#the 'real self' in question = beating him up for little to no reason

[teamsasukes]

the chunin exams arc was so interesting for how it portrayed sakura's potential and how people in her life influenced it. kakashi lying about the team-based enrollment criteria because he thinks sakura would be likely to sign up only to appease sasuke, and being genuinely surprised when she shows up anyway. naruto being completely oblivious when sakura was upset preceding the exams and also after she cut her hair in the forest of death. naruto literally dreaming about saving sakura from enemies, being the hero to her damsel-in-distress. sakura moulding herself into a perfectly feminine lady because that's what society demanded and what she thought sasuke would want. versus sasuke calling her out for focusing too much on romance instead of her skills like she should be doing. sasuke picking up that she was upset because she felt inadequate and reminding her of what she was best at -- maybe even better than him -- and never begrudging her for it. ino hacking into her mind because she was sure, not a single doubt in her mind, that sakura would know the answers to the impossible questions on the written exam. ino and sasuke both stepping in to save her during her fight with the sound nin, but only after being spurred on by the brutal beating she took. ino and sasuke getting frustrated with naruto when he commented on how her haircut looked because it made sakura trivialize her experience and offer a fake explanation about women being fickle. the flashbacks revealing to us that ino affirmed that she would one day bloom into a beautiful flower. ino and sasuke serving as a catalyst for sakura to get stronger before pt 1 and pt 2 respectively. idk do you see what i'm seeing

[tsunodaradio]

autumn leaves ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar loves you through the seasons. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff, angst -ish. mentions of food. established/long-distance relationship, oscar is down bad :(, just a lot of sweetness all around. ꔮ commentary box: cold coffee is one of the fics i've gotten the most love about, and so it feels apt to roll this out today! this can be read as a standalone. birthday podium for the birthday boy, lfg <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ autumn leaves, ed sheeran. home, new west. please don't change your mind, lizzie no. can this morning never end, david kingston. thumb war, ande estrella. something tells me, bailen. falling in love at a coffee shop, landon pigg.

Oscar spends winter in your café.

It’s technically the circuit’s summer break. A two-week reprieve, but it’s smack dab in what Melbourne considers to be its gripping cold spell. And so he calls it what it is— a winter spent with you. 

A few mornings a week, he shows up at the café with no real reason other than the excuse of needing a warm drink. He always says he’ll only stay a little while, but you notice how often his mug lingers empty on the table long after he’s finished drinking. He picks the seat near the corner window, lets the sunlight stretch across his arms, and listens as you hum to the tune of whatever’s playing over the speakers.

“You like being here,” you say once. It’s not a question. 

Oscar looks up from the crossword puzzle you left by his cup. He blinks, caught, then shrugs. “It’s peaceful.”

You raise a brow. “You travel the world, but you call my dinky little café peaceful?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat.

Sometimes, he helps behind the counter. Especially on slower days. You hand him an apron once, mostly as a joke, but he ties it on with alarming sincerity. It turns into a bit, the two of you inventing fake menu items while you refill the pastry case. 

He gets flour on his cheek once and you don’t tell him until you’ve stared at it long enough to memorize the curve of his jaw. You saw his hand away every time he tries to steal a bit of chocolate for himself, and his touch lingers on your fingers like it physically pains him to pull away. 

At night, after you lock up, he walks you home. You don’t invite him in; the act seems a little too intimate, and he seems happy to just see that you’re safe at the end of your shift. 

It becomes routine. The world outside the café might be spinning on a faster axis, but here, with the two of you, time is gentle. 

You learn why he doesn’t like to drink coffee. He finds out why you can’t function until your second cup. He tells you about his sisters; you show him photos of your kindergarten self. He watches you pour latte art with the same reverence he gives to telemetry data.

And then, one night, it snows. 

It’s a treat. Whenever it snowed in Melbourne, it was mostly in High Country. You’re more well-versed with grey clouds and frost on the sidewalk. 

That evening, the two of you linger on the front step of the café as the snow falls— sure but steady. A snowflake lands in your hair. Oscar brushes it away gently, but not without a small voice in the back of his mind murmuring Beautiful. 

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s working up to something. “You ever get scared it won’t last?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You glance at him. “What won’t?”

“This.” He motions between the two of you. “Us. This… whatever we’re figuring out.”

As it is, the two of you are still an open-ended question. This was the wait-and-see part of dating, the carnage of you giving Oscar your number after he’d supposedly pined over you for years. 

You think about it. About how he has a plane ticket waiting and a team counting on him. About how your days are measured in regulars and espresso shots, while his are measured in laps and podiums.

Two entirely different lives. You, staying in place; him, always leaving one way or another. 

Are you scared it won’t last? 

“Yeah,” you admit. “Sometimes. But it also feels worth it.”

Oscar’s gaze finds yours in the soft glow of the streetlight. “It does, doesn’t it?”

You nod, and before you can overthink it, you reach for his hand. He meets you halfway.

Fingers laced, cold breath between you, Oscar leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “Thank you,” he says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“Letting me be a person here. Not a driver.”

It feels like such a small thing, a small grace, and you don’t realize the gravity of it. He’s a renown racecar driver, sure, but he’s also the same guy who came in with his sisters; the guy who saved the café when he contracted you as a race caterer that one prix. In that moment, you’re only thinking of the way your fingers slot together as you gently squeeze his hand. “Always.”

Under the hush of falling snow and the hum of something unspoken, Oscar lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, winter could last a little longer.

You fall into something softer after that. There are no declarations, no explicit conversations about what it all means. But he lingers longer. He clings to you in the back room when no one’s around. He texts you from his parents’ place late at night, asking if you’re still up, if you want to go for a walk, if you’re cold and want to borrow his scarf.

You tease him about being a romantic. He rolls his eyes. Tells you to hush. (But he smiles every time.) 

And then, there’s that unassuming Saturday— one where you’re baking early, radio humming in the background. Oscar is seated at the counter, still warm from sleep, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he peels an orange.

Your friend from the shop next door pops her head in. “Hey, your boyfriend’s blocking the cream cheese again.”

Oscar snorts, standing to move. “Sorry, sorry— didn’t mean to keep your resources hostage.”

You laugh, shooting your friend a look before turning back to your tray. But it isn’t until she’s gone that you register what had happened. 

She had referred to Oscar as your boyfriend. And he didn’t even flinch, had taken it in stride. Whether or not he realized it is yet to be seen. 

The thing is, you want to see. And so you glance at him, brows lifted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Oscar pauses mid-peel. It seems to dawn on him, then, as he mumbles a soft cuss of shit. He looks struck, like he hadn’t realized it much either. This was the impression the two of you were giving people— that you were in a relationship. And he hadn’t corrected her. 

“You liked that,” you tease. 

“Don’t be mean,” he groans, covering his face with his fruit-stained hands. 

“Well, boyfriend,” you say, savoring the word, “do you want to help me with the frosting or just hide behind your orange?”

Oscar lowers his hands. There’s a kind of wonder in his expression, the kind that’s not just embarrassment. Something rawer, gentler.

“You’re not mad?”

“I doubled down, didn’t I?”

And that’s when it happens— he makes a noise so flustered, so delighted and overwhelmed that he knocks his elbow into the tray of clean spoons. They clatter to the floor in a chorus of chaos.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.” 

Oscar is red to the tips of his ears, bending to pick them up with a muttered, “That’s fine. Totally fine. Not at all indicative of how much I’ve wanted to call you that.”

You crouch beside him, brushing your shoulder against his. “You can call me that whenever you want,” you say, trying to hide just how giddy you are at the prospect. 

Oscar isn’t faring any better. He chews his lower lip as if he’s biting back a smile, but you can see in the glint in his eyes that he’s just as happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“Alright, then. Girlfriend.” 

The title bursts out of him like it’s something he can’t hold himself back from saying. The moment the word has escaped him, he gives up on his facade of nonchalance. He laughs, disbelieving and low— and with a courage he could almost applaud himself for— he leans in. 

In that kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar and the soft drip of rain outside, Oscar kisses you like he’s been waiting for winter his whole life.

Spring is strange when you’re chasing it across time zones.

Some race weekends, Oscar lands in cities where it’s still snowing. Others, it’s already sweltering— sticky with heat and the sharp scent of tarmac. But somewhere between Melbourne and Monaco, in the blur of media days and debriefs, he realizes it feels like spring anyway.

Because of you.

In between sessions and flights, there are your texts. Photos of latte art attempts gone wrong. Updates on which flowers you’ve planted outside the café. A blurry snapshot of your handwritten specials board with a cheeky text of Guess who forgot how to spell ‘mocha.’

He lives for them. For the quick selfies of you squinting into the sun. For the way your good morning texts come in while he’s wrapping up his day. It grounds him, makes the whirlwind feel a little more like a rhythm.

He doesn’t expect you to watch his races live. You’re busy, and he knows the café doesn’t run itself. Still, he catches glimpses of your support— the congratulatory messages, the carefully curated playlists you send before back-to-back races. One time, you mail him a tiny good luck charm, and he tucks it into the lining of his travel bag without telling a soul.

It’s late in Japan when it happens. The call starts as usual: You in your flat, him in a hotel room with his hair damp from the shower and exhaustion clinging to his voice. He props his phone against the pillow and lies on his side, just watching you talk.

You’re rambling about a new barista who can’t steam milk properly, and Oscar is smiling like an idiot. He could listen to you talk for hours, he’s sure. But then somewhere in the middle of your story, your words slow, your eyelids start to droop.

“You tired?” he asks gently.

You blink, shake your head. “No, I���m— still talking, just…”

Your voice trails off. A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you’re out, cheek squished against your pillow, the phone still in your hand. Mid-sentence, mid-reassurance, mid-call. 

Oscar doesn’t hang up. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch every now and then. There’s a soft crease between your brows that he wants to smooth out with his thumb.

His chest aches.

It’s a new kind of ache. Tender, full. A knot of something warm that tightens when he realizes you fell asleep with him on the line. That you let him be there, even if only in pixels and soft light.

He takes a screenshot before the screen dims. Not to tease you with later (though he probably will). But to remember this. The quiet intimacy of it. The small, gentle trust of falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear it.

Then he closes his eyes, the echo of your voice still playing in his head, and lets himself pretend— just for a little while— that he’s wherever you are.

Melbourne’s spring is a finicky thing.

It’s sunny one minute, rain-lashed the next. The mornings might begin clear and bright only for the wind to pick up by midday, scattering leaves down the laneway and making the café's front windows rattle. 

You keep a spare jacket hung by the espresso machine, switch the fans off and on at least twice a day, and have long given up trying to guess if you’ll need an umbrella.

Some things don’t change, though.

Like the way your chest tightens when you see Oscar on the television screen. The way the café hushes when he’s announced on the grid, your regulars quietly cheering for him with their cappuccinos in hand.

Race Sundays are sacred in your café. You mute the usual playlist and flip on Sky Sports. The regulars know better than to ask you questions during qualifying. You serve flat whites on autopilot, one eye always on the TV. And when Oscar’s car crosses the finish line— when he clinches another win— you’re already reaching for your phone.

The messages aren’t elaborate. Just a few words, sometimes a stupid emoji. Nice one, champ. Or: Still faster than you talk. Once, just a GIF of a trophy and a smug-looking penguin. You send something every time, whether he finished on the podium or in the points or neither.

He doesn’t always respond right away. Sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it's the middle of your night when your phone buzzes against your bedside table.

But he always replies.

Couldn’t have done it without the world’s best barista, he texted once, followed by a rare selfie. His champagne-drenched face, a peace sign, and a smile that he reserves fro you.

You had laughed. Saved the photo, too.

That’s the thing about Oscar. He’s everywhere, all the time— jetting from country to country, circuit to circuit. And yet, he still finds a way to feel near. Like springtime warmth breaking through the clouds. Like a small, bright constant in a city that never quite decides what weather it wants.

You watch him during post-race interviews, grinning at how he deflects praise with the same awkward charm you first met him with. You listen for the jokes he doesn’t quite finish. You catalogue the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he knows he's done well.

And always, always, you keep your phone nearby.

Just in case he replies with something that makes you blush in front of the espresso machine.

Just in case he reminds you that no matter how far he is, you’re still a part of his every win.

Summer in Melbourne means winter break for the racing world; whatever it is, it also means Oscar is yours again for a couple of weeks.

He returns during the off-season like he never left, easing back into routine with a kind of softness you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends most of the year under pressure. He doesn’t text to say he’s coming. He just shows up— like clockwork— pushing open the café door with his usual boyish grin and an apologetic wave if the bell above the door startles you.

He slides into the same seat near the corner window. Orders the same drink. Teases you the same way he always does when you write his name wrong on the cup. 

And when the regulars begin to whisper— recognizing him in quiet awe— he keeps his head down and eyes on you, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

On some days, when it’s slow and the air conditioning hums lazily against the heat outside, Oscar hops behind the counter. He doesn’t ask. He just washes his hands and starts helping. Restocking cups, organizing the pastry shelf, sneaking samples of cookies when he thinks you’re not looking.

People talk. Of course they do. 

Oscar Piastri has a girlfriend. Oscar Piastri, McLaren F1 driver, hometown hero— is in love with you. 

Strangers whisper when he wipes down tables. When he brings you a drink before you can ask for one. When he laughs too loudly at something only you could’ve said. Someone snaps a photo once, subtle but unmistakable. You pretend not to see it. He pretends not to care.

But later, when you’re in the back room counting inventory, you let the anxiety creep in.

“You know, they’re starting to figure it out,” you say, not looking at him.

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Figure what out?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Us.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Good.”

“Good?” You set the clipboard down. “Oscar, I don’t want this to hurt your image. Or make things harder for you.”

He crosses the rooms and slip an arm around your waist. “You think I care what strangers on the internet think?”

You give him a look. “You should.”

“I care what you think,” he says firmly. “And if the whole world knows I’m crazy about you, then great. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Your heart skips, because he says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising in the summer sky.

“I mean it,” he adds, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not hiding from anyone. Not from this. Not from you.”

You lean into him before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the sun blazes. Inside, he kisses you like this part of your relationship is going to last forever. Being private but not a secret. Stealing quiet moments with each other as an invisible timer hangs overhead, every second nearing the moment when he has to go again. 

And then, summer, like all good things, comes to its inevitable end.

But before it does, Oscar makes a point of being the boyfriend he doesn’t always have the time to be. He borrows his mum’s car and convinces you to shut the café down for two days. Just two, he promises, hands wrapped around your wrists and lips pressed to the side of your neck. You give in. Of course you do.

You leave before sunrise, the windows down, the wind teasing your hair as Melbourne fades behind you. The Great Ocean Road stretches ahead like something out of a film. The sea is to your left, wild and endless. The radio plays a messy mix of whatever stations come through clearly.

Oscar sings along, because you once said it’s your favorite thing in the world— having things of him that he doesn’t give to anybody else. There’s not a lot that he can give, so he grants you this. His belting, his hand on your thigh, his eyes on the road even though he wants so badly to look at you with the little time he has left. 

