you,” she sighed, “I just– well…I just want you to understand that what I did wasn’t because you weren’t enough for me, or that I don’t love you–”

“You said ‘don’t’...Ag–”

“I love you, Y/N, I still love you with all that I am and–”

“I think you should go.”

“Y/N–please, I– we need to talk this ou–”

You shook your head and let your head fall forward, your hair covering your face, “No”

“Wha–”

You whipped your head up, your eyes glossed over with fresh tears, “We don't ‘need’ to talk about anything! You threw everything out of the window when you decided to sell yourself out for some stupid-ass scholarship! Why are you even here? The head of the athletic department said he only scouted Sam and I from that Pepsi Tournament! Why choose this school? Why fight for an anchor spot when you don’t even care where you’re put in the lineup? Just– why?”

Agatha seemed shocked. She couldn’t form any words, her own eyes glossing over as she watched your tears fall silently.

“I think you should go.”

Agatha just looked at you with pleading eyes, “Y/N, please–”

“You heard her Harkness, beat it.” Sam came back from the cafeteria just in time.

You couldn’t face Agatha or Sam. You guessed that you looked a mess. It’s been a while since you cried over the younger woman. She couldn’t even answer your questions. She just stood there looking like she was the one who was hurting. She didn’t have the right to feel sorry.

The door clicked shut before you took a sharp inhale. Meanwhile, Sam looked at you with soft and understanding eyes.

“Do you want cheesy bread?”

– – – – – – – – – – –

Last night’s sleep was rough. The talk with Agatha, if you could even call what happened a talk, still played in your head. You were obviously overthinking everything and second guessing yourself. Maybe you should’ve heard her out the first time, maybe you two would have stayed together. You didn’t know anymore.

You went around the dorm as you got yourself ready for practice. Sam was already gone when you got up and so you took a shower, got dressed, and pulled your bowling gear together. After grabbing your headphones, you headed out. The weather was nice enough that you decided to wait outside for your coach.

Putting your music on shuffle, you set the volume to the highest setting, drowning out your own thoughts. You bobbed your head along the music, your fingers subtly playing piano keys as you mouthed the lyrics.

A tap to your shoulder made you let out a startled yelp. Throwing your headphones off of your head, you turned to look at whoever dared to interrupt your little moment.

“I’m sorry to startle you, but I’ve been calling your name for a good few minutes.”

Your cheeks immediately reddened as you found coach Calderu standing behind you with an amused smile. You immediately scrambled to look at your phone. Apparently, you missed her texts and one call.

You winced and looked back up at her, “I’m so sorry coach, I didn’t realize how much time has passed since I came downstairs.”

The older woman just chuckled, “It’s alright, I did enjoy the little show you put on,” she teased with a wink.

You didn’t know if your cheeks could turn any redder and you put your hoodie up despite it being a sunny day out. Coach Calderu watched on in amusement as you quickly placed your bowling bag into her trunk before you moved to sit in her passenger seat.

The sunglasses that were atop the woman’s head was placed over her eyes as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“Are you alright hun? You aren’t too cold or anything?”

“I’m good, coach, thank you. And thank you for the ride, I really do appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said as she patted your knee.

You turned to look out the window, your eyes practically bugging out at such a small gesture.

You felt like a very hormonal teenage boy that hasn’t even touched his first pair of boobs yet. Why did she have such an effect on you? She was literally just a woman. A woman who happened to be the most beautiful person you’ve seen in the universe. A beautiful woman who happened to be your bowling coach. A beautiful woman who was still touching your knee.

After coach Calderu let her touch linger long enough, she returned her hand to the steering wheel. “You said you liked listening to music right? What kind of music do you listen to?”

“Hm? Oh, I– a little bit of everything.”

“That’s what people say and then they completely disown two or three genres.”

“I– okay well you’re not wrong…I’ll say my top music styles would be pop, songs from the 70s, and then songs that I call ‘static oldies’ just because in some of the recordings, you can hear the scratches of the original recording.”

“Not what I expected of a 23 year-old, you do seem like an old soul.”

You just nodded in response. You had a quip on the tip of your tongue but decided to hold back due to the fact that it was a pretty dark quip and you definitely didn’t want to give your coach the wrong vibe about you.

– – – – – – – – – –

The rest of the ride was just filled with small talk; learning about the small things about each other and such. Coach Calderu asked you about your ambitions, your likes and dislikes, what made you embrace bowling, etc. It was refreshing if you were being honest and despite the crude rumors about the older woman, you couldn’t see why she easily made enemies.

Once she parked, she let out a sigh before turning to you with a smile, “I accept debit payments. The title will say ‘Lilia’s Lyft’ but that’s just my side hustle,” she teased.

“How about just a five-star rating?” you giggled.

“As long as I get a five-star rating for both trips, then we’ll be set hun,” the older woman winked at you before she exited the car.

She unlocked the trunk and you grabbed your bowling gear before setting it on the ground so you could roll it.

“Calderu!”

You heard your coach heave a big sigh before she turned on her heel to face the voice, “Vidal, how…nice…of you to finally join us for practices.”

You weren’t paying attention to the other woman, you were paying attention to the younger woman following on Vidal’s heel.

It was Agatha, and as soon as she made eye-contact with you, you could see the panic and guilt begin to appear in her eyes.

It wouldn’t take a genius to pin together why Agatha and you guessed, the assistant coach Vidal, were together. You guessed VIdal was the one Agatha was texting during your senior year in high school and that’s how Agatha got into this school.

“Ah, and who did you bring with you? Another one of your pets? She’s a bit young for you, Calderu.”

“This,” Coach Calderu hissed, “Is Y/N, one of our team anchors for the season,” she glared at the younger woman.

Coach Vidal just raised a brow with an amused smirk before giving you a once over, “Ah, the famous Y/N L/N then…I gotta say, you give other girls a run for their money.”

You sent the assistant coach a tight lipped smile, “It’s nice to meet you Coach Vidal,” you turned towards your other coach, “I’ll head inside, I think Sam is here already.”

After turning on your heel, you trekked inside the alley, scanning the lanes to find the familiar dirty blonde.

“Y/N/N–”

The familiar husky voice made you walk away immediately. Deciding to head to the kitchen area to grab an energy drink, you found your dirty blonde savior.

Sam was in line to get a drink and you left your bowling bag by the front desk before joining her, your arm hooking into hers.

“Witch at five o’clock, I’ll tell you what happened after practice,” you whispered to her.

Sam, the ever so helpful friend, just brought you in closer and held your hand in reassurance. It was only eight in the morning and you were already spiraling out.

The two of you got your drinks and walked over to the designated lanes for practice.

The coaches were standing and talking quietly amongst themselves while the girls were sitting at the settee area putting their shoes on. As you put on your own, you couldn’t help but glance at Coach VIdal every so often. Why would Agatha meet up with her? Were her words last night false?

On one of the glances, you saw that Vidal was already looking at you. You quickly broke eye contact and went back to tying your shoes.

It was going to be an interesting practice day.

#lilia calderu x reader #lilia calderu #patti lupone

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