“You know you’re tone-deaf, right?” you tease, glancing at him from behind your sunglasses.

Oscar, entirely unbothered, turns up the volume. “And yet you stay,” he screeches over the pop song and the waves and the thrum of your heart. 

“Regretting it now.”

“Liar.”

You grin and lean your head against the window, the salty breeze kissing your skin. The road winds and weaves, dipping into forests and sweeping along cliffs. You stop for coffee at tiny beach towns, for photos near the Twelve Apostles, for stretches where you do nothing but exist side by side in easy silence.

Eventually, you find a quiet cliffside lookout. The sea churns below, sun low on the horizon, casting everything in golden light. Oscar spreads a blanket on the grass, and you sit with your knees drawn up, the wind cooler here but not unwelcome.

He joins you, shoulder to shoulder, gaze fixed on the water. For a while, it’s just the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “I’m going to miss you.”

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw is tight, eyes glassy with unsaid things.

“I know it’s not forever,” he continues, voice low, “but every time I leave, it feels like I’m putting us on pause. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t stay.”

Your heart clenches. 

You reach for his hand.

“You’re not putting anything on pause. We’re still us, even when you’re away,” you remind him. 

It’s true, at least on your end. His papaya car can take him from the starting line to the chequered flag, can put him in countries all across the world. At the end of it all, he’s still the same Oscar you’d do anything and everything for. 

He doesn’t say anything much after that. You can only hope he agrees, that he’s reassured. It comforts you that Oscar has always been a man of action, not so much of words. 

When he leans in, when he kisses you there with the sun dipping behind you and the ocean singing below, it feels like summer is bending into something softer. Something that might just last.

Autumn comes quietly, almost unnoticeably. One moment i’'s late summer— your hand in his as you both watch waves kiss the Great Ocean Road— and the next, Oscar is gone again. 

Back in a race suit, back on the grid, back to being the driver the world demands him to be.

The season restarts with a rush: Press events, simulator work, endless travel. Countries blur into each other. Time zones fracture his routine. He wakes up jet-lagged more often than not, sometimes unsure of what day it is until he checks his calendar. 

In one city, it's humid and bright; in another, the rain feels like hurricanes. But somewhere in his chest, it feels like autumn. Like something has started to drift.

He still texts you. Still calls when he can. But the gaps between your conversations stretch, elastic and fragile. Sometimes he sends voice notes— quick, clipped, often in between meetings or on the way to a track. Sometimes you hear the edge in his voice, exhaustion making his tone heavier. 

He apologizes more than he used to. 

Sorry, I meant to reply last night.

Sorry, my flight got delayed.

Sorry, I missed our call.

And you’re kind. Always so, so kind.

You tell him you understand. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll just be here.

But Oscar starts to worry that your kindness is a finite resource. That even the gentlest patience has an expiration date.

He watches you through his screen most days. Watches the way you smile softly when he asks how you are. Watches your fingers cradle your mug, the steam curling between your knuckles. It hurts, in ways he never expected, to see you pixelated after having you differently.

Because yesterday— what feels like yesterday— you were with him. And today, you’re miles away.

And none of it feels simple anymore.

In the end, he doesn’t mean to wake you.

It’s late in Japan, or early, depending on how you look at it. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and the occasional blink of city lights beyond the window. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hesitating over the screen.

You answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Osc?”

“Hey,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

“You called.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I just... I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then the rustle of blankets, the sound of you shifting closer to the mic.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “What’s up?”

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle. His hands fidget with the edge of the hotel duvet, reminding him of the worn, well-loved comforter you have back at your own place. His mind is louder than it should be at this hour, cycling through worries like laps on a circuit.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he admits. “It’s just... everything’s so fast right now. The races, the media, the pressure. And I keep thinking— what if I drop the ball with you? What if you get tired of waiting for the person I keep promising to be?”

You’re quiet for a moment. 

Then: “Oscar, listen to me.”

He does.

“You don’t have to earn my patience. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every time the world starts spinning too fast,” you say. “I know who you are, even when you’re tired and stressed and a thousand kilometers away.”

His throat tightens. He stares at the carpet, blinking back something heavy.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you say gently. “You love me. I love you. That’s the whole thing.”

Oscar swallows hard. He’s never been good at this sort of thing; he’s honest when he has to be, sure, but the emotional part of everything has never been his forte. 

He sticks to his honesty. “I wish I was there,” he says. 

“I know.”

“It’s autumn now.”

“I know.” 

“I’d hold you so tight you’d forget I ever left.”

You chuckle, sleepy but fond. “I don’t forget. But I forgive.”

He presses the phone closer to his ear, like proximity might make the distance easier to bear. And in that quiet, in your breath and your heartbeat slowed by sleep, he finds a thread of calm to hold onto.

“I’ll come home soon,” he promises, quiet but certain.

And when you say “You always do,” he wants so, so badly to give you everything he has. 

It’s why he fulfills his promise sooner than what was probably expected.

After a brutal triple-header weekend, the kind that chews drivers up and spits them back out in time zones that blur together, Oscar finds himself on a red-eye to Melbourne before he can talk himself out of it. 

He’s running on less than four hours of sleep, still in his team hoodie and airport sneakers when he finally gets to your door. The flowers in his hand are half-crushed, stolen from the bushes just outside your café— he knows he should’ve stopped somewhere proper, but he just couldn’t wait any longer.

He rings the doorbell. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

You answer groggily in an oversized McLaren jersey, hair a mess, blinking at him like you’re not sure if he’s real.

“I know, I know,” he starts before you can say anything. “They’re from outside the shop. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this well. I just— I had to come home. I couldn’t stop thinking. I missed you. I’ve been shit at this, haven’t I? I mean, not just the flowers— everything.”

You take one look at him, wild-haired and a little breathless, with dirt on his cuffs and sincerity in his eyes, and your heart cracks open in the quietest, softest way.

You step forward and kiss him, then. Still sleepy, still barefoot. It’s not hurried or desperate. It’s grounding. Like you’re reminding him he’s here now. Like you’re saying, It’s okay, I’ve got you.

He kisses you back with a gentleness that belies the hoops he had to go through to get here. He could be more desperate, urgent, but it’s not something he wants to push while you’re half-awake. While you’re soft, practically melting in his arms. He settles on kissing you as if it’s an apology, a confession, and a promise all rolled into one. 

You take the flowers from his hand and pull him gently inside.

“Welcome home,” you murmur against his lips, and Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

It’s not complicated, not really. Not when love looks like showing up, like late flights and half-crushed flowers, like a kiss in the early morning and a place to rest your heart.

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the early morning birdsong outside your window. The light through the curtains is soft, golden— the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. After the flowers have been put in a vase and Oscar has changed into more comfortable clothes, you pad into the kitchen. 

You start the coffee, the motions muscle memory by now. As it drips into your mug, you lean against the counter, waiting for Oscar to inevitably follow suit. 

You don’t hear his footsteps, but you feel him. The way his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder like it belongs there. There’s probably an alternate universe where this could be your reality. Lazy mornings with Oscar, where he doesn’t have to fret over return flights and race strategy and all that.

It’s not something you yearn for. You’re happy with the cards you’ve been dealt, with the Oscar you have right now. 

He hums lowly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Can I have some too?”

You blink, startled. “You? Want coffee?”

“Might as well learn to like it,” he murmurs into the side of your neck. “Means I get to be awake with you longer.”

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Oscar... you don't have to change yourself for us.”

He shrugs, a lazy, boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know. But maybe I want to anyway.”

With half an eye roll, you hand him your mug instead. It’s exactly how you like it, and— to no one’s surprise— it’s everything he hates. He takes a sip and immediately grimaces.

“Still tastes like regret, huh?” you joke as your arms find purchase around his middle. 

“Worse,” he says, and then pulls you in for a kiss before you can say anything more.

It’s a little coffee, a little toothpaste, and all you. There’s a little more of an edge to this, a promise of something more later, but it’s also just a reminder in itself. This is what the two of you had. This is what the two of you could work with. And it would last, would go on for as long as the two of you put in the work. 

Oscar pulls back only when he absolutely has to, forehead against yours, breath warm.

Outside, the trees rustle in the breeze, gold and red and fading brown. The autumn leaves fall slowly, drifting one by one in a soundless, unhurried dance. 

Oscar falls in love like that, too— quietly, fully, with every part of him.

He falls in love with you again, right then, in the middle of the kitchen, with bitter coffee on his tongue and your smile against his. ⛐

[penvisions]

there's a place and time {joel miller x reader}

Pairing: Younger / No-outbreak! Joel Miller x Neighbor! Reader

Summary: Moving back to your parents house wasn't part of the plan, neither was being a thorn in your neighbor's side. but you roll with the punches, and hey, he's kinda cute when he gets huffy.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: age gap (joel is mid 30's / reader is mid 20's), angst, biting words, argumentative language, joel is a lil meanie but so is reader, grief, off-screen loss, depictions of depression, comfort, mushy stuff

A/N: this literally came out of nowhere, a random thought on the way to work and then a manic two hours of writing once i got home. this turned out a little different than first imagined, but i hope it reads well!

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“Why don’t you date?”

“Excuse me?” The form crouched in between kitchen counters looked up at you with a raised brow, surely mishearing the question.

“Dating, I know you know what that is.” You repeat yourself as you push your arms back to brace on the counter and hop up on it. The granite of it is cold on your bare thighs, the shorts you were wearing thrown on haphazardly when a panic stricken pair of teenagers had begun to bang on your door in the early afternoon. The words of ‘fire’ and “help!” spurring you into action where you had been napping on your couch. Now though, the oven was off, the blackened frozen pizza still on the rack and covered in foam from the fire extinguisher neither of them had known how to use. Their father had sent them upstairs, thanking you for helping them out and getting it taken care of. “Or the concept at least, yeah?”

“Don’t mean it’s any of your business, little lady.” Joel’s voice leaves no room for further conversation as he realizes you’re more serious than need be. Little quips between you two common, the unspoken understanding of not discussing the reason for your presence in the neighborhood mutual.

“I dunno, I remember you being real keen on the idea of me babysitting.” You take a sip of your soda, swiped from the fridge after everything had calmed down. “Would do you a favor now, should you need the night off for some…fun.”

“Dating and fun are two different things.”

“Dating can be fun, if you do it with the right person.”

“Yeah, and what do you know about that? Saw you move in all by your lonesome. No big, burly man helping you with your boxes.”

The fizzy drink sours on your tongue and you toss him a scowl as he stands. He’s a few feet away but you can feel the warmth of him as he stands at his full height. He’s reaching to close the oven door, the creak of metal on metal loud in the beat of silence.

“You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you on your perky ass, Miller.”

“Language, you’re in my house.” His brow furrows and he pins you with a stern look. Something you’d seen him give to his brother, his girls, the neighbor across the way when she wouldn’t take the hint that he didn’t want her dog shit in his yard.

“Old men like yourself deserve to have some fun every once in a while. They deserve happiness too.”

“Even if I did, it’s no concern of yours. Your daddy didn’t help pay for two degrees for you to end up babysitting for grocery money.”

The rebuttal on the tip of your tongue suddenly dissolved as you felt a shiver run down your spine. He’s right, you know he’s right. But you just…you couldn’t even open the envelope with the certificates let alone add them to your resume and begin the arduous task of job hunting.

“Fuck you, I was only offering to help out a neighbor.” The words are rough, rounded out with the weight of too many emotions. You shove off from the counter, abandoning your half-finished drink. A delicacy you enjoyed only over at his house, too expensive for you to indulge in as bills you never anticipated paying became your responsibility.

“I didn’t mean-“ He had the self-awareness to realize he said the wrong thing. His hands coming up from his waist to reach out for you, but you don’t look over your shoulder as you make your way through the kitchen.

“Don’t come to me if you do need someone to look after the girls. I wouldn’t take your money anyway.”

“C’mon now,” His full lips shape around your name, but you’re already out the door. Resisting the urge to let it slam shut behind you, your anger still so sharp and hot. But the girls didn’t deserve to feel it, even the echo of it in the slamming of a door. Despite being a dick, Joel was a good father to them. He’d made his home a nurturing and loving environment. You didn’t want to taint it with your stained hands.

As he stands there in his empty kitchen, the smell of burnt dough, smoke, and ammonia dizzies him as he watches you cross over his yard to yours next door. The blank expression on your face and the faint smears of dried pant all over your legs makes him regret his fast words. He had been going for teasing, but of course they had come out harsh and wounding.

You were someone he didn’t know how to interact with. So sweet and polite with the girls, with the neighbors. But you were a firecracker with him. Teasing, whipping words that rung around his head, and he recalled far too often. The little smirk that pulled at your lips as you said them, waited for his response or sputtering lack of one. His own pulled from him, making him feel like a teenager again, like a young man you hadn’t been suddenly left alone to raise a child. Like his old self, someone who stood a chance with you as you gave him your attention time and time again.

He had only ever met you through the words of your parents, the people who had once occupied the house beside his own. He had moved in with two six-year-olds just as you had shoved off to college upstate. The running joke was that it was perfect timing for him to have missed out on the perfect babysitter.

-

Graduation is supposed to be a time of celebration and proud smiles, at least that’s what everyone else got. The day you had counted down on the calendar and crossed off the passing ones as it neared was now a blur of too bright colors and phone calls with people telling you things you didn’t want to think about, let alone hear as your new reality.

A car accident, on the drive upstate. Both parents, reckless driver.

A house that had been recently paid off, left to you. Your name already on the deed, something you didn’t want to think about too hard. Close, you had been close with each of them and them as a unit. A small family but understanding. It was yours, the backdrop to your life and suddenly the two people were only memories.

The move had been quick, the apartment you shared with fellow graduate students mostly books and a beautiful desk. The bedframe taken apart to go while the shelves had been left for the next occupants.

You hadn’t shared the news with any of your roommates or friends, not wanting to taint their own celebrations and happy memories of the day you all worked so hard for. Addresses were exchanged, well wishes were meant, but of course it all faded as time had gone on. Their news of job offers and exciting dates had been good to hear, but with no good things to respond with of your own, it was hard to feel the same way about them as you once had. They reached out, worry coloring their words, which made you feel even worse.

It haunts you for days, as you seal yourself into the home that is now yours alone. The paint slathered on canvas dries and the brushes coated in it turn into hardened caps over the bristles. You’re allowing things to sit for too long, the water evaporating in the cups you use to rinse between swatches of color. The open paint tubes oxidizing and becoming unsalvageable. But you have no control.

The bed becomes damp with nights of sweat, from your tossing and turning body as the heat rises and the air conditioning that needs to be repaired is just another phone call. You don’t even think you know where your phone is. It can’t bear bad news if you don’t answer it. It can’t carry the end of your world if you don’t let it.

There’s a sharp knock on the door at some point, in the midst of the haze of days after storming out of Joel’s kitchen. You hadn’t been able to dissect the sounds of life going on outside your closed windows.

But it had, to the point where now someone was calling on you to make you return to it.

Shrugging on a robe, you hold it tight to your aching body as you push up from the bed. Bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor as the heat fills the home.

“What?” You can’t help but bark as you swing the door open, only to find a concerned Joel on the porch, with your phone in his hand.

“I found this in the kitchen, must’ve fallen off the counter in the madness of getting the fire out and callin’ me.” He holds it out to you, but you don’t move to take it. “Figured you needed it, there’s a lot of missed calls and voicemails. I may have left a few too, to check on ya. Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Been here, painting.”

“Okay, that’s…that’s good. Got everything you need? Food, water, someone comin’ to fix the A/C?” It’s an apology in the only way Joel Miller is capable of giving, the need to make sure someone is getting what they need, that they’re taken care of. He’s a good provider, to his girls, to his brother, to the neighborhood when he’s not beat down from long days in the sun with concrete and paint dried to his skin, with wood shavings and stain splotched on his jeans.

“No.”

“No?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m my own person.”

Your name leaves his mouth on a sigh.

“I know that, but your parents…I know that kinda thing is-“

“I’m fine. Thanks for returning this.” You snatch it from his hand and go to close to door, not willing to hear what he has to say on the loss of your parents. For his credit, he let’s you. Knowing that you’re going through the motions, through the event in your own way. It doesn’t stop him from speaking loud enough for you to hear him through the door.

“The girls will be by with dinner later! Try to be nice to them, they ain’t me!”

-

The meal delivered by two smiling teenagers does lift your spirits a bit, even if all you do is shower and do a few loads of laundry. It’s a long process, the climb out of the hole that you had found yourself in.

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. You’re back to quipping across the yard with the man. His daughters delighting in the comraderies that underlies it all. It’s the height of summer now, the girls spending time with you to try their hand at painting. Sarah is better with bursts of color that compliment each other, vaguely floral. While Ellie is better with a muted palette imposed between detailed line art.

They always thank you for the time and attention, offering to help you clean up or tidy the house in exchange for watching over them when you notice Joel’s truck is still gone from their own driveway until late. They aren’t helpless, but you know what loneliness feels like and you don’t want them to become familiar with it.

You finally open the envelope containing your degrees, the last letters from your friends and pen down long responses. The stamps cute as you drop them off at the post office, the ornate certificates framed and hung above the desk in your father’s old office alongside his own.

Joel joins them most days, mid meal if he can make it in time. Food finding it’s way into your kitchen, something you’re sure is the combined effort of two pairs of small hands and one pair of big hands. The least you could do is turn it into something for everyone involved to enjoy.

But just as things seem to progress, they fall back apart. It wasn’t over a throwaway comment this time, though, but a piece of mail delivered from a local gallery asking after your willingness to partake in an exhibit. That they expressed their deepest condolences in this trying time.

The paint dries up again, another set of brushes left to ruin. The door goes unanswered, as does the phone you can hardly stand to look at. The lights don’t glow in the windows once the sun sets, no music is heard from behind thin screens, nor the sound of you humming along to it.

The house becomes a burden once again, shielding you from the world you as you feel the loss of your parents all over again.

-

You don’t hear the door open from where you’re sprawled on the floor of the bathroom, the shower is running but you didn’t make it under the spray. You’re fully clothed, having reached down underneath the vanity for a bottle of shampoo when your fingers had brushed over something else. A bottle of your mother’s favorite perfume. The one that lingered in every room she occupied, on every piece of clothing she adorned. It was her, the perfect encapsulation of who she was.

And it was staring at you inconspicuously from the shelf. The mere sight of it tearing the wound open once again and making it hard to breath.

That’s where Joel finds you. In tears over something as trivial as a tiny glass bottle. But he doesn’t bat an eye, he’s taking in the scene and shutting off the shower in a few easy steps.

“Hey now, come ‘ere, darlin’,” He’s crouching down beside you, hands reaching for your shaking body.

He’s so gentle, so soft as he pulls you up from the tiled floor and into his chest. Leaning back against rhe now closed vanity to support your weight. One hand on the back of your head, holding it to his chest, pleading with you to match his breathing so you don’t hurt yourself.

“Datin’ is hard, you’re right.” His words make you pause, confusion crowding out the wetness lingering in your eyes. The words from a conversation long ago pulling you out of your breakdown, the casual way he continues it.

“It is.” You insist, voice small and muffled as you refuse to pull your face from where it’s pressed against the warmth of his chest.

“Maybe…. maybe you’d be kind enough to try it with this grumpy old man. I’d sure like to give it a shot with someone like you.”

“I ain’t nothin’ special. Just the neighbor girl your dead friends talked about too much.”

“They loved you, darlin’. With everythin’ they had.” He holds tight to the hand you move underneath one of his. Seeking him out, to feel his skin on your own. “You are special, those paintings they showed me, you got a gift, honey.”

“Gifts don’t mean nothin’ when you got no one to share them with.”

“You share ‘em with the girls, they loved coming over here to spend time with you. Share ‘em with me, if you want. The girls and I are in your corner, we got you.”

“You don’t…you don’t want to date me. Every boy-“

“Boys don’t know how to date, that’s only something us old men know how to do. Will you let me show you, how it feels to be taken care of and looked after? To feel appreciated and like you aren’t a hindrance on nightly plans to play fuckin’ video games?”

“I like video games,” You sniffle, voice gaining strength as the conversation goes on. He’s soothing you, even as he just sits on the floor with you in his lap, his arms around you and your body pressed up against him. It’s the most comfortable you’ve felt in months. And it’s just Joel being Joel, it’s just you being you.

“Show me, if you want. Let me get to know you, let me show you what it’s like to be loved, not just sought after for a night of fun.”

“I don’t date old men.”

“No?”

“You’re not that much older than me, so I wouldn’t really call you old.”

“Cause then you’d have to admit you’re old too, huh?” He reads the meaning behind the change of thought, as if he was in your head right there alongside you.

“Yeah, we ain’t old. Life just beat us down, but damn if it didn’t touch your perky ass.” You reach a hand down from where it’s cradled between your chests, to pinch at where his backside it firmly planted on the floor. He jolts a bit, not expecting the action. But his rumbling laugh lightens the air around you both even more so.

“You goin’ soft on me, a compliment like that is makin’ my heart pick up. Can you feel it?”

“Yeah, cause you’re a big ole sap.” You can’t help the breathy chuckle that escapes past your lips, the twitch of a smile trying to break out. You can, indeed, feel the way his heart is thudding in his chest. The truth of your words and his making you feel some of the weight lift from your own.

“You ain’t gotta clue how sappy I could me, lemme show you, huh?”

“Only if you promise it’ll make me roll my eyes and groan.” You lean back enough to see his face, the roll of your eyes up to take in his hopeful expression allowing you to know how much he means it. Your own heartbeat picks up and you swear he can feel it too, if the crook of his lips underneath his mustache is any indication.

“Only if you promise to have a smile on your face while you do it.” He leans in, nose brushing against yours. The action so soft, so welcome after the isolation you had subjected yourself to.

“Deal.” You breathe out against his lips.

“It’s a deal then.” He presses them to yours, and damn it all, but it does bring a smile to your face.

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[say-al0e]

Hypothetical

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Eddie asks a lot of hypothetical questions, just to hear your answer. The answer to this question was more real than you wanted to admit. Warnings: Tiny bit of self-doubt, idiots to lovers. Pairing: Eddie x fem!Reader (think it could be read as GN but just to be safe) Word Count: 2.7k

“Would you fuck my clone?”

The question, asked as casually as if he were inquiring about the weather - though, to his defense, he’d asked weirder - rose above the sound of chainsaws emanating from the television and earned a confused frown as you spared him a sideways glance.

Eddie’s attention remained mostly on Leatherface, chasing unsuspecting victims, but you caught his curious glance as you laughed. Those were the first words spoken in over an hour, certainly a record for your verbose best friend, and you couldn’t help but ask, “What the fuck, Eddie?”

“What?” From his position at the end of the couch, feet propped on the coffee table and head lolled onto the cushions, he shrugged. “It’s a simple question. Would you fuck my clone?”

A beat of silence passed, in which you realized this was one of those moments where Eddie wouldn’t let the question go until he was given a satisfying answer, and you sighed. “I don’t think that’s the question, Eds,” you countered. “Isn’t it usually, ‘would you fuck your own clone’?”

With a dismissive wave of his hand and a scoff, Eddie finally sat up and turned his full attention to you, screaming teenagers and chainsaws forgotten now that he had something better to capture his attention. “That one’s boring,” he reasoned. “We know all the arguments. This is a different question, new arguments.”

“I think we’re fine without arguing,” you teased, reaching for the nearly half-empty bowl of popcorn. “Just watch the movie, Eddie.”

From the corner of your eye, you watched as a look you couldn’t quite recognize flickered across Eddie’s face. However, just as quickly as it appeared, it was covered with a raised brow and a teasing grin. “We’ve seen it a hundred times already. Anyway, what I’m getting from this is, you would fuck my clone. Interesting.”

Eddie did little to hide his amusement as you rolled your eyes and tossed a piece of popcorn at him. “I didn’t say that,” you argued, despite yourself - despite knowing that you were walking into a conversation you weren’t yet sure you wanted any part of.

A hum, unconvinced, met your ears as he reached for the bowl and plucked it from your hands. “Okay,” he prompted, ignoring your outraged huff. “So, tell me. Would you?”

There were a handful of ways you could respond to his probing. The first, shut down his question with a point blank refusal, phrased as a light-hearted joke that did little damage to his ego and even less to your already fragile nerves. The second, play into his game and debate the pros and cons of sleeping with his clone, the ethical ramifications, the conversation he clearly wanted. Or, the third, admit to him a fact that you’d concealed since the summer of 1984.

Any way you could have him, real Eddie or clone, you would take it.

That was, solidly, not in the lead. So, you opted for the second approach.

“Jeez, Eds,” you sighed, stealing popcorn from the bowl now resting on his lap. “I don’t know. Maybe,” you conceded. “Depends, I guess. Is he, like, total you or some weird, kinda fucked up clone? Like, is he totally evil or incapable of coherent thought or, I don’t, off somehow?” As an afterthought, you joked, “More so than the real you, anyway.”

“Rude.” There was no bite in the declaration, only a fond amusement that made your chest ache, but you did your best to ignore it as he hummed. “Clone’s a totally normal, complete carbon copy. Everything about him is exactly the same, down to the last hair.”

“So, no aspirations to rule the world or become, like, the next Leatherface?”

Eddie grinned. “That’s my backup plan, you know, if music doesn’t work. So, guess it’d be his, too,” he admitted, only breaking into laughter when you grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. “Seriously,” he relented, “nothing weird. Just another me. Everything you know and love, times two.”

With a sigh, you lifted your legs onto the couch and hugged your knees to your chest. “Then… I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely audible over the screams still echoing from the television. “Maybe?”

“It’s a yes or no question, babe,” he reminded you, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he studied you. “Shouldn’t be this hard.”

That look, the one that you had difficulty placing, returned and despite your uncertainty as to what it was, you were certain that you didn’t like it very much. Doubt, or maybe hurt, were the closest emotions you could identify though neither made much sense to you in the moment.

Still, rather than ask, you rolled your eyes. “What’s the point of this conversation?”

There was none, it was just for fun - a debate, like the thousands of others you’d had over the course of your friendship - and Eddie said a much as he shrugged. “Isn’t one,” he declared, offering you the last handful of popcorn. “I just want to know if you’d fuck my clone.”

When you refused, he returned the bowl back to the coffee table before reaching for your ankle. With a gentle tug, he encouraged you to rest your feet on his lap as his fingers began to tap a beat that only existed inside his head against your skin. “Why does it matter?”

Eddie shrugged once more, though this time, he glanced at the television rather than you as he answered. “Because I asked and you always answer.”

“I do,” you relented, sighing as you also spared the screen a glance. “Well, what’s the right answer, then? There has to be one.”

This time, he shook his head as the tapping of his fingers grew a touch faster. “Right answer’s the true one.”

For a moment, you simply studied Eddie. His side profile, bathed in the warm glow of the television, was the picture of concentration as he watched a scene you’d seen a thousand times before. Only, you knew him well enough to see the telltale signs that he was in no way paying as close of attention as he should’ve been.

The slightest tick in his jaw, the quick bite of the inside of his cheek, the delayed blinking; all signs that he was waiting more intently for your answer than he wanted you to believe.

Rejection - no matter how hypothetical - never seemed possible when it came to Eddie. So, you sighed and conceded, “Okay, fine. Sure, I’d fuck your clone.”

Eddie hummed, seemingly unsurprised and feigning nonchalance as he nodded as if the answer confirmed something he already suspected. And there were a thousand ways in which you expected him to respond; none of which could’ve compared to him declaring, “So, you’d fuck my clone but not me.”

Again, rejection was not an option. However, you had no intention of admitting to him that you’d wanted him for years. There was no world in which you could see yourself admitting to him that you thought he was beautiful - with his doe eyes and playful grin. Telling him how you felt would likely end in an awkward silence at best and a ruined friendship at worst.

So, you opted for a careful denial. “What? I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re not saying anything to the contrary,” he countered, turning his head to spare you a cursory glance. There was something there, beneath the amused glimmer in his eyes, that unnerved you - something far more serious than you were expecting - but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

When you shot him an unimpressed glance, cutting your eyes at him before returning your attention to the television, he shrugged, teasing grin never faltering. “I never said that. I answered a hypothetical and you’re reading into it.”

Eddie met your perhaps too sharp denial with a raised brow as he gave up the guise of watching the movie. “So, am I wrong?”

“Would you stop putting words into my mouth?” You huffed as you reached for the bowl of popcorn, desperate for something to distract yourself from making a confession you knew you would regret. “I never said that. All I said was that I’d fuck your clone, I answered the question.”

“Okay, fine. You never said you wouldn’t fuck me but it’s never happened. Never even sort of, almost, maybe happened,” he reminded you - as if you needed it. “So, you would fuck my clone but not me. Why?”

“Because we’re friends, Eddie,” you shot back, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as you popped a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “I’ve known you since I was ten.” 

The excuse sounded weak in your own ears, but it was all you could muster without breaking down and confessing that you would, in fact, sleep with him. If only he’d ask. If only it wouldn’t destroy your friendship. If only it was that simple.

Still, Eddie was relentless. “But my clone would have all my memories, totally the same person,” he reminded you. “He’d be your friend, just like me. But you’d fuck him. So, why not me?”

“This is stupid,” you huffed. “Why do you care?” He’d never pushed so hard, not in pursuit of a hypothetical question meant to pass the time, and you were genuinely curious why he seemed so interested in your answer, or your lack thereof.

“I’m a naturally curious person,” he argued, shrugging as he squeezed your ankle. “It’s just a stupid hypothetical. C’mon, why would you hypothetically fuck my clone but not me?”

There was little doubt in your mind that he would continue pushing until he got the answer he was looking for, especially as it seemed that he’d already made up his mind that he was right, so you shifted yourself in a huff. With your legs now hugged to your chest, eyes on the television to avoid meeting his gaze as you admitted in a snap, “God, okay. I’d fuck your clone because it’s the closest I’d get to being with you without actually destroying our entire relationship. Happy with that answer?”

“What?” Eddie sounded genuinely surprised and you could feel the warmth of his gaze burning into your skin as you purposely kept your gaze on the television.

“If your clone is you, all your memories, your mannerisms, your looks, I’d fuck your clone because then I’d get to see what it’s like to be with you,” you admitted, words escaping despite every fiber of your being telling you to be quiet. “I’d get everything without the risk of losing you when I fuck it all up.”

Eddie shifted closer then, careful to keep a few inches of space between you but no longer nestled into the opposite edge of the couch as he tipped his head to get a better glimpse of your face. “What do you mean, when you fuck it up?”

Frustrated tears - at admitting a secret you swore would follow you to the grave, at allowing him to get under your skin when he was simply asking an innocent question, at allowing yourself to get so worked up over something so simple - stung at the backs of your eyes as you huffed. “I’m… you know me, Eddie. I don’t,” you sighed, cutting yourself off, before taking a deep breath. “I’m prickly. I don’t do well with romance. I freak out and run,” you reminded him. “Even if you felt the same, if we worked out enough to not have our friendship go down in flames, there’s still a chance I’d fuck it up and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to run from you.”

“Hey.” Eddie shifted even closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, and sighed when you refused to glance at him. Regardless, he exclaimed, “That’s why we’d be different.”

“What?” Of all the things you expected him to say, that was the last. With furrowed brows and tears still lining your lashes, you tipped your head to glance at him. “Why?”

“Because,” he began, meeting your eyes for the first time in what felt like hours, “when you try to run, I know what you’re doing. When you get all weird or try to push me away, I know it’s not really you wanting me to go. I know you. I get you, just like you get me.”

“Eddie.”

Of all the ways you’d expected him to react, of all the ways you expected him to acknowledge your feelings for him, returning them was not on the list. For years, you’d convinced yourself that there was no way he would return your feelings, there was no way you would ever be able to acknowledge those feelings without losing your best friend, and there was still a deep-rooted fear that, despite his seeming certainty that his understanding would make a difference, any attempt at a relationship would only end in heartbreak.

That didn’t seem to matter to him as he pressed on. “I’m serious. It’s us,” he continued, this time reaching out to press a hand to your knee. “It’s always been us, always will be us. There’s nothing you can do to get rid of me. Not now.”

“You can’t know that,” you sighed, though it was nowhere near as confident as you hoped it would be. “We can’t see the future.”

“We can’t,” he agreed. “Not yet, anyway, but the nineties seem promising.” When you rolled your eyes, barely suppressing a smile, he laughed. “But that’s the fun part. We do our best to make our own future. It’s always going to be together, might as well come clean and really be together instead of making ourselves miserable pretending.” Before you could respond, offer another half-hearted refusal, he pressed on. “What do we have to lose?”

“Everything.”

Eddie shook his head, completely unconvinced that anything bad would come of allowing yourselves to try. “I don’t believe that. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“How can you be so certain?” You wished you had an ounce of Eddie’s certainty, his true belief that the pair of you could make it, but you were skeptical. Neither of you had much luck in life, neither of you had much outside of one another, and losing him would be far too great.

However, you were tired of pretending that a shared future was not what you wanted. 

The possibility that your future could go up in flames, that you could destroy the best friendship you’d ever had, worried you. It kept you awake at night. But now knowing that Eddie felt the same, that he wanted the same future you did, there was no way you could turn him down.

For all your fear, for all your hesitance, saying no was not an option.

“Because we’ve been in love for years and nothing bad has happened yet.” He said it as if it was the most obvious answer he could give, as if it made all the sense in the world, and if you really stopped to think about it, it did.

“Can you promise me something?”

Eddie shifted ever closer, nodding easily as you reached for his hand. “Anything.”

“Can you promise me that no matter what happens, we’ll always be friends? Even if we don’t work out, if something happens, promise me that we’ll still be there for each other.”

“I promise. Nothing hypothetical about that,” he agreed, corner of his mouth lifting when you offered a soft smile.

The moment stretched around you, nothing existed outside of the pair of you as Eddie tugged you into his side. It was easy, natural, and you melted into his touch despite the fear lingering in the back of your mind.

There was a brief worry that this could be a mistake. That allowing yourselves to intertwine your futures so thoroughly would only end in heartbreak, but he was right. For as long as you could remember, it had been you and Eddie. There was nothing that had managed to wedge you apart yet. And pretending had no guarantee of working in the long term.

So, you decided to dive in to the deep end and allow yourself to truly fall. There was no situation, real or hypothetical, in which he would allow you to hit the ground.

No matter what, you knew that he would be there to catch you. 

________________________________________________________

Author's Note: I spent my entire day in meetings. All the meetings. So many meetings. I also have a dentist appointment on Wednesday and I am Terrified. So have this.

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff​, @valthevalkyrie-main​, @crying-caro​, @inglourious-imagines​

[writing-girlie]

Extra Credit

Pairing: Female Student!Reader x Professor!Jack Abbot

Blurb: One secret moment behind locked doors becomes something that neither of them can stop craving even if they try.

WC: 2.2k

Warnings: Student x Professor sex, Age Gap (early 20s/late 40s)

Notes: This is purely self indulgent but if you read it I hope you like it.

You were sitting in the lecture hall listening to Professor. Abbot, your eyes shamelessly admiring him.

His hair, mostly brown, touched with just a whisper of grey at the edges. The soft wave in it was messy by this time in the afternoon but still, it suits him. Your eyes drop to his arms. The sleeve of his shirt is rolled up to his elbow, and you can’t help watching the way the muscle shifts every time he writes on the board.

The lecture comes to an end. You're the last one to get up, taking your time. You head towards the door but you linger, watching as he tidies up. His voice cuts the air without looking at you.

“Close it.”

You don’t hesitate. The door shuts with a soft click and locks but you don't move. He finally lifts his eyes.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” You begin to slowly walk closer. “Talk to me.” He wanted to know why you're here. You cleared your throat.

“I had a question about the assignment.”

“The one you already turned in?” You gave a faint shrug.

“Just wanted to make sure I was on the right track.” You stop on the opposite side of his desk.

“You were,” he said. A beat passed. “You are.” His voice softened. “You’re my best student. That wasn’t the reason you stayed behind.” You looked at him.

“No,” you admitted.

“So, the reason?” His gaze was sharp on you.

“I think you know why Professor” Your tone changes slightly.

“You sure you want to start that conversation?” he asked, quietly.

“I think we already have.” You smile at him. He stepped around the desk until he stood in front of you. Not close enough to touch but enough to feel a pull.

He watched you like he was weighing every consequence in real time, but he couldn't hide how his eyes traced your mouth, your jaw, then your collarbone.

“I’m your professor,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “This ends careers.”

You held his gaze. “Then stop me.”

A flicker of hardness crossed his face but his feet didn’t move.

“You’re my student,” he repeated, a little softer this time.

“Still not stopping me.” You closed the distance. He didn’t step back. He didn’t break. His hand twitched at his side like it wanted to reach for you but it didn’t.

“This is reckless,” he murmured.

“But you’ve thought about it,” you said. “Don’t lie.” He let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-defeated.

“Yeah”

“So stop pretending this is just one-sided.” You reached up and smoothed a finger lightly along the edge of his collar. He stared at you.

“You’re impossible,” he whispered, just before he kissed you, slow and deep, like he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t not.

He pulled back after a moment. His breath was warm against your lips and his eyes scanned yours.

“I shouldn't have done that” He murmured. He stepped back, the tension gone, the warmth gone. “You need to go” You just look at him for a moment. “Now” You pick up your bag and leave.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The next day you decide to pay him a visit, you head to where his office is and you don’t knock. You just step inside. He doesn't even glance up, like he knows it's you.

“Office hours are over.” He writes a note on someone's essay.

“Then you should’ve locked the door.” He sighs, still not looking at you.

“You know, most students knock. Then wait to be invited in.” You ease into the chair across from him.

“You know, most professors don’t kiss their students.” You shrug.

That does it.

He freezes just long enough to feel the shift in the air. That's when he finally lifts his head, eyes locked on yours.

“That was a lapse in judgment.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” You smile slowly. He leans back in his chair, watching you carefully.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something honest.” He laughs at your response.

“You think honesty makes this easier?” His eyes narrow slightly.

"I think pretending it didn’t mean anything makes it worse.” You challenge.

“Sit,” Jack said, nodding toward the edge of his desk.

You obeyed without hesitation, you got up from your seat, perching on the polished wood. Then he turned, slid a paper across the desk to you, and said, “Read.”

“My essay?” You blinked.

“Is that a problem?” He raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head. “Out loud,” he clarified, leaning against the opposite edge of the desk, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world. “From the top.”

You swallowed and picked up the paper, voice shaking just slightly as you began.

“Slower,” he said, cutting in. “You rush when you’re nervous.”

You obeyed. Speaking each word clearly, your voice soft as you read. You stopped mid-sentence with a gasp as his fingers brushed the inside of your thigh but he didn’t even look away from his coffee.

“Keep reading.” And so you do.

“Oh my god…” You bit your lip as his hand slipped under your skirt, finding the lace of your panties, fingertips barely brushing over the damp fabric.

He hummed approvingly.

“Keep. Reading.”

You tried. His fingers pushed the fabric aside. Just one, slipping through your folds, not quite giving you what you wanted. You choked on the next word.

“Losing focus?” he asked, voice still infuriatingly calm.

“N-no.”

He leaned in, voice at your ear now. “Then finish the sentence.” You whimpered, clutching the paper like a lifeline and tried to continue.

He slid two fingers inside you without warning, and you moaned, crumpling the paper when your hand grabbed the edge of the table.

“Keep going”

Your breath was ragged, and your hips grinded softly against his hand.

“You wanted to play this game, didn’t you?” he murmured. “Finish it.”

“I-I can’t-” He pulled his fingers out, and you nearly sobbed.

“Then we’re done here.”

“No. please,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist. “Please, I’ll read it.”

He gave a satisfied little hum. You started again, trying to get through each line as he teased you, his fingers returning. By the time you reached the final sentence, you were shaking but hadn't cum. You felt him smile against your skin.

Jack let out a soft chuckle as he withdrew his hand from between your legs, his fingers leaving a sticky trail on your inner thigh.

"Well done," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "That was quite impressive. Deserves an A."

You try to catch your breath. “Is that how you grade all your students?”

“Special treatment, just for you. Open your mouth” You don't even question why, you just do it. He pushes the same fingers in, and you taste yourself on his skin. You moan softly around his fingers, before he pulls them out slowly.

"Do you trust me?" he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper. You nod, your eyes never leaving his. He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it over your head, revealing your lace-covered boobs.

He leaned in, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then your neck. You tilted your head back, letting him. His lips were warm, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but right here.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He looked up at the sound of his name and kissed you, deep and slow. His hands slid around you, unhooking your bra in one practiced motion. You let it fall.

He spoke against your lips as he continued to kiss you.

Your hands moved instinctively, fingers finding the top button of his shirt. Button by button, the fabric parted. When you reached the last one, you slid your hands beneath the shirt, pushing it back over his shoulders. He let it fall to the floor behind him, never breaking the tension between you.

“Up,” he said quietly, voice low but steady.

You rose slowly, heart pounding.

“Turn around,” he said, and his hand gently guided your hip.

You did. His hand on the center of your back lowered you til your chest pressed against the table. He leant over you and you could feel his erection through his slacks.

“Good,” he whispered, lips brushing the back of your neck. “Just like that.”

His hands moved, sliding down to your hips. He tugged at your skirt, pulling it down over your ass. You kicked it off. Next his fingers were on the hem of your panties. He gave a gentle tug, exposing your wet pussy to his eager gaze. He took a step back, admiring the sight of you so vulnerable before him.

He stood there, his cock twitching with anticipation. Slowly, he undid his slacks, letting them fall to the floor in a heap along with his boxers.

You could feel him positioning himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock teasing you. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you, filling you completely.

A gasp escaped your lips as he did. His hands held your hips, his thumbs tracing little circles. For a moment he just stayed buried inside of you. One of his hands came up to brush strands of hair from your face. He leant over you, kissing your cheek.

"You feel so good," he whispered right into your ear. "So perfect."

“Jack, Please” You softly plead.

“Uh uh.” A fake disappointed tone. “You've lost your manners?”

“Please, Professor Abbot” He kisses your cheek again before standing up and starting to thrust, slowly at first. His cock slid in and out of you, hitting just the right spot each time. His hand remained in your hair, sweetly running his fingers through it as he smoothed you in praise and compliments-So pretty, So needy, So Perfect.

You could feel every inch of him, every movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. But you wanted more. You needed more.

“Jack” you whine “I need more.” He moved his hand back down to your hip, both hands tightening.

“Okay, pretty girl” He began to go faster and you moaned.

Every thrust made the desk shake beneath you. One of your hands wraps around the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white bit by bit.

"Jack..." you moaned again, your voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. His name on your lips seemed to spur him on, and he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back. His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, "You feel so good, so tight around me."

Your pussy clenched around him at his sweet and dirty words. His tone choked like he's already trying to hold back.

"That's it, pretty girl. Take it. Take all of it." His voice was a low growl, filled with desire and need.

You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, the sensation driving you closer to the edge. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as you begged for release.

"Jack, please... I'm so close…”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you around, lifting you onto the desk now, your back flat, and he throws your legs over his shoulders. And then he’s inside again, slamming into you with zero restraint.

“Touch yourself,” he growls.

You do, hand between your legs where he’s thrusting deep, chasing that high you can feel building fast and sharp.

He watched you intently, his eyes locked onto yours as you touched yourself. The room filled with the sounds of your combined breaths, the soft moans escaping your lips, and the growl leaving his.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Your fingers moved in quick circles, your breath hitching as you felt the wave of pleasure building higher and higher. His thrusts became more urgent, more demanding, as if he could sense how close you were.

"Jack..." you gasped, your body tensing as you neared the edge. "I'm- I'm going to..."

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. "Let me feel you.”

With those words, you shattered, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you. You cried out his name.

He groaned, his hips moving faster, chasing his own release. His breath was ragged, his muscles taut as he drove into you with a fierce intensity. And then, with a final, deep thrust, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you.

His hands slam down onto the table, either side of you as if to hold himself up.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you panting and trying to catch your breath. Jack's hand gently cupped you face, his touch soothing and tender. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling out of you.

He helped you sit up, his hands gentle. His eyes were soft, filled with a mix of satisfaction, and something tender. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

"We need to be careful," he said, his voice low. "This can't happen again. Not here."

You nodded, understanding why.

"I know," you said softly.

“But we'll find a way” He gives you a peck. “Yeah? You hear me?” You nod. He kisses you deeper. “Good Girl.”

You both knew that this was just the beginning of something forbidden but utterly irresistible.

[worldume]

TWO DEMONS AND AN ANGEL….

˖┊ spotlight: yamato endo & chika takiishi.

˖┊ synopsis: (name) is endo and chika's favorite coloring book! they love to bully their sweet little lamb into doing things she’s not comfortable with. why? because they can & its fun!

˖┊ content: dark content, power imbalance relationship, bullying, themes of humiliation, implied polygamy, toxic relationship, coerced piercing, christina piercing, needles, alcohol transfer from mouth to mouth, afab reader, she/her pronouns, canonverse but endo and chika own a sleazy tattoo shop, tattoo artist endo, piercer chika for lore purposes, all characters are adults/aged up, endo and chika are awful!

˖┊ word count: 2k.

“you scared?”

“n—no but—” (name) stammered under his gaze, her voice cracking as she struggled to find her words. she averted her gaze from him, finding a sudden interest at chika moving about through the room as he gathered a few things around their shop. it was tucked away in a narrow sketchy alley in japan that looked like the kind of place only those in the know would visit— covered in graffiti and old posters with a flickering neon sign. the place had the vibe of a dive bar.

there was a small furrow in her brows and her lips tugged slightly in a glossy pout. no fair.. no fair!

looking at endo was so.. difficult for a couple reasons. number one: he was so fucking attractive. the kind of attractive that made her shy away from his gaze because she started to feel self conscious about everything little thing. did he like her hair? her makeup? the outfit she wore today? but more importantly, he could be just so mean if someone caught him on a bad day— he was finicky with his moods. and sometimes he didn’t want anyone looking him directly in the eye.

she’s witnessed first hand how brutally yamato beats people into a shell of themselves— weak people who he believes test who’s a poser and who’s not. endo is a pretty laid back guys for the most part, but, he has very little respect and tolerance for those who are weak. he thinks they’re boring, a drag and a complete waste of his fucking time. weak people get under his skin. weak people disgust him. weak people don’t deserve to call themselves human. and he couldn’t stand when weak people paraded around as though they weren’t.

but (name) was weak. so it makes her wonder why he keeps her around— why the both of them keep her around.. they’re not laughing at her behind her back right? she helps around.. sure she wasn’t the strongest person physically but she has uses.. or at least that’s what she tells herself.

you see, (name) is a pushover. a people pleaser. and a pathetic excuse for a spine. which is precisely why endo initially took such an interest to the girl— the irony, right? endo was just.. so tickled by it he giggled like a little kid who was told their first joke. he’s never seen anyone quite as pitiful as her. but he supposes women were an exception, right? endo almost found it.. cute? (name)’s looks were really the cherry on top of it all— a pretty little bow to wrap his present. just how could someone as pretty as her be such a.. disappointment. endo almost found it to be a waste of a perfectly good vessel, but.. he found that he gained some sort of sick gratification from bullying (name).

it was fun for him. and something to help pass the time when there’s nothing interesting going on. it was sad really— some of the things they made her do were nothing more than mere humiliation tactics that served no real purpose other than to see her actually do everything she’s told. no questions asked. like controlling when she use the bathroom, a “dress code” that usually consisted of micro mini skirts and the requirement of no panties, making her call herself awful things when she fails (bitch, slut and whore are some of noroshi’s favorites), her mouth being used as an ashtray— the list can go on.

‘how did such a sweet girl like (name) get caught up in this crowd?’ is what all the sweet townspeople of makochi ask amongst themselves when they see her on an off chance visiting her mom. but no one would be able to guess that she devoted herself to these men by choice. (name) felt as though she were indebted to endo and chika. that she owed the both of them all of herself because they saved her.

there had been a night where she had found herself walking alone after a night out with her friends, she was a little bit more than tipsy and stumbled across an alley she shouldn’t have. (name) remembers it well— stopping to pull out her phone for her gps. (name) hadn’t have been familiar with the area so she hadn’t been quite sure where she was. there was a voice behind her and all she knows is that she was being grabbed— she remembers screaming for help and thinking that it was her end. but that’s when they came to help her.

she remembers endo’s eyes that night when he got on one knee to match her level— her eyes drifting to chika who stood behind him. (name) couldn’t have been more thankful, they were her saviors..

that was then but now (name) felt as though she were walking on a pit of eggshells and thin ice— something seemingly so simple as holding the eye contact he was so insistent on made her feel uneasy sometimes which was so unfortunate because he has such pretty eyes. as much as she admired him, endo often used eye contact as a tool for intimidation— borderline a threat specifically for her alone. probably because he knew the only real thing he had to do was give her a look and she would submit— cowering like a scared little lamb so scared of getting gobbled right up by the big, bad wolf.

endo followed her gaze, tilting his head as his eyes bored into her own. he could admit that she was more than a looker— that sad, kicked puppy look really does something for him.

“but? but but but? but what.” it was a nasty sneer that left from endo’s lips as he mocked her. his lip curling in a way that screamed he was becoming more and more agitated by her hesitation— her lack of immediate compliance. this wasn’t their obedient little love— she was starting to piss him off.

“nothing— i just..” she trailed off. “will it hurt..? what if i cry?” she asked, looking up at him with the sweetest look. (name) were so naive it hurt. god— he could skull fuck her right now and he knew she’d absolutely love every single moment of it.

“sweetpea, you said you’d do anything for us. you didn’t lie to me did you?” he asked, brows furrowed as though he were actually hurt at the implication he just pulled from his book of manipulation.

“no..! of course not..!” she shook her head quickly.

“then a little pain shouldn’t be an issue, right? all the fights and trouble we get in for you isn’t even comparable.” there is was— he always did this. make her feel like she didn’t appreciate all that they’ve done for her which was her biggest fear.

“yeah, you’re right.. o–okay.. okay.” she let out a shaky breath as she nodded, a small smile growing on her lips as she felt endo’s hand pat her head.

“takiishi~ our little love’s all done bein’ a crybaby. c’mon.” he said.

chika sits down onto the roller stool, scooting over smoothly while the wheels squeaked over the cracked floor tiles so that he’s nestled in between her legs now. he spreads her lips apart, his eyes low as he watches how she clenches around nothing. hm. was she scared or was this arousal? it wouldn’t be the first time chika’s suspected she gets off on that kind of thing..

“wait— please!” panic rose in her chest, her cheeks heating up as she captured chika’s eyes. her pussy was completely bare before him, her thighs raided with tattoos that were more like brands as they stated slogans like ‘property of noroshi,’ ‘endo was here :),’ chika’s initials, and other dehumanizing phrases tattooed on her. to anyone else these could be perceived as insulting and degrading but for (name), she wore each proudly. of course the first time endo talked her into she had her reservations but she really just couldn’t say no, could she?

“will it hurt?” chika hadn’t responded, only opting in for a stare before endo spoke up once again.

“how about this? we’ll give you somethin’ that’ll take the edge off, alright?” he clasped his hands together before spinning on his heel to walk over to a counter where he snagged a bottle of vodka. “some old fashioned anesthesia.” endo smiled as he turned back around, walking back over to her where she laid.

she eyed the bottle with a look of hesitation on her face— it’s contents half full as the clear liquid sloshed around in the thick glass container. “yamato.. i don’t like to drink..”

“what?” he raised his brow as he twisted off the cap. “you know, you really shouldn’t mumble, sweetheart. i can’t hear a damn word you say.” but endo knew good and well that heard her as clear as day.

“n—nothing.. ‘m sorry. let’s do it..”

“no shot glasses or anything fancy like that but— i like doing it like this.” his hand finds its way to the crown of her head to tilt her head at an angle. he takes a swig of the vodka, holding it in his mouth for a moment before leaning in close to her and pressing his lips to her own. endo transfers the liquid in a slow controlled flow, the alcohol passing from one mouth to the other.

“mmf..!” the taste is awful and (name) told herself she’d never be able to get used to it but the warmth she was starting to feel a few seconds later seemed to help with her anxiety just a bit.

endo crouched down a bit to her level on piercing bed, an obnoxious smile on his lips as he watches on.

chika’s gloved hands aligned the needle, hovering just above the skin as the sharp tip gleamed under the light. his moment is skillfully controlled, fingers firm but gentle— the cold metal of the needle presses lightly against the flesh, the sensation a mix of cool steel and the warmth of skin contact. just before the needle penetrates, there’s a brief pause..

(name) let out a shriek as she felt the needle pierce through her flesh— the initial sensation was sharp, a pain unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. her toes curled and her hand flew to endo’s dark locks, involuntarily pulling his head back as her body started to writhe and lift at the pain. but it had been over as soon as it happened— chika’s fingers were nimble and worked quickly as he threaded the dainty jewelry through. the pain shifted into a dull ache and a sense of relief washed over her when chika spoke: “it’s finished.”

“fuck yeah— let’s see it.” endo said as he reached for the hand mirror sitting on the tray stand beside chika. (name) couldn’t help the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, a sniffle or two escaping from her lips.

there was slight throb where the jewelry laid as she sat up to look down at the mirror. the gem was her favorite color— she had to admit that it looked pretty good.

“she’s gonna be outta commission for a while, baby.” endo cooed at her. “you like?”

“yeah.. it’s cute.” she giggled breathlessly. “i did.. i did good, right?” (name) asked, her eyes screaming for approval.

“so good— let’s take a picture and show the guys, yeah?”

© all content belongs to worldume 2024. do not, translate, modify or repost to any other platforms.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Can you please make more Remy LeBeau content? I love that little Cajun man so much! Please and Thank you!

Remy LeBeau x male reader

Headcanons

I’ve had this plot idea for a while, so im gonna try to shake it out my system. I know very little about Cajun culture, European here, so take it with a grain of salt. Sorry for the lack of posting, classes have already been beating me up and I literally just started.

You were your average Cajun kid when you met Remy, back when he still ran with the thief’s guild and before he was adopted by Jean-Luc.

You were a bit of a stereotype when it came to New Orleans Cajun kids. You liked to cause trouble, you liked to party, you liked to hunt frogs at night and spearfish Gar when there were no frogs. And damn did you like messing with the gators. All your messing around did make you lose your pinky on your right hand, but it didn’t stop you.

You were no mutant, but you might as well have been with all the stuff you got into. You always claimed it was just your Cajun roots that kept you immortal.

That was how you met Remy, through all your troublemaking. Youd just shoved one of your friends bullies into the swamp near your neighborhood, and immediately legged it, knowing his brothers would feed you to the gators if they got the chance.

That’s how you end up running right into Remy, sending you both skittering across the ground. Before he could say anything though, you just grad his wrist with your four fingered hand and drag him along, cackling as the bullies’ brothers try and catch you.

The two of you end up in a completely different neighborhood, hiding under somebodies porch as you try not to snicker as the older boys run right past, cursing up a storm about the “gator bait” getting away. And yes, that was what people called you in your neighborhood, because of your hand.

Remy had expected you to immediately fear him or become disgusted at the sight of his eyes. But instead, you just told him they were cool as fuck and you wished your eyes were like that.

After hiding for a while, the two of you split up to go about your lives. But you end up bumping into each other quite a lot, since you both just like to wander. That’s how you two end up becoming friends, even as hes part of the thieves guild.

You end up dragging him to your house too where he meets your mother. Your dad wasn’t around anymore, he drowned when you were a baby, but your mom said you had his fire and lack of self-preservation.

To Remys shock, your mom didn’t mind his eyes either, just accepting him in with a kind but tired smile. He later learns your mom works two or three jobs depending on the season to keep you guys fed, which is why you have so much time to run around.

You two keep growing up together, even if there at times is distance for different reasons. You keep causing trouble, but get better at hiding it, you become real good at figuring out the area, the waters, the people and animals, so on and so forth.

This helps you get your first job as a guide for tourists. You don’t really like it, but they tip you pretty well. You use that money to take Remy out for sno-balls, or rather, its you going in to get them, so you guys can eat them on your backyard porch.

You both gained a lot of scars over the years from the different lives you lived. Youd never asked Remy about the guild, and he never really asked too much about the different scars on your arms and legs he was sure came from a knife and not fishing wire.

It was also on that porch you guys shared your first kiss. It was clumsy, uncomfortable, your lips stained blue as his were green, from the thick sugary syrups used on the sno-balls. But it was still the best kiss either of you could have imagined.

You two never got to explore too deeply what your relationship meant. one week Remy was more distant than usual, before he suddenly showed up at your place, looking worse to wear, telling you he needed to get out of New Orleans.

You weren’t gonna question him, so you packed him into your truck and just started driving. The entire time he clung to your hand, looking at you so intensely, like hed never see you again. But you tried to keep the mood light, joking as usual and playing your favorite music.

The goodbye was one of the hardest things in your lives. You even told Remy you’d leave him with, ready to leave it all behind to stay by his side, wherever he would go. But Remy knew you had a life here, you had your mom, a good job, other friends, he couldn’t ask that of you.

So, in the end, Remy simply kissed you goodbye, and said he hoped you two would meet again. And disappeared into the night, like something out of a dream.

A couple of hours passed before you decided to drive back home. You smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes, so tempted to also empty the bottle of alcohol you hid under the seat in your truck. But you also knew you needed to return to your mom.

So with one final longing glance in the direction Remy disappeared, you turned back around and drove back home, New Orleans feeling less vibrant and lively than usual.

It would be years before you two meet again, and even then, it had been an accident.

You had left New Orleans behind after Remy left, your mom passed away,  and nothing really kept you there without either of them. It took a while before you finally settled down in New York. It wasn’t the same as where you grew up, but it was good enough for now. And if nothing worked, you could just go back to Louisiana and live in a small shed, where you’d spend your days catching fish.

What brought you together, was that your neighbors kid developed their mutation. Something they couldn’t hide, their eyes so different they couldn’t even use contacts as an excuse.

If their parents had been kind, hadn’t been so openly ex-mutant, you might not have done anything. But you’d heard rumors of Charles Xavier, and how his school helped Mutants like that.

So, you packed your neighbors kid into your truck, the same you’d driven Remy in, with what they needed to bring, and drove them there. Like the ride with Remy, you tried to keep the mood light, hoping to just keep it all from falling apart.

It took some time to get to the school, through whatever security they had, and to the front door. Part of you feared it was the wrong place, until the guy who’d spoken to you over the security comm stepped out. That visor made it pretty clear he wasn’t just your average joe.

Normally you’d have left it at that, leaving the kid with people who knew what they were talking about and doing. But they were too scared to be alone, and after some scowling from a guy that looked like a hairy homeless guy, you were allowed in.

Your thick accent seemed to gain some positive or funny reactions, that same hairy guy from before grumbling “another Cajun”. But you were mainly focused on getting the kid settled.

Of course, until you heard a familiar voice, laying his usual flirts on thick with somebody. Remy was still as handsome as when you last saw him, though a little older, but so were you. The kid was introduced to him, and the two already seemed to bond over their eyes being their main visual of their mutation.

“They reminded me of you, maybe that’s why I felt so protective” you just throw out there, hands in your pockets as you shrugged, your voice immediately catching Remy’s attention, who seemed as shocked to see you as you were him.

It was clear you two knew each other, and that emotional look in your eyes had the others shuffling off to keep showing the kid around, as you two were left alone.

You two go out back to sit on the porch of the mansion. It wasn’t the same as in New Orleans, but it still had your heart racing. It was awkward for a moment, you two sharing what you’d been up too since you last saw each other.

With you, Remy didn’t need to put on the plays like usual, he could just be Remy LeBeau and nobody else, and holding your hand with only four fingers in his own laid to rest some of the pain that had been present for years.

You two didn’t immediately start dating or anything. It was more returning to what was before, without all the stealing and trouble you two used to get into. At least, not to the same degree. But it built at a comfortable pace.

You became an honorary visitor of the mansion, since the kid you brought there still felt quite attached, but also for Remy. You were also able to worm your way into the hearts of the other x-men, some quicker than others, but you did it anyways.

Remy spent a lot of time at your place too, and he even helped you move when you moved just a bit closer to the x-men.

Neither of you could really tell when it went from deep pining to dating. One moment you guys just finally started kissing. The cuddling, sharing clothes and many other things that came with a relationship was something you already did, so the kissing was truly the last part missing.

You do end up having to learn better self-defense, being close to the x-men like that. But for Remy you’d do anything, even doing stretches that have your legs screaming since you aren’t used to bend like that.

[kumkissed]

♱ Stretch You Out ♱

C/W: older man(35) x younger reader(25), breeding kink, possessiveness, self obsessed reader(like reader is actually THAT bitch like I’m so fr), major overstimulation, f. receiving , mdni

It’s this intoxicating smell Toji hates…laying back in his seat as his green eyes scan the surrounding area. He can’t even believe he came, finally indulging in his friends to “loosen up” he never even expected they’d bring him to a strip club. The smell of sweet, cologne, and sickly sweet perfume give him an entirely new headache. The low red lights keep him at bay as he throws drinks back as if he doesn’t have work tomorrow, he’s been tuning the others out but his attention is drawn back at the words “She’s coming out soon Toji, the real reason we brought you.” He turns his attention towards the voice seeing Sukuna smirking, tilting his head towards the stage. Toji scoffs looking towards the stage with an unimpressed look.

He’s floored, chocolate skin glistening with glitter as your outfit hugged your curves exposing your cleavage. Your tall glass like heels leave Toji’s mouth dry, green eyes staying on your body, he doesn’t even pay the teasing he’s receiving from his friends any mind. With every move you take he can feel his pants becoming tighter and tighter, the way your body presses up against the pole, maneuvering yourself in a way that makes you seem ethereal. You move as if you know everyone will enjoy it, such confidence in your dancing makes him a little hot. “Stretch you out” By Summer Walker and you are the only thing in his world right now, he shifts in his seat trying to get a better view of you taking another sip of his drink. “Like what you see? Good thing I got you an appointment” Toji nods at what Gojo said before pausing whipping his head towards him “The fuck you mean?” Gojo laughs before shrugging his shoulders pointing behind Toji. Toji notices the sound of heels now that the music is lower, turning around green eyes meet brown ones and his nose is flooded with a sweet scent.

“You must be Toji, y/n nice to meet you.” You reach your hand out, your eyes never leaving Toji’s. You’re shocked at how soft Toji grabs your hand, although his hands may be rough from work he holds your hand like it’s glass. “An honor to meet you doll.” There’s a beat of silence before Gojo speaks “Well y/n why don’t you take our friend here? He’s the one I told you about.” You hum before turning towards the white haired male “make sure you paying me what I asked, I’m the best one in here don’t forget that.” Gojo giggles, nodding and handing you a full duffel bag full of money. You stare at the duffel bag then back at Toji eyes asking(telling) him to carry it, you don’t even give him time to react before walk away. Toji doesn’t even speak before grabbing the bag, smirking at his friends and following you.

There’s no conversation between you two, as you lead him to your private room. He’s in awe once again, Polaroids of yourself littered over the wall, a couch on by wall, and a big vanity across from the holding all of your makeup and perfume. “It’s what I get for being one of the best, you should be honored” Toji scoffs “For somebody as short as you, you got a lot of attitude” You shrug grabbing his hand leading him to the couch “For a man with a kid, you’re in a strip club?” You chuckle sitting next to him, shedding yourself of your heels before sitting your painted white toes on Toji’s lap. He’s curious, how does this little cutie know so much about him? Before he can even ask a question, you press your feet down adding pressure on his clothed dick. Yeah…this is gna be a night.

——-

A/N: yes there will be a part 2 i just wanted to release this to come backkkk, send ur req, ttm, cause im bacck 🌸

[lucidheart3]

Alright! Sonic movie 4 theory time! (again)

This time I want to write my half cooked idea on what the movie’s theme will be.

In the first movie, Sonic learned to fight to keep what he has instead of running away. He broke through years of self isolation, and it wasn’t just when he send Robotnik to the Mushroom planet. It began when he begged Tom to help him, because I think with his speed Sonic could have easily found San fransisco by himself, and I dare say even under a day. But their first interaction proved to him that he could trust Tom, and this was him trying to live his last day on earth to the fullest, but his every moment spent with Tom made him dread the moment he has to leave. But deep down he was searching for a reason to make him stay on Earth, something to fight for, and that was Tom.

In the second movie, he learned the meaning of becoming a hero. It’s not just winning against the big bad, it is protecting the others around him. When he turns super at the end he wanted to save his family instead of just wanting to beat Eggman, and that’s how ME granted him it’s power.

And lastly in the third movie, his heroism is tested. And he manages to stay true to himself even when Shadow harms him and his family.He doesn’t pursue revenge because that’s not heroes should do.I stand by the belief that heroes shouldn’t be the judgement party on who deserves what,because that’d be using their power for questionable choices.Just because Shadow hurt Tom while thinking he was Walters, doesn’t mean he should be killed on the spot. And especially Sonic doesn’t get to decide on a punishment because he is acting out on impulse and is leaded by his emotions. But in the end he manages to remain the hero.

Through the three movies we have seen him stand up, be brave enough to fight, then learn to mind his surroundings, to fight for someone other than himself, and in the last movie he learned to not lose himself in the fight and not get intoxicated by the power and title he wields.He learned to remain a hero.

As we have seen in various media with heroism theme,heroes are mostly self-sacrificial. We got little moments of Sonic putting the others’ well begins first, but we haven’t seen him go to the lengths that Shadow and Robotnik did (not that he wouldn’t but we didn’t get a scene like that) So I think this will be the theme for the fourth movie.

Because we have the perfect antagonist , Metal Sonic for this. Sonic is strong and fast? So is Metal. Sonic doesn’t give up? Metal literally can’t, and even if he overrides his programming like we’ve seen in other medias before he still won’t give up. There is one striking difference that Sonic and Metal have, one thing that causes Metal’s goal to be the ‘real Sonic’ fails everytime, is that Sonic cares for others. While Metal is a machine focused on one single goal, Sonic has other priorities, his family and friends, which WILL be targeted by Metal. With Shadow, he wasn’t really trying to harm anyone unless they got in his way, and actually showed remorse when he did, because he is still a sentient being, just a soul who got broken. Metal won’t have any of that. He will carry Sonic’s looks, maybe even his power through his quills, but not his soul. He can’t be talked with, can’t be persuaded by empathetic words. Only way to beat him is to fight, to cross the line Sonic was about to in the third movie, but didn’t. And Metal’s only goal is to get rid of Sonic, so when his family and friends are in danger, I can see him trying to take on Metal by himself like he did for Shadow. Getting in a fight that will mean certain death to him, but he won’t care as long as he saves the ones he loves.

[shroomygumi]

The Silent Type

Ghost x Reader possible tw: scars, self hate »»——⍟——««

Ghost doesn't know you. But he knows who you are.

A shadow lingering in the back of the team. A faint whisper lost in the chorus of other, much more powerful voices. A face without a name, a real name, not the one the others have adopted for you.

He knows you're here, even though he'd wager the crowded bar is a place you'd normally want to avoid. It's not that hard to notice. The way you murmur a few words to Price, before hastily retreating to the sidelines, as far away from the rowdy group as possible.

An itch in his throat, and growing headache caused by a certain Scot's endless babbling, pushes him out to grab a smoke. He finds you outside, and he's not even surprised you'd sought refuge in the quiet of the night.

"Got a lighter?" he grunts, rummaging through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

Ghost knows who you are, but he doesn't know you. He understands the value of privacy and is willing to respect it.

But what is the reason you always choose to stand alone?

You quietly hand him a lighter, your fingers softly grazing his. You look out at the road silently, before lifting your gaze up to the stars. 

Ghost takes the lighter with a brief nod and holds your gaze for a moment. You look a little tired. Exhausted is the word he'd actually use. A beat of companionable silence passes between the two of you, as he lights up a cigarette. He follows your gaze, taking a small drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke drift into the air. "Beautiful night," he murmurs.

"Yeah, it is," you nod and take the lighter back, and shift back on the bench where you sit. You fidget with the lighter, flicking it on and off, open and closed. You pause to run you thumb along the floral engravings on the side.

There's a soft exhale of smoke, as he watches you. He takes another drag, the only sound being the flicker of your lighter. His eyes flick between your hands and your face, taking in the tired expression that masks the turmoil. He's not one to pry—he wouldn't want anyone else to pry in his life, either. But he notes the way you toy with the lighter. The engraved designs on the object. An object you keep in your hand, no matter what.

A comforting item.

Like a security blanket. He's observant, this man. His eyes miss nothing, the cogs and wheels in his mind always turning, always working, even when his body is at rest. Ghost's never been able to switch off his brain—it just never ends. He glances up at the stars above them, the silence hanging between them. There's a question at the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. He's not one to ask personal questions. "Goddammit.." you mutter, resting your head in your hands, elbows on your knees. Ghost raises an eyebrow at your muttered curse. If anything, it only piques his curiosity further. He's noticed, the way your fingers grip the lighter. How you run your thumb across the engravings, a gesture so simple but so telling. It's a small piece of comfort to you, in a world that's been too cruel. He's torn between minding his own business and indulging in his curiosity in wanting to know more about you. And when did he even start to care? He blows out a cloud of smoke from his lips as he continues to silently study you. The way your shoulders droop, the way your head is cradled in your hands. You're tired, he knows. "Beyond physically," he thinks. He hesitates before asking. Ghost's never been good with words—he's more of a man of action, after all. But for some reason, right now, he has a need to ask. "You alright, y/n?" He asks, his voice low.

You shake your head. "Bloody hell, what am I even doing here? The military? A sergeant? Seriously? After today's.. awful mission, I can't help but wonder if I'm really cut out for this. There were so many casualties. So many innocents I was unable to protect from enemy fire", you think to yourself.

He's not very surprised by you shaking your head.

There's a flicker of understanding in his eyes, but he keeps his face stoic as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The mission was a mess, he won't disagree. But there were too many uncontrolled elements at play, and too many enemies. You were outnumbered, overpowered.

As much as he hates causalities, especially of innocent civilians. There's only so much they could've done.

"We did the best we could." He says quietly. There's a firmness to his voice.

"I guess so.." you sigh. He's right. You just can't seem to accept it. You sit up, glance at him, and pull at your half-mask  that covers your nose and mouth. You're used to it, but sometimes you feel like its suffocating you. You wonder for a split why you wear the mask, but then remember. You hate letting people see your scarred face. Your lip is permanently ripped, a jagged tear going up the right side of your jaw. There's a scar over your left eye, which is steadily going blind. Thankfully though, it was never your dominant eye. He watches your hands tug the cloth over your face, hiding the scars that mar your skin. He knows precisely why you prefer to hide the scars—he's well aware of how some people are when it comes to things that aren't quite the norm. But he's not like that. Scars to him are a proof of strength—proof of perseverance, of resilience. Proof that you've lived and survived. That you're still here, no matter what you've been through. You set your gaze on the sky again and lift a hand absentmindedly to your cheek, pressing into the mask and your jaw. You feel the fabric touch your exposed teeth and huff.

While you're lucky to have survived the incident from a few years ago, sometimes you feel you would have rather not. The tear in your flesh.. the permanent hole in the side of your face revealing the bones that were supposed to be concealed by your cheek..

"I can never really be in public without my mask because of it. I scare people. I look like a monster. And it hurts," you consider saying, but hold it in. Ghost may have interacted with you, but that doesn't mean he really wants to know what you're thinking, does it?

He doesn't need to know your thoughts to know the pain in your eyes. The anguish. The self-hatred etched in your features.

He's seen it, the look in your eyes—it's the look he sees in his own eyes on countless occasions, when he stands in front of the mirror. Ghost takes another drag of his cigarette, not tearing his gaze from you.  You stand. "Tell the captain I'm heading back to base, will you?" you ask him, glancing back at him as you tighten your jacket around yourself.

He looks at you, his blue eyes dark in the shadows, before giving a slight nod.

"Sure. I'll tell Price." He looks away as he raises the cigarette to his lips for another drag. "You'll be alright?" He's not much of a man of words, but his voice lacks the usual hardness.

"As alright as I can be," you say with a half-hearted laugh.

The response makes the corner of Ghost's lips twitch into a nearly imperceptible frown, the only physical sign betraying his otherwise stoic face. He gives another nod as he drops the cigarette, crushing it under the heel of his boot. "Watch your six." He says simply, his voice low and firm. It's not a question, his words are an order.

"Copy that, Lieutenant," you reply with a small, but surprisingly genuine, smile. You walk off towards the parking lot and climb into your car to leave.

His eyes follow your form as you walk away, until you're swallowed by the darkness of the night. He stands in the darkness for a while longer, the quiet of the night hanging around him, as his gaze flicks back up to the sky.

[the-beard-of-edward-teach]

Alrighty! It's been about three weeks since I posted the last one, but I'm back for another WIP Wednesday!

Let's see. the only wip i have right now is my 2025 COBB

i got about 450 more words written between yesterday and today, which is a lot for me considering i hadn't had the motivation to actually write much for a couple weeks! so i'm proud of myself :3

okay, heres some more baz pov, featuring him being a pathetic, self deprecating mess:

I don’t even know what I’m doing. Circe, I’m pathetic. Running away from my own room because Simon bloody Snow doesn’t like wearing a shirt. I end up in the Catacombs again, and snack on a couple of rats. Better to feed whenever I have the chance. I consider going to visit my mother’s grave, but I can’t bear to do it. To visit her when I’m being this pitiful. She’d be disgusted enough if she knew I am a vampire, but if she knew her only child was losing his mind over the Mage’s Heir? I can’t even imagine how much she’d hate me.             After a few minutes of wallowing in a pit of my own despair, I get up to leave the Catacombs. It’s starting to get too depressing, even for me. And that’s saying something.

and this bit, still Baz pov, from a little further along:

The stars watch me as I sit down against the cool stone, tipping my head back till it hits the wall. The stars ground me. Ironic, since they’re the furthest thing from the ground. My mother hung the moon, I long for the stars. The new moon is my favourite for this reason.

also, less of a wip, more of a i whipped it up real fast while talking with my darling moot, @mecub

i love them very dearly, and so thought it was fitting to finally pop the question and I sent them this:

and!

THEY SAID YES!!!!

my darling moot is now my darling beta reader <333 (thank you dearly, mecub)

I believe that this about wraps up my WIP Wednesday post! Thanks for reading it <333

tags under the cut (if the cut works)

@argumentativeantitheticalg @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @leithillustration @carryonmybloodylovelies @ebbpettier @trinityprocessing @asocialpessimist @best--dress @pidgelikethebird @shrekgogurt @krisrix @artsyunderstudy @cosmicalart @simonscones @doll-pparts @lovelyladzzzz @iamamythologicalcreature @terra-fae @paper-beats-writers-block @prettygoododds @dragoneggos @cutestkilla @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @cattocavo @rimeswithpurple @cccloudsss @letraspal @valeffelees @sourcherryscones28 @noblecorgi @martsonmars @blackberrysummerblog @aristocratic-otter @nextblood @roomwithanopenfire @bachusekart @monbons @thewholelemon @fiend-for-culture @lovelettersto-mars @alexalexinii

[anzulvr]

୨୧ On Purpose Karma x (fem) reader || Chapter: 08 ୨୧

 PREV || 08 Klepto || NEXT

Last year, the strangest sequence of events altered [Name’s] life. It was a day like any other, beginning with countless possibilities. An inevitable build-up to the perfect moment, fate, which could have led to anything, led to him.

"Akio! It's good to see you, I'm on an assignment. Could you do me a favor and answer some questions?" [Name] greeted him with a smile.

Akio scoffed in reply he looked the [h/c]-haired girl up and down. "Spare me the trouble and tell me who reported me. My dad invests a ton of money into this school... so this conversation won't get you anywhere."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Don't act clueless, it's annoying just cut to it." Akio yanked [Name’s] bag off her shoulder. "Unless you tell me who sent you, I won't be giving this back."

[Name] felt so out of the loop. Akio hadn't been apprehensive towards her before. "Gakushuu sent me. I only need to collect a student survey." He quickly backtracked in an attempt to cover up his self-incriminating tone "Of course he did... forget this, I don't need Asano getting mad at me for bothering his girlfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend and you don't have to be so hostile towards me, if you don't want to participate it's alright."

"Not your boyfriend?" Akio laughed as if it were the most ridiculous statement he'd heard come out of anyone's mouth. He blocked out anything else she'd said and honed in on that.

"The entire school knows the real reason you're in council."

She felt her heart sink. "Are you trying to insinuate something?"

[Name] shouldn't care, it's only a rumor. Still, it was hard not to when a good amount of the student body targeted her on how she didn't deserve her position. No one else in the Big Six had to take the backlash she did. It wasn't fair. Why did people assume the worst?

This was the first time someone had the guts to say it directly to her. She worked hard for her spot but her success was attributed to some guy going and "handing" it to her.

Just as she was about to wack Akio with the clipboard in her hand, Akio held his breath. A tall red-haired guy wearing a dress-code-violating uniform and a creepy smile was standing right behind him.

[Name] stared at the stranger's face a little longer, oh- that's the guy Asano constantly complains about!

He grabbed Akio's shoulder in an overly friendly manner. "Did you think you'd get away from me?" Karma's voice dripped with confidence, he was confrontational and clearly didn't run away from a fight. A weird guy, his tone was friendly; the same way you'd talk to an old friend. It was comforting in an uncomfortable way, his words didn't match his attitude at all.

The life drained from Akio's face, he went pale and rigid.

"I'm having trouble deciding what to do. I could beat your face in before I take the wallet back, or you can give me everything you have on you, clothes and all. You can keep the underwear."

"You can have it back! I swear I didn't take money out of it!"

"You're funny, I don't just want it back. Not after you made me run around the block ."

Akio dropped everything he had on the floor, Nagisas wallet, [Names] bag, his pants... Karma laughed at the sight of Akio running off like his life depended on it.

It was a cute laugh, a little maniacal considering the circumstances, but cute.

"This is like hitting the lottery... Nagisa had 10 bucks in that old thing- That blockhead carries hundreds!" He was excitedly talking to himself like a child opening an early Christmas gift.

"Karma! There you are! I finally caught up. Huh? Where'd Akio go? God, please don't tell me you actually killed him..."

Nagisa was holding his stomach for support, completely out of breath and a few minutes late. He must've gotten lost while Karma was chasing Akio.

"Even better, check this out!"

He tossed both wallets to Nagisa, Then Karma opened up [Names] bag and started rummaging through it.

[Name] spoke up softly, even though the belongings were hers she felt pretty out of place after watching the whole ordeal go down. She wasn't keen on being next.

"Hi um, that's my stuff."

Karma gave her a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eyes. "Are you trying to rip my steal?"

She shook her head no in rapid motion.

Nagisa gave a panicked expression, "Karma don't be rude! She's in our class, she always brings that bag."

Karma furrowed his eyebrows in response, "Really? I never noticed ya."

He tossed the bag back into [Names] arms, "Heads up." She dropped her clipboard when meaning to catch her bag.

"What's that stack of papers for?" Nagisa asked while picking the board back up.

"It's just a survey I'm having people fill in for the school."

Karma tapped his open palm with his balled-up fist, a lightbulb moment, "Now I remember you! You're the square's girlfriend!" A little late, but at least he had some sort of recollection of [Names] existence.

[Name] was visibly taken aback, he did not just say that.

"Seriously where did that rumor come from? Asano would put a bullet in his head before going out with me."

Nagisa gave an awkward chuckle, clearly, he was only being polite. "Sorry about Karma, we can answer the survey if you still need people."

"You'd do that for me? Thank you! I have like fifty more to collect."

"Anytime, it's no problem!"

It was a really sweet gesture until the mood got spoiled by the delinquent behind him who didn't share the same enthusiasm.

"Do I have to? There are plenty of other people to choose from."

While Nagisa started going through and checking boxes [Name] couldn't help but focus on Karma. In contrast to his perfect hair and face his uniform was completely wrong. He could get into trouble if a teacher notices then it'll become a bigger problem than it has to be.

[Name] took a step closer and began to fix his outfit the best she could. She straightened up his blazer and buttoned up his collared shirt.

He wasn't sure what to do with himself as she lectured him about cleaning up his look. He focused on her hands. "Your shirt's unbuttoned, the blazers on wrong and I have an extra tie in my locker so you can have mine if you want."

He smiled and gave her a weird look, "No thanks I'm not a big fan, ties are suffocating."

He'd gotten told off millions of times by the councilors and teachers over dress code but this was the first time a girl his age nagged him about it. What was her deal? "Sorry if I sound pushy, I'm only looking out for you."

Looking out for him, that's a first.

"Nah it's okay, your shoes are untied by the way."

She looked down to check completely forgetting they didn't have laces. "Hm? But they aren't."

He laughed again, this time not like a sadistic weirdo. "Made you look! Are you always that gullible?"

Back then, [Name] and Karma didn't know they'd eventually become the most important people to one another.

He's always there when she needs it, that's what sets him apart from anyone else. [Name] thinks this makes her over-reliant, and needy. She hopes he won't grow sick of her. In that way they're the perfect pair, behind his poker-faced facade Karma is worrying about the same thing, hopefully, she never gets sick of him.

[mooreaux]

Silly questions ahoy. Sorry not sorry.

Who fell first, Deirdre or Gale?

Who fell harder?

Were there any things outside of the main romance plot beats that they had to overcome?

Do they have a Big Waterdhavian Wedding?

Well here is a real time pic of them realizing simultaneously that they were already neck deep in a romance without having clocked it up until that very moment

So much more rambling under the cut!

Deirdre and Gale started off as respectful colleagues. He had his little ‘o wow a warlock huh’ and she had her little ‘yeah what of it wizard boy?’ Both incredibly polite about it of course. They gravitated to one another immediately because they are both well read and spoken and kinda looked at the rest of their companions like

So in actuality they buddied up and then got teased relentlessly for being like an old married couple when neither one of them was even in the realm of romantic attraction. Gale because…. Bomb In Chest. And Deirdre having an internal incredibly well hidden behind bardic shenanigans PTSD nightmare from the horrors she witnessed during her imprisonment in Menzoberranzan.

It was only when they started sharing their magic; the weave scene, and the pic above with Dede sharing some fey vibes, that they started to shift from platonic to romantic. I would say Gale fell a little harder and faster because he just seems like that kind of person to me? Like he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t and that kinda unconsciously eggs him on even more. I’d say the crisis with Mystra’s order thru Elminster pushed them both into taking the step of actually admitting feelings tho. Dede couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. Especially to himself.

As for the last two questions… yeah. Gale’s big grand gestures got them into a bit of hot water during and post game. His constant need to prove himself worried Deirdre a lot about his self worth beyond what he could do for her. She had to go through a lot of talks with him to let him know he was enough. Just him. As he was. No magic or pageantry even tho she loves that about him too.

And of course, Dede has a TON of intimacy issues. A lot was done to her without her consent thru her life. Tadpole being the most recent offense. So she doesn’t really like surprises and has a hard time letting people in. Which is funny considering how bright and bombastic her personality is. She uses it mainly to cover the hurt. Not to say she isn’t well adjusted. She spent many many years with her patron working thru the stuff the lolthsworn drow did to her. Tadpole just kinda inflamed the wound again.

So yeah! I think it was actually several years before he even proposed. And several more after that until they got married. But the wedding was HUGE. Her family is gigantic and they have a wide social circle with the folk of Waterdeep, and Baldur’s Gate, and the Druid Grove which they still frequently visited. Gale went above and beyond constructing a castle out of flowers just for the occasion (dedes Patron helped).

Thank u so much for the ask Harding! I love my gnome gal (and i luv urs too)

[storiesfromafan]

Track 02. Next Summer

A/N: finally got track 02. One shot done haha.

And it's our lovely Major Cleven. Only this is more hurt!Buck x Reader 😅

Song used is Next Summer by Damiano David.

Warning/s: sad feelings, possible spelling/grammer mistakes.

I thought that we had something good in our hands

In a minute, it just slipped away

So many things I didn’t say before you threw it all away

I pretend I’m okay, but I’m lost and afraid

And nobody really understands

But now I’m dancing to a band with all the demons in my head...

“It kind of just happened" you stated, with a sigh. “That Bucky and I ended up at the lounge having drinks, talking about our day or something silly...we got close”.

Gale, who had been listening to every word you said, felt his heart breaking. For the woman before him – you – were seeing his best friend, John. The woman who Gale had been fighting his feelings over. Beating himself up over feeling like he did, when he had Marge, back home and waiting for him.

“I-I didn’t think you liked him?” Gale asked, in what you would perceive as shock, when really it was hurt.

You slowly nodded your head. “I didn’t, at first...but after getting past his flirty and charming self, really getting to know him, he wasn’t so bad" you answered.

“How long?” He found himself questioning softly, not wanting to know but still asking.

“Ah...f-four months” you hesitantly replied.

This hurt you, a lot. Telling the man you had feelings for, spoke so candidly with for over a year, who you thought had a small thing for you, that you were dating his best friend. You’d spent many days and nights, dreaming of the man before you. His respectful and gentlemanly nature, partnered with his gorgeous looks, was everything you’d wanted in a man.

But he had Marge. You knew that, and was reminded when every letter from her came in. The way he would smile and light up reading her words, Gale telling you little bits and pieces of news that she wrote. You were jealous and envious of a woman you didn’t know.

It’s why you bit the bullet and gave John a chance. Call it a distraction, a band aid over a broken bone. Yet there was some redeeming qualities to him, after knowing him as a skirt chaser and alcoholic. When on a real level with you, the conversation was genuine, and unlike the Major himself. So, you decided to focus on John, and leave Gale to Marge.

Gale slowly nodded, taking in what you were saying. Feeling the hurt, his heart breaking. Because he had come to see you, tell you that he'd received a letter from Marge. And that the letter freed him. Marge had written about the struggles of being apart from him, and ultimately put an end to their relationship. Including the ring he’d given her.

But now he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell you that with this new chapter to his life he had wanted you there, beside him. For you were with John.

“I see...” was all he could say. His voice low, that drawl of his slightly deeper.

You looked to Gale, a soft expression upon your face. “I-Is this alright? Bucky and I?”

It might be grasping at straws. Hoping, wanting Gale to say no. To get angry and say you belonged with him. To get anything from him. But you didn’t.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Gale nodded. “Sure" – he put on a smile on his face, which didn’t reach his eyes – “it’s a good thing. My best friend and my best gal...”

Call me when he breaks your heart next summer

Baby, I’ll be waiting here

Call me when you’re all fucked up, my lover

And I’ll be there to lick your tears

You had to throw away our love

To find out nothing’s as good as us

So call me when he breaks your heart next summer...

That’s was it. Simple as that. You both finding reasons to not be together, when you both want nothing more than to be with the other. The longing and second guessing, and the guilt.

Slowly you nod your head, a soft smile on your face. Yet it, too, did not reach your eyes. Neither of you realising your smiles lacked happiness. Just a hollow mask to cover the breaking hearts that cry for the other.

“If you love, let ‘em go,” it’s a saying that I heard

But I don’t know if it works for me

So if I see you on my street, I know that it was meant to be

Do you still think of me when you’re under the sheets?

Or does he give you everything? Yeah

And I can see it on your face that you were happier with me...

The weeks after that chat, Gale had to endure his best friend and you together around him. Watching the small flirty exchanges between you both. The way John would wrap his arm around you, whispering in your ear. Or how he’d pull you to the dance floor, holding you close as you both moved around the floor.

And Gale sat there, taking it. And with a grain of salt. Every little thing between you and John causing cracks to his heart. And yet, he wanted nothing but the best for you. If John was that, he’d do his best to suck it up and be happy for you both.

For the first time in weeks – months – it was just you and Gale. John having taken a weekend pass to London, on the suggestion of Gale. For his friend seemed to be spiralling. Even with you at his side, doing your best to keep John in check.

You were nursing a whiskey, mind preoccupied with John. Worried for him, and hoping he would be alright. While another part had a feeling his trip wouldn’t be lonely. He was a flirt, and the war was terrible. Many men were straying for those that they love.

Except for Gale.

You cast a look to him, sitting across from you, nursing his soda. He cast his gaze around the room. He didn’t drink. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t dance, only with Meatball. He was a good man. A man any woman would long for. Yourself included.

John, he gave you all his affection and attention. But you’d seen him mindlessly flirt with women around base. He had been good, focusing everything John on you, until the cracks began to show a few months ago. You hoped for him to be like Gale, but you were starting to see it was wishful thinking.

You turned back to the other officers around the room. Most were standing or sitting around drinking and chatting, while some were dancing. The band playing kept the room feeling lively. If John had been there it would have been chaos. From his drinking to the need to sing, and dance.

“It’s getting late" came Gale's drawl. “I should try and get some sleep before tomorrows mission".

You looked to him, seeing a worn out look in his beautiful blue eyes. Every day, every mission of this war was taking its toll.

You nodded, “might be a smart move Buck...I might even call it a night" you replied before downing the last of your whiskey.

Without another word, you both rose from your seats, heading for the exit. The cool night air hit your face, refreshing and unlike back home. Walking side by side, a comfortable silence filling the space between you.

“I bet it won’t take long for Bucky to drink half of London’s alcohol supply" Gale suddenly said, after a thought of his friend.

You chuckled. “Maybe even more" you added. Getting a laugh in return.

That little jab at your boyfriend and Gale's best friend, it seemed to ease the atmosphere around you both more. Reminding you of a time when you’d both talk so candidly over John. Making it almost feel like old times, almost.

“Do you know where tomorrow's mission will take place?” You asked, curious but mostly worried.

“Bremen” Gale replied like it was no big deal.

You nodded. “No doubt it will be challenging” you added.

Gale nodded his slowly, “it always is...”

A small smirk formed on your lips, a teasing glint in your eyes. “But nothing hard to handle for Major Gale ‘Buck’ Cleven, right?”

A genuine, hearty laugh came from him. “I hope to think so...but miracles have happened before".

You both laughed together at those words. For the first time that spark seemed to return, the one that gave you both the warm fuzzies. But the reminder of John washed over you both.

Even if the idea of John was like a wet blanket, it didn’t quite put out the fire. Yet neither of you pushed it, took it any further. But silently you both pined for the other.

The woman’s barracks came into view, meaning your time together was coming to an end, for now. If only you knew what was to come. The sadness that will fill you, the tears that would fall.

And yet, here you were, looking at Gale with a warm smile. “Thank you for walking me back...”

Gale returned your smile, though it never met his eyes. “It was nothing, Bucky would kill me if something happened to you.. “

He said it was for John, but it was really for him. Gale taking your time, your attention. Needing it like air to breath. He loved John like a brother, but you were the sun. Which he needed to survive. So Gale walked you back, needing your attention on him and he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

Life was too short for guilt.

Before he could stop himself, Gale stepped closer to you. A seriousness in his eyes, which surprised you. He shifted, almost agitated.

“Gale, are you alright?” You asked softly, concerned.

“Is he good to you?” He sighed, ignoring your question.

Blinking up at him, confusion crossed your face.

“Does he make you happy?” Gale went on, when you didn’t reply.

For everything under the sun

Every girl and every drug

It’s never gonna be enough

‘Cause you were the one...

His mind needed closure. Need peace of mind. Not to mention the saying, if you love somebody, let them go. For if they return, they were always yours. And he hoped it was right in doing this.

“Ah...yes, and yes...” you finally got out.

Gale nodded, sad but also wanting to be happy for you. “Good...but if he hurts you, he better be ready for my anger". A strained smile crossed his lips.

That eased you. Bringing a chuckle from you. “Not before I lay hands on him...”

Then you both laughed. Warm and easy, yet with an underlining of pain. That was it. You wished him luck before walking off to your barracks. Not before briefly looking back at the man who truly held your heart...

The next day, Gale took off on his mission. While you still hadn’t heard from John. You had even tried to call his hotel, but could not get a hold of him. Frustration and anger filled you over being ignored by the one you chose over the actual man you wanted.

The best way to distract yourself from both men was to focus on your job. Working in the office allowed you knowledge, usually second or third hand, which meant you had learned it from another who worked close to the office to get the news.

Today you worked close to those following the Bremen mission. Keeping your ears open for any updates on the men, and Gale.

But today was not your day. The call came later in the day. Hushed words were swapped over the phone, before it being hung up. Then the two officers began to say how many planes were returning. Which didn’t including Gale and his crew. Which you had thought you’d heard wrong, until...

“Someone has to break it to Bucky...”

With shaky legs, and a shaky breath, you fell into the secretary’s seat. Shock, sadness and anger coursed through you in equal parts. Gale wasn’t coming back...

One tear, two tears and before you knew it, it became hard to see. Followed by the small noises from your lips, while your body shook. The poor secretary, who’s chair you commandeered, came back to find you in shambles.

Only then did the officers reporting on your Gale realised their mistake.

You don’t remember much after seeing their fallen faces, or the secretary that comforted you. In fact, it was all a daze for day after.

Even when John returned to base. He too was a shell of himself. And you both took comfort in the other, not with words but being with the other.

Even part of you wondered if John knew, from how hard you’d taken Gale’s plane going down, that your feelings were for his friend and not him. Though he didn’t say anything. John hardly said a word. The bottle, and you, keeping him company.

Then he went on a mission, anger fuelling him. You kissed him and wished him luck, which John returned with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. That told you he didn’t care if he came back or not. It hurt, but not so much.

Once more you were in the office when the call came in. John's plan had gone down, parachutes believed to be seen. But it didn’t mean anything. Until you physically saw him, you treated it like he was gone.

And that night you cried, really cried. Both men, good men, gone. One you wanted to give your heart to, and the one thinking he had it but didn’t cherish it.

You were just left with a broken heart...

So call me when he breaks your heart next summer

Baby, I’ll be waiting here

Call me when you’re all fucked up, my lover

I’ll be there to lick your tears

But since you threw away our love

Then maybe something’s as good as us

I really hope he breaks your heart next summer

A/N: dont worry, I promise a part 2. And it will have a happy ending...

[rocksibblingsau]

how do each leader feel about before and after he got amnesia?

Poppy: Before she was identical to her canon self from movie one, hopeful to talk things out with Branch. She didn't believe he was stealing the strings. Maybe he was just so bad at singing that he needed all the help he can get to get better!

After amnesia she thinks it's the perfect chance to befriend him! She's a bit blind to a lot of the concerning things until they're pointed out to her, and even then she tends to brush it off.

Delta Dawn: She just about wanted his head on a spit after he stole the string. She jumped to a few conclusions and thought he represented all of Pop before she found out he was going to destroy Pop as well.

She initially assumes he's faking amnesia, but like everyone else she comes to conclusion it's real when they see how Branch is acting. She's not initially on board the 'fake it til you make it' plan, but more because she doesn't care to get to know him. She's concerned about him pretty quickly though when she catches some trolls giving him some pretty backhanded compliments and she has to send them running. She ends up hating the plan because Branch is putting a lot of trust in her and confiding in her (even asking her if the old him saw her like a mother because he's getting those vibes from her) and she feels like its too much even towards a villain like Branch.

King Trollex: Branch took the string from him by grabbing Beat Drop and telling him to give up the string or else, which put him in pretty bad graces with Trollex. Trollex had no way to know if Branch had been serious about hurting Beat Drop or not (he wasn't, he was bluffing the whole time), and he didn't like fearing for his little buddy's life like that.

Trollex also thinks Branch is faking at first, but he notices pretty fast that Branch carries himself VASTLY differently. He's pretty unsettled at first by Branch's new happy attitude because it looks unnatural on him but it's VERY clearly honest. He's not on board with the plan because Techno Trolls value honesty to a high degree (to the point they can appear rudely honest) and he'd rather they just tell Branch that he used to be evil and if he remembers where the strings are then to tell them.

He ends up also feeling guilty as he can see some Synth qualities in the new Branch, and he wouldn't want someone to take advantage of Synth the same way they are with Branch. He also finds he likes Amnesiac Branch, which he feels guilty about as well since he views Amnesiac Branch as not an actual person, and he would hate if he found out everyone liked an amnesiac version of himself more than the 'real' him.

Quincy and Essence: They had conflicting first impressions of Branch because unlike the other leaders (minus Poppy), they did get to see some of Branch other than the persona he put up, though they do know it's possible that was part of the trick as well. They can tell that Branch had a reason more than hatred, but they also don't care enough to risk ALL MUSIC on the hopes of reasoning with Branch. They are thankful that, even if it was part of his plot, he led them to Cooper though.

They were more sold on the plan because it seemed like the safest way to get the strings back and potentially help Branch. They trusted Poppy to know what was 'too far' in Pop culture, but unfortunately Pop Trolls don't have a limit for things like that, they'll go too far. They were the ones asking the hard questions when they saw how Pop Trolls reacted, but especially with how Cooper talked about Branch. They know he's a villain but they can tell this stems from something before Branch reached that point.

Trollzart: Viewed Branch as a bit of a brute off the bat, but also as a dumb kid whose parents probably didn't love him enough as a child.

He ends up forgetting about the plan mostly because he ends up just genuinely enjoying Branch's company. He's probably who Branch ended up forgiving the fastest because it was pretty obvious that Trollzart was just vibing with him. Trollzart also was the only one to not press Branch on his missing memories, as again, he forgot that was the point of it all.

Barb: The things she wanted to do to him after stealing her string and her super cool idea are banned for being war crimes. There was some respect for managing to beat her, but not much.

She wasn't on board with the plan. She claimed she didn't want to pretend to be all buddy-buddy with Branch, but in truth she also had concerns with the ethics of it all. She hated the fact Branch was blindly trusting her and she hated that she actually could see them being friends. She actually was the one person who sort of preferred the other Branch, as he was tough and cool and Amnesiac Branch is a little too Pop for her liking.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

i love you, i love you (it’s disgusting)

frat hasan + "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" &

"Don't go on that date." "Why?" "You know why."

"Say it."

or: no one is asking for hasan fics. in fact, they get the least amount of engagement however i am currently obsessed with him, so i will continue to write my self indulgent fics

angst, idiots in love, over use of the word princess

your hands shook as you tried to pin earrings to your ears.

you try and ignore it.

music thumps downstairs, your roommate and best friend, hasan, was throwing a small get together with some friends from class. Insisted you came until he finally pulled out of you that there was a date for tonight.

you try not to think of how sad his eyes looked, or how he got so quiet, or how he played with the sleeves on his shirt as he spoke, quietly: "a date? they're lucky. I hope they know that."

And at the time, when he says it, you roll your eyes-hasan is your best fucking friend of course he says that, doesn't think he means it, some social obligation to say that.

Time is closing in on you, and you have about five minutes to say goodbye to everyone and get in your car before you'll officially be running late, and you're already so nervous for this date, this guy you met on a dating app, trying to push down all the thoughts you have on all the dateline segments you could be a part of as you walk down the stairs-

"Hey!" He stands up a little straighter when you walk down the stairs, ignoring the low whistling and compliments your friends throw at you, "Not too late. We're playing beer pong and I need my partner! C'mon."

"You'll be fine without me, hasan. I believe in you." You laugh, know the nervous is oozing off of you, you just have to get out of here as soon as possible-

he drags his feet to the kitchen, almost sulking before he speaks again

"Need help?" He calls gently over the island, sets his warm beer on the counter top and drags his feet to you. A tradition, your neck always has the necklace he bought you when you both got accepted to the same college around your neck-but you can never get it clasped by yourself, always need his expert help, his fingers, to gently loop it around your neck-

He spins you around gently, takes the necklace out of your palm and expertly claps it around your neck, lets it hang perfectly on your chest-

your about to turn around, leave, before you talk yourself out of it, when hasan's voice is in your ear:

"You don't have to go."

You flip around, eyes narrowed, and you ignore how he's shrinking, shoulders in on themselves as he plays with his beanie, tucking hair behind his ear-

"Wait a minute-" You're smirking, "Are you jealous?"

He snorts, "Get real. C'mon-"

"No, no." The smile doesn't leave your face, "You're jealous. Say it, hasan."

His face is red and he rolls his eyes, "I am not jealous. I just think Thursday dates are idiotic. And at a bowling alley? Get real. You hate bowling."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous." You tease, a smirk on your lips.

He rolls his eyes again, and there's silence for a beat, not the normal between the two of you, usually never shut up when you're both in each other's presence-

"I have to go, l'm about ten seconds from being late-"

You turn, and his hand is on your shoulder, makes you turn around slowly, and his voice is so low it's hard to hear over the music.

"Don't go on that date."

"Why？

"You know why, princess"" He rolls his eyes.

You bite your lip as you look at him. "Say it. Say it, hasan."

He looks at you, in your eyes, and the idea of losing his best friend terrifies him-the reason he's at this school, why he's gotten this far in life-

"Beause-" He sighs, looks over his shoulder at his group of friends behind him, turns to you again,

"Because I'll lose my beer pong partner tonight?"

It comes out a question, not a statement, and you pray he doesn't see how your shoulders drop, how much that hurt to just be a beer pong partner, not the nights you two spent on projects-in completely different majors but poured over books next to each other, hands lightly touching as you two reach for snacks or pens, or how you can see out of the corner of your eye as he keeps looking up at you as you read, a smile on his face as he looks back down, flips the page.

you shake your head, roll your eyes, "That's not even worth a response, you dick."

And slam the door in his face, having to pull over down the road so you can fix your smeared make up from crying, all these nights when you were too drunk to get to your bed, him equally drunk, offering his bed, doesn't want to overstep boundaries, sleeps on the floor next to his own bed, waking up in the middle of the night with his hand outstretched as if he fell asleep reaching for your hand-how you were so close to saying something this whole time, how excited you were that it seemed like he was finally going to-

you don't see your phone blowing up, him begging you to come home, give him a chance, let him speak, to meet at your shared spot with him-

the date is a no show.

This isn't necessarily unexpected, because he was flaky at best, and creepy at worse, but you're thinking of an elaborate lie to tell your friends, how perfect this date went, as you spent most of your night at an empty ice cream shop down the way, feeling sorry for yourself over a cup of ice cream-

the lights in the house are off, expect the kitchen, and expect it's just because the party moved downstairs and someone forgot to turn the lights off

you kick your shoes off at the door gently, hang the keys up by the door-happy to be home, make a promise to yourself to delete the dating apps and stay single when you get to your room-

you look up and hasan is standing in the doorframe to the kitchen.

You stare at him, not giving him the satisfaction of talking first, and he catches on quickly, speaks first:

"I was a dick." He finally says.

"Yeah," You snort, "You were."

He nods, "Give me another chance. Let me prove-" He shakes his head, licks his lips, "Let me try again."

You sigh, emotionally exhausted from this day, and not really in the mood for this, but he says please again, and he sounds so pathetic you finally nod, let him walk into the room, grab your hand (you ignore the butterflies it gives you) leads you to the couch in the front room, sets you down on the couch, and, still holding your hand, pulls the table closer to the couch, sits on the edge of the table.

"I didn't want you to go on that date," He says gently, in a whisper, "Because I'm an idiot who's in love with their best friend, but too big of an idiot to say anything."

And you knew this. Like, you both did, but hearing the other say it is terrifying-

"Hasan-"

"-And I didn't want you to go on that date," He continues, "Because it hurts to see you go on these dates with these dicks. You deserve better. and I-I'm asking for a chance to show you-"

"hasan-" You try again, but hasan can't shut himself up,

"A-And I love you, and I mean it, and I should ve just tucking said it-"

You lean in, hand on the side of his jaw and pull him closer to you, lips clashing into eachother-

"hasan," You pull away, "Shut the fuck up."

He smirks now, "Didn't think it would take me rambling for you to finally kiss me, princess"

And you roll your eyes, face red, and he says:

"Again." And pulls you in for another kiss